You just killed a helicopter with a car...

Last week, I orange-glowed the shit out of my now-glistening hardwood floor which was previously covered in cigarette butts and sticky booze stains and footprints from our literally cement-porch-shattering party.

(I had a party a couple weeks ago. A party where MSM decided it would be suitable to plow her foot through the foundation of my porch, thus creating, geometrically speaking, a gaping, scalene triangular crevice with a twelve-foot drop into the depths of the basement of my apartment building, which is now full of broken two-by-fours, faded Old Style cans, big ugly crawly things, and pancake-sized fragments of my porch. The floor of the porch is visibly severely and obtusely slanted towards the hole.)

But that is not the point. The point is, as I was orange-glowing my apartment and upgrading far past the standards of clean in college, I watched all three Die Hard movies to prepare myself for today. Why?

Because tonight, I'm gonna Live Free or Die Hard.

"Sir, this channel is reserved for emergency calls only..."

"No fucking shit, lady, do I sound like I'm ordering a pizza?"

...