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FE FI FO FUM PMS + hangover + stupid people = Heather donning large concrete boots and hulk smashing her way around the neighbourhood. I wouldn't even have to adorn myself in green paint as the look of wrath on my face would be enough terrify event the hardiest of souls. My thin veneer of Canadian politeness has been stripped from my being to reveal a seething, boil-ridden, encrusted carcass of ugliness that is Poopy Heather. Oh, if only today were the day that my super power were to reveal itself. Breath of fire (BOF), that's what I want. I'd like to see fifty foot flames shoot from my mouth. I would walk through Cole Valley and peel the paint off the houses that followed the advice of some misguided colour theory "specialist." Failing BOF, I could key a block of cars and not feel one iota of remorse. I could stand outside of Cole Hardware and pop every child's balloon that floats outwards. I could misdirect every lost tourist and send them far, far away from plethora of the wretched tie dye tshirt shacks and tacky head shops that infest the Upper Haight. I might physically harm anyone who wants to know if I "have a moment for the environment." Otherwise, if you live within the borders of the Unites States, I hope that you'll do your civic next Tuesday and vote. Don't make me stomp over to your place in my concrete boots. 11/ 3/2006
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