In case you can't tell, that's an "I care" face. Bitch.
I went to the Catholic church near my house yesterday. It went something like this:
Me: Forgive me, dude, 'cause I'm sinning. Like, bad.
Father (figure): Child, what is it? Tell daddy what you did.
Me: You ready?
Father (figure): Ready as I'll ever be.
Me: OK. Let me see here. Well, I hold this hatred inside of me that I can't seem to let go. It eats at me, perpetuating my hatred for people in general, but really, it all starts with this one guy. He's not a bad guy, I imagine. But then I think he could be. He acts like he cares, then I know it's just a front.
Father (figure): Who is it, child? Is there anything—and, I mean ANYthing—I can do?
Me: No, no. But, it's Maury. Povich, I think is his last name. I hate that motherfucker. I mean, I want to like him because I think he generally cares for the people that appear on his show. But I know it's a lie! It's all lies. He doesn't give a shit if my mom has three daughters from three different men, who ended up being the minister at our local church, our mailman and her boss—who are BROTHERS. He doesn't give a fuck. He only cares that his teeth are so white that they get that purplish hue when light touches them. He doesn't care that I was a troubled kid and had a drill sergeant yell at me, whose voice smelled like dog patch. He doesn't fucking care, does he! Tell me it's true, father. Tell me!
Father (figure): Are you fuckin' kidding me? Listen, kid, I just had a 12-year-old girl tell me she gives BJs for adderall. And you hate a daytime T.V. host?
Me: Alright, bitch. First, I'm not a kid, or your fuckin' child. I came to you with a problem. And, by God, I want it fixed!
Father (figure): Problem? We're gonna have a fuckin' problem if you curse at me one more time.
Me: Ah, shush. Fuck it. I knew you'd be no help. I just want to know one thing.
Father (figure): What? Bitch.
Me: Would you've been nicer if I told you I liked kiddie porn?