Me in front of laptop: Do, DO, DO. AAAAAHHHHHAAAAHHH AH AH AH AH AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
F: What the fuck are you doing?
ME: ARRRRRR AH AH AH AAAAAAAAAAAAAH. MMMMMMMMMM. AH AH AH AAAAAAAAAAH!
F: Misty. Seriously, stop it.
ME: LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAH AH AHAAAAAAAA!
F: MISTY!
ME: WHAT!?
F: What the fuck are you doing? SHUT UP!
ME: Listen, old man who hates noise and self development and revenge. Leave me alone! I’m practicing.
F: Practicing what? Being obnoxious?
ME: You’re a dick. And no, I’m practicing voice lessons.
F: Because your dream is to be on America’s Talent Show?
ME: Yes. Asshole. But more so because I want to learn how to sing really, really fucking loud so I can sing louder than that bastard Opera singer upstairs and his girlfriend. Seriously if I hear Figaro one more fucking time who knows what could happen. Vat of acid. Car bomb. We don’t know.
F: You know, I don’t know what’s weirder, the fact that you believe that you’ll get back at them by singing LOUDER than them or the fact that you honestly believe that if you take two or three voice lessons on YouTube you can sing over a trained opera singer.
ME: We’ve talked about your pessimism before.
F: Sigh. Alright.
ME. LAAAA LAAAAA LAAAAAAAA LA LA LA LAAAAAAAAA
