This post could just as easily be entitled “people who are pissing me off this week,” but let’s face it- none of us has the kind of time it would take to read/write that post in its entirety.
But this week, short lived as it has been, is already stacked to the ceiling with people righteously deserving of a stabbing. In no particular order are the preeminent experts in social retardation. Congratulations! You’ve earned a scholarship good for one free lesson in my hard truths lecture (no actual cash value).
A lack of planning on your part does not constitute a need for urgency on mine.
Despite all my advice, recommendations, documentation and general hand holding, you’ve decided to ignore me and dance around with a thumb up your ass for the past 6 months. Now the heat is on and you need some results fast. Too bad, Scooter. That ship has left the harbor, and I’m the asshole at the stern waving bon voyage and toasting your inevitable failure with a lovely glass of champagne.
Shifting blame to others isn’t very effective when you’re still left holding the bloody knife, but if you’re looking for sympathy, feel free to build yourself a cross and climb onto it. Just keep in mind that the sympathy won’t come from me. I’m an atheist.
Knock it off with the melodramatic displays of insecure vanity.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good, but much like the People of Walmart, you’ve gone too far to the opposite end of the spectrum. Stop pestering your friends, your family, your roommate, and random strangers about how you look. You already know the answer. When you put yourself together in front of a mirror every morning, you are well aware of the point at which you look at yourself and say “good enough.” If you then spend another 15-20 minutes fretting over your physical appearance within earshot of people who would rather be ANYWHERE ELSE, then you’re going to get stabbed. And you’ll probably still worry that the spreading blood stain makes your ass look saggy.
You are not important enough to have enemies.
One of my tenants dropped off a sublease form so that she can move out because her roommate has become her “arch enemy.” Where do I even begin? How about a quick definition of terms:
en·e·my, n.: One who feels hatred toward, intends injury to, or opposes the interests of another.
You are not running for political office, heading up a major drug cartel or crime syndicate, and unless your rampant binge drinking and lack of showering are an attempt to mask crushing greatness, you have no useful superpowers. These are the only people who would feasibly have enemies. You, on the other hand, are 20 years old and your biggest beef with anyone is that your roommates enormous boobs stretched out your favorite sweater, or some whore wore your same outfit better at the last Sigma Chi kegger. But if you see that bitch on the street, do not make the mistake of referring to them as your mortal enemy or I will stab you and show you the correct meaning of that phrase.
Yo, Malibu Bitchy! Slap some sunscreen on!
We had our first official warm day of spring yesterday, but the Fake ‘n Baked Oompa Loompa squad has been out in full force since March. You silly bitches look fucking ridiculous. Or to put it in terms you’ll understand: You are clearly not an Autumn. Lay off the tanning bed. You’re 22 years old and you already have the leathery skin of 45 year old. Keep this up and your most important contribution to society will be as the model for Malibu Barbie: Skin Cancer edition.
And DAMN IT, KEN! Sea otters are not a fucking myth!
They are real, they are fuzzy in a slimy little greaseball sort of way, and they are motherfucking adorable, even when they’re bashing mollusk against rocks.
That handles the non-physical stab triggers. The other part is my hip, for which I started physical therapy this morning. For anyone unfamiliar with my situation, I’ve very recently acquired a condition known as trochanteric bursitis. It can come about from any number of situations, and in my case it’s because I cannot vacuum in a tight space without breaking one or more of my toes. I’ve treated it in my massage clients hundreds of times and know the whys and hows, but it becomes a different kind of understanding when it’s your own body. My therapist confirmed what I already suspected – my right leg is 1/2″ longer because of added strain from compensating for the broken toes/sprained ankle in my right foot over the past year. We’re aiming for treatment with over the counter NSAIDS, special exercises, and ice/heat, and she’s confident that I’ll notice an appreciable difference in the next 4-6 weeks. Meanwhile she advised against any more vacuuming.
So I bought a Roomba. Woot.com, FTW!