It's because I am a fucking hypocrite.
Just like you, I have rules for other people which do not apply to me. I am the Queen of Me and thus generously pardon myself for those moments of inappropriateness and outright retardation. The Queen will not, however, forgive you for same. (She's kind of a bitch.)
Naturally this isn't in a criminal sense. I'm not a sociopath. I took Cosmos's ten question Personality Disorder quiz and it diagnosed me as a quirky depressive like Audrey Hepburn, not a functioning sociopath like Martha Stewart. This is simply a matter of how I think the world should be. My worldview is rife with inconsistencies and varying degrees of tolerance dependent upon whether or not I like you, you're a friend or family member, you're me, you're attractive, you're in my way, you're an idiot, you're annoying, etc.
You don't get to make stupid observations under the guise of casual conversation. If you do, expect me to slay you with my always hilarious wit. (Remember, even when I'm not funny, I pardon myself for the indiscretion and tell myself it's rare to swing and miss.)
My MP3 player, dropped a hundred times too many, has a deep crack on the faceplate. I was listening to it yesterday and Thad looked at it and observed: "It still works even though there's a crack in it?" Touched by the hopeful tone in his question, given he knows how I love my MP3 player, I answered, "Your ass has a crack in it, does it still work?" Thad laughed.
However, had it been reversed and had I been feeling extra vulnerable and insecure because I was bleeding betwixt the legs, I'd have frowned and said, "You don't have to talk to me like I'm an idiot, it was just a question." Because I am a fucking hypocrite.
If I don't know you and have never seen you and probably wouldn't fuck you even if nuclear holocaust occurred and it was up to you and me to repopulate the planet with radioactive freaks of nature (ie superheroes), you don't get to walk into the elevator smiling at those of us already standing inside.
If my enthusiasm is at the Audrey Hepburn level and you step into the elevator with a stupid grin on your face, I wonder why you're approaching an elevator as if you just met your blind date and your expectations have been greatly exceeded. Fuck you. You don't come bearing Girl Scout cookies, and you're not - nor will you ever be - my friend, so why the fuck are you smiling like that? Turn around and focus on the fucking numbers like a normal human being. Seriously, I want to slap that smile right off your face.
However, when I'm happy I light the world up with my smile. I don't walk so much as spin around singing about how the hills are alive with the sound of music, sickening passersby with all that embarrassing, unbridled joy expressing itself all over the place. I don't even suppress this enthusiasm in confined spaces and will step into the elevator smiling brightly at the blank and grim faces inside as if you are a tribe of Native Americans and I'm just so excited to introduce you to Jesus and let you give me your land. Because I am a fucking hypocrite.
If you have kids and have decided to unleash them on the unsuspecting public rather than hire a babysitter, remember two things: Just because it burst through your vagina like a screaming, destructive alien being does not make it a walking miracle and Mother Earth is not your living room.
When you're sitting at the next table at Applebee's please don't let that slackjawed, drooling, saltined kid stare at me and my friend over the back of your booth. If it starts waving and trying to engage in what passes in a toddler's mind as "conversation," make that kid sit down. It's not cute. It makes me feel like you've just volunteered us as babysitters so you can enjoy your mozzarella cheese sticks without worrying over some hyperactive little person and its grubby, grabby hands. Look, you're the one who took hormone shots in the ass just to bring that trophy into the world. YOU watch it.
However, if the child in question is the adorable angelic perfection manifested in human form that is my nephew and the children of all of my friends, don't you dare look annoyed and put out when they board an airplane for a three to sixteen hour flight. They're kids! Maybe you should remember that you didn't spring fully grown from the forehead of Zeus. Once upon a time adults had to put up with getting a whiff of your shitty diaper or listening to you pitch a fit because your mother just shattered your world by refusing to buy that pink flamingo lawn ornament for your crib. This is just part of the human experience. Payback for your own long forgotten kid behavior is a bitch. If you don't like interacting with children on your overseas flight, maybe you should avoid public transportation altogether and enjoy a nice lonely raft float with the sharks that frown exactly like you. And if Baby Mike is practicing his motor skills by waving happily at every single passerby, struggling to communicate with you through a mouthful of crackers or around his sippy cup by telling you about "grape," "dog," "uh oh" or "da da" (if you get them all, he just shared his entire vocabulary with YOU), anything less than utter delight and worship at the tiny wobbly feet of that little miracle makes you a child-hating Hitler. Because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
If you say something I decide is racist, you will forever be labeled a backwoods asshole. I will assume you sleep under a confederate flag and that your rusty pickup truck with the Dukes of Hazard horn has a rifle rack in the window for the express purpose of killin' anybody who isn't an ignorant fuck just like you.
If you point out two people who keep looking over their shoulders as they exchange money for a little bag of white powder and suggest there's a drug deal going down, I will take a step back from you in utter disgust and ask why you're saying that? Is it because of the color of their skin? Even as one of them snorts what I presume is tangy sugar from emptied pixie stix, I will subject you to trial by me and label you a total racist asshole. I might still talk to you, but I'll quietly work to have you deported to wherever it is Nazi racists like you congrehate.
However, if I share an observation about how I remember the good old days when I could walk into my office building without thinking I'm in a Nepalese temple and wonder why those assholes mumble their non-language when this is America, dammit, and isn't it enough they took our jobs? It's not me being an intolerant a-hole with no memory of how this great country was founded and how fortunate it is that America is still the land of opportunity. It's the product of an allergic reaction to the smell of curry, brought on by being crammed in the elevator with forty of them all babbling incoherently and completely ignoring my all-American right to three feet of personal space, because where they're from it's common to be shoulder to shoulder even when they take a shit on the street. I don't say these things only to you and never ever in front of them because I'm some kind of closetted racist. It's because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
If you're having a bad day at work, don't you take that shit out on me.
If I approach your desk unbidden or tap you on the shoulder even though you're being unusually quiet and trying to listen to some tunes and I start regaling you with a fascinating tale of the difficult decisions I faced when trying to pick out something to eat for lunch, you should respond with interest and enthusiasm. Even if you have to fake it. I don't care that some a-hole just ripped you a new a-hole and made you cry at your desk. This isn't about you, is it? No, this is about the array of choices available to me for consumption and my right to tell you all about it without you giving me a look like you wish I'd spontaneously combust.
However, if I'm having a bad day because I glanced in the mirror and noticed a not-so-little hair has burst from my chin in a long Rapunzel-like braid and I don't happen to have tweezers in my in-desk boudoir, I will react like a cornered chimpanzee denied a steady supply of bananas and a mate in order to encourage hilarious chimpanzee tricks for the adoring public. If you come within twenty feet of my charm and get smacked in the face with my temper, that's a you problem and not a me problem. It's not that I'm a bitch, it's that I have an artistic temperament. It's the small price you pay for my creative little soul. And it's because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
Unless you're a doctor talking an intern through saving the life of some poor asshole choking on his corn dog or an explosives expert asking if the caller can see a blue wire, get off that fucking phone.
Guess what. I don't need to listen to your boring conversation when I'm minding my own damn business and trying to enjoy a quiet bus commute to or from work. Can't you see I'm reading here? If I turn up the volume on my MP3 player to drown out your nonsensical prattle, my awesome summer playlist will distract me too much from my book. Bus norms require that if you're on a silent suburban express ride unencumbered by ghetto urchins loudly discussing their late welfare checks, you don't interrupt said silence with your obnoxious fucking word vomit. Do you have problems being alone among strangers? Is it too hard for you to disconnect from the comfort and security of family and friends for a 30-minute bus ride? Cut the cord, asshole. I need to concentrate while reading Harry Potter or I'll miss a pivotal plot point or sly foreshadowing!
However, if my phone vibrates in my purse and I see it's my brother or sister-in-law, fuck you if you think I'm not taking that call. Bus norms be damned, this is public transportation. Typically I'd wait til I exited the bus to call someone back, but you have no idea how hard it is to connect with these two. If you don't like listening to what appears at the surface to be an inane conversation, stop being such a cheap fuck and drive your own car to work. I have to speak loudly, I can hardly hear them over the noisy din of the bus engine! And I have every right to punctuate my conversation with dove-like cooing at my young nephew, along with a seemingly endless loop of me repeating, "Hi, Michael! Hi, Michael! Hi, Michael!" three octaves too high. Kids can't hear you unless you speak three octaves higher. Mike has an undeveloped sense of humor and the sound of my voice is all it takes to make him laugh hysterically. Why would you deny a young child the opportunity to laugh? It's not that I don't respect your so-called right to a peaceful commute. It's just that I'm a fucking hypocrite.
You're an adult. Use a debit card for that Diet Coke and Hershey bar and not every penny you dug our of your couch cushions.
What are you, 12? Did you just bust open your piggy bank? Fuck you for making me wait in line behind you while you pretend to be sheepish about counting out all that change. Fuck you harder for your demonstrated lack of mathematical skill prohibiting you from speedily counting while precious minutes of my break are sacrificed to my rapidly growing hostility and impatience. And fuck you more because now I have to wait while the mathematically-impaired cashier makes sure you counted right. If you insist upon conducting a simple transaction like a transient, at least have the courtesy to hit the convenience store not when it's convenient to you, but rather when it's convenient to the rest of us. Say, four in the morning. Two in the afternoon on a Sunday. Not at noon on a workday in our building's little store with a line of twenty where one cashier operates the register while the other wanders around pretending to count the inventory. I will change my religion to VooDoo Magick on the spot just so I can jam pins into a clay miniature representing you. Even though it's easier to remove wallpaper than it is to remove clay from underneath a french manicure.
However, if I'm with the only friend I have who does that - Rob - don't you dare cast disparaging glares at him. He has the right to pay in this fashion. Money is money! Maybe get some anger management and prescription medication because you can't tolerate waiting an additional four or five minutes. You're a jerk, you know that? And I'm a fucking hypocrite.
Don't become hall monitor of the highways and byways and decide you'll set the limit in the fast lane.
It's the fast lane. It is to be ruled by the fastest. Not by you, when you decide however fast you are going is fast enough. Move the fuck over if someone behind you needs to get somewhere 2.3 seconds faster than the rest of us. Let them by. I don't need you causing a road rage incident because you're a total asshole who doesn't comprehend the function of the far left lane.
However, if the posted limit is 55 and I'm going 65, that is fast enough. I'm not going to move into the grandpa lane to the right where the caravans are tooling along at 56. And I'm not risking a speeding ticket in the 35W speed trap stretched between 494 and Diamond Lake Road by being lead car in a parade of flagrant lawbreaking speed demons. So get off my ass and deal with it, because probably I'm saving you a ticket and maybe I'm even saving your life! And because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
Naturally this isn't in a criminal sense. I'm not a sociopath. I took Cosmos's ten question Personality Disorder quiz and it diagnosed me as a quirky depressive like Audrey Hepburn, not a functioning sociopath like Martha Stewart. This is simply a matter of how I think the world should be. My worldview is rife with inconsistencies and varying degrees of tolerance dependent upon whether or not I like you, you're a friend or family member, you're me, you're attractive, you're in my way, you're an idiot, you're annoying, etc.
You don't get to make stupid observations under the guise of casual conversation. If you do, expect me to slay you with my always hilarious wit. (Remember, even when I'm not funny, I pardon myself for the indiscretion and tell myself it's rare to swing and miss.)
My MP3 player, dropped a hundred times too many, has a deep crack on the faceplate. I was listening to it yesterday and Thad looked at it and observed: "It still works even though there's a crack in it?" Touched by the hopeful tone in his question, given he knows how I love my MP3 player, I answered, "Your ass has a crack in it, does it still work?" Thad laughed.
However, had it been reversed and had I been feeling extra vulnerable and insecure because I was bleeding betwixt the legs, I'd have frowned and said, "You don't have to talk to me like I'm an idiot, it was just a question." Because I am a fucking hypocrite.
If I don't know you and have never seen you and probably wouldn't fuck you even if nuclear holocaust occurred and it was up to you and me to repopulate the planet with radioactive freaks of nature (ie superheroes), you don't get to walk into the elevator smiling at those of us already standing inside.
If my enthusiasm is at the Audrey Hepburn level and you step into the elevator with a stupid grin on your face, I wonder why you're approaching an elevator as if you just met your blind date and your expectations have been greatly exceeded. Fuck you. You don't come bearing Girl Scout cookies, and you're not - nor will you ever be - my friend, so why the fuck are you smiling like that? Turn around and focus on the fucking numbers like a normal human being. Seriously, I want to slap that smile right off your face.
However, when I'm happy I light the world up with my smile. I don't walk so much as spin around singing about how the hills are alive with the sound of music, sickening passersby with all that embarrassing, unbridled joy expressing itself all over the place. I don't even suppress this enthusiasm in confined spaces and will step into the elevator smiling brightly at the blank and grim faces inside as if you are a tribe of Native Americans and I'm just so excited to introduce you to Jesus and let you give me your land. Because I am a fucking hypocrite.
If you have kids and have decided to unleash them on the unsuspecting public rather than hire a babysitter, remember two things: Just because it burst through your vagina like a screaming, destructive alien being does not make it a walking miracle and Mother Earth is not your living room.
When you're sitting at the next table at Applebee's please don't let that slackjawed, drooling, saltined kid stare at me and my friend over the back of your booth. If it starts waving and trying to engage in what passes in a toddler's mind as "conversation," make that kid sit down. It's not cute. It makes me feel like you've just volunteered us as babysitters so you can enjoy your mozzarella cheese sticks without worrying over some hyperactive little person and its grubby, grabby hands. Look, you're the one who took hormone shots in the ass just to bring that trophy into the world. YOU watch it.
However, if the child in question is the adorable angelic perfection manifested in human form that is my nephew and the children of all of my friends, don't you dare look annoyed and put out when they board an airplane for a three to sixteen hour flight. They're kids! Maybe you should remember that you didn't spring fully grown from the forehead of Zeus. Once upon a time adults had to put up with getting a whiff of your shitty diaper or listening to you pitch a fit because your mother just shattered your world by refusing to buy that pink flamingo lawn ornament for your crib. This is just part of the human experience. Payback for your own long forgotten kid behavior is a bitch. If you don't like interacting with children on your overseas flight, maybe you should avoid public transportation altogether and enjoy a nice lonely raft float with the sharks that frown exactly like you. And if Baby Mike is practicing his motor skills by waving happily at every single passerby, struggling to communicate with you through a mouthful of crackers or around his sippy cup by telling you about "grape," "dog," "uh oh" or "da da" (if you get them all, he just shared his entire vocabulary with YOU), anything less than utter delight and worship at the tiny wobbly feet of that little miracle makes you a child-hating Hitler. Because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
If you say something I decide is racist, you will forever be labeled a backwoods asshole. I will assume you sleep under a confederate flag and that your rusty pickup truck with the Dukes of Hazard horn has a rifle rack in the window for the express purpose of killin' anybody who isn't an ignorant fuck just like you.
If you point out two people who keep looking over their shoulders as they exchange money for a little bag of white powder and suggest there's a drug deal going down, I will take a step back from you in utter disgust and ask why you're saying that? Is it because of the color of their skin? Even as one of them snorts what I presume is tangy sugar from emptied pixie stix, I will subject you to trial by me and label you a total racist asshole. I might still talk to you, but I'll quietly work to have you deported to wherever it is Nazi racists like you congrehate.
However, if I share an observation about how I remember the good old days when I could walk into my office building without thinking I'm in a Nepalese temple and wonder why those assholes mumble their non-language when this is America, dammit, and isn't it enough they took our jobs? It's not me being an intolerant a-hole with no memory of how this great country was founded and how fortunate it is that America is still the land of opportunity. It's the product of an allergic reaction to the smell of curry, brought on by being crammed in the elevator with forty of them all babbling incoherently and completely ignoring my all-American right to three feet of personal space, because where they're from it's common to be shoulder to shoulder even when they take a shit on the street. I don't say these things only to you and never ever in front of them because I'm some kind of closetted racist. It's because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
If you're having a bad day at work, don't you take that shit out on me.
If I approach your desk unbidden or tap you on the shoulder even though you're being unusually quiet and trying to listen to some tunes and I start regaling you with a fascinating tale of the difficult decisions I faced when trying to pick out something to eat for lunch, you should respond with interest and enthusiasm. Even if you have to fake it. I don't care that some a-hole just ripped you a new a-hole and made you cry at your desk. This isn't about you, is it? No, this is about the array of choices available to me for consumption and my right to tell you all about it without you giving me a look like you wish I'd spontaneously combust.
However, if I'm having a bad day because I glanced in the mirror and noticed a not-so-little hair has burst from my chin in a long Rapunzel-like braid and I don't happen to have tweezers in my in-desk boudoir, I will react like a cornered chimpanzee denied a steady supply of bananas and a mate in order to encourage hilarious chimpanzee tricks for the adoring public. If you come within twenty feet of my charm and get smacked in the face with my temper, that's a you problem and not a me problem. It's not that I'm a bitch, it's that I have an artistic temperament. It's the small price you pay for my creative little soul. And it's because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
Unless you're a doctor talking an intern through saving the life of some poor asshole choking on his corn dog or an explosives expert asking if the caller can see a blue wire, get off that fucking phone.
Guess what. I don't need to listen to your boring conversation when I'm minding my own damn business and trying to enjoy a quiet bus commute to or from work. Can't you see I'm reading here? If I turn up the volume on my MP3 player to drown out your nonsensical prattle, my awesome summer playlist will distract me too much from my book. Bus norms require that if you're on a silent suburban express ride unencumbered by ghetto urchins loudly discussing their late welfare checks, you don't interrupt said silence with your obnoxious fucking word vomit. Do you have problems being alone among strangers? Is it too hard for you to disconnect from the comfort and security of family and friends for a 30-minute bus ride? Cut the cord, asshole. I need to concentrate while reading Harry Potter or I'll miss a pivotal plot point or sly foreshadowing!
However, if my phone vibrates in my purse and I see it's my brother or sister-in-law, fuck you if you think I'm not taking that call. Bus norms be damned, this is public transportation. Typically I'd wait til I exited the bus to call someone back, but you have no idea how hard it is to connect with these two. If you don't like listening to what appears at the surface to be an inane conversation, stop being such a cheap fuck and drive your own car to work. I have to speak loudly, I can hardly hear them over the noisy din of the bus engine! And I have every right to punctuate my conversation with dove-like cooing at my young nephew, along with a seemingly endless loop of me repeating, "Hi, Michael! Hi, Michael! Hi, Michael!" three octaves too high. Kids can't hear you unless you speak three octaves higher. Mike has an undeveloped sense of humor and the sound of my voice is all it takes to make him laugh hysterically. Why would you deny a young child the opportunity to laugh? It's not that I don't respect your so-called right to a peaceful commute. It's just that I'm a fucking hypocrite.
You're an adult. Use a debit card for that Diet Coke and Hershey bar and not every penny you dug our of your couch cushions.
What are you, 12? Did you just bust open your piggy bank? Fuck you for making me wait in line behind you while you pretend to be sheepish about counting out all that change. Fuck you harder for your demonstrated lack of mathematical skill prohibiting you from speedily counting while precious minutes of my break are sacrificed to my rapidly growing hostility and impatience. And fuck you more because now I have to wait while the mathematically-impaired cashier makes sure you counted right. If you insist upon conducting a simple transaction like a transient, at least have the courtesy to hit the convenience store not when it's convenient to you, but rather when it's convenient to the rest of us. Say, four in the morning. Two in the afternoon on a Sunday. Not at noon on a workday in our building's little store with a line of twenty where one cashier operates the register while the other wanders around pretending to count the inventory. I will change my religion to VooDoo Magick on the spot just so I can jam pins into a clay miniature representing you. Even though it's easier to remove wallpaper than it is to remove clay from underneath a french manicure.
However, if I'm with the only friend I have who does that - Rob - don't you dare cast disparaging glares at him. He has the right to pay in this fashion. Money is money! Maybe get some anger management and prescription medication because you can't tolerate waiting an additional four or five minutes. You're a jerk, you know that? And I'm a fucking hypocrite.
Don't become hall monitor of the highways and byways and decide you'll set the limit in the fast lane.
It's the fast lane. It is to be ruled by the fastest. Not by you, when you decide however fast you are going is fast enough. Move the fuck over if someone behind you needs to get somewhere 2.3 seconds faster than the rest of us. Let them by. I don't need you causing a road rage incident because you're a total asshole who doesn't comprehend the function of the far left lane.
However, if the posted limit is 55 and I'm going 65, that is fast enough. I'm not going to move into the grandpa lane to the right where the caravans are tooling along at 56. And I'm not risking a speeding ticket in the 35W speed trap stretched between 494 and Diamond Lake Road by being lead car in a parade of flagrant lawbreaking speed demons. So get off my ass and deal with it, because probably I'm saving you a ticket and maybe I'm even saving your life! And because I'm a fucking hypocrite.
posted by Jen @ 7:05 AM
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