Sex and bubble tea. That's really all I want. Is that too much to ask for, people?
The complications and confusion and game playing are just too much for me to handle anymore. I hate dating. I hate the ridiculous dynamics that I always somehow end up involved in. Are there any normal guys out there? No? Hmmm. I thought that was the case. Crap.
In that case, relationships can suck it. For that matter, all of those people out there who act like there's something wrong with me because I'm single can suck it too. And if there's any room left at the table, every guy who assumes I want to marry him can definitely suck it. I'm tired of unfulfilling relationships. I will settle for mind-blowing sex and delicious bubble tea. Preferably after the sex.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Eat Shit and Die, Yuppie Jerkoff
Y'all, I am so pissed right now I can't even begin to tell you. Coming from me, who is fired up about all kinds of shit, that means something. Unless the hormones are raging, I don't tend to cry when I'm sad. When I'm crazy angry, however, I almost always cry. It is such a pain in the ass. Nothing is more infurating than having my ire rankled and being unable to stop the tears from flowing like some vulnerable, weak stereotype instead of being able to express the depth of my fury. I am crying right now as I type this; that's how pissed I am.
So, let's just say I'm a young(ish) twenty-something trying to carve out a place for myself in this world, renting an adorable apartment in a fantastic neighborhood in the city. The type of neighborhood I would never, in my wildest fantasies, be able to afford to buy a house in when I grow up and do responsible adult stuff like buy property. I understand that this is probably the only time in my life when I'll be able to live here and I love, love, love my 'hood. It's vibrant, beautiful, close to downtown, and there are enough apartments mixed in with the mansions to keep the general population pretty young. Most of the stroller moms don't have to work and spend their days working out, getting botoxed at the local cosmeceutical salon and shopping, but for rich bitches, they're usually not too much of a pain in the ass. All in all, a pretty sweet living situation for Stepchild.
However, as it's in the city, I have to deal with the annoyance of street parking. To me, the sacrifice is worth it. Sure, sometimes I have to trek for blocks when my street is pinned, but most of the time, it's not too hard to find a decent spot. Tonight, however, was kind of sucky. Except for the "kind of" part.
I got home from school kinda late because traffic was a clusterfuck, so I had to drive around the block a couple of times before I saw someone pulling out of a spot on the street behind my building. I was stoked to be home and steered my car into the empty space. A moment later, a fancy SUV pulls out of the driveway of one of the mansions on the street, speeds over next to my car with tires squealing and horn blazing.
A middle-aged dude in what could only have been a $1000 sweatsuit throws the drivers door open and begins screaming, "Noooooooooooo! No! No! Nooooooooooooo!" at me. He starts flashing his brights and basically throwing a tantrum in the street, so against my better judgment, I got out of my car and asked what his major malfunction was.
"I live in that house right there, and I wanted to park in this spot. Move your car!" he commanded.
My response was basically, "Tough titty, broseph."
Well, I wish I would have just said that and peaced out, leaving him to his cashmere pj's and sense of righteous indignation only the ridiculously privileged could feel about something so stupid.
So, Douchey Hoyt Stalworth, III starts telling me that technically the spot should be his since he lives in a house near it and it's not fair that the city won't allow him to buy a parking spot on the street. I pointed out that I live right behind him, and street parking is first come, first served, and we all get beaten out for the spots we want sometimes. Welcome to city living.
His response:
"Well, I OWN my home, and could AFFORD to pay for a spot if the city would just allow me to do so. You, clearly, are a renter, and could never afford to buy a parking spot if you wanted," he sniffed condescendingly. "It's not fair that you stole my spot!"
"I don't see your name on it, buddy," I replied. "People take the parking spot I want every single day. It's called life. I don't lay on my horn and yell about it like a baby. That's probably not the best way to get me to do you a favor."
"Well, I'm sorry I yelled at you," he managed to bite out between his veneers, clearly not in the least contrite. "Would you please move your car?"
I don't really know why I did it. I don't. This asshole deserved nothing more than a sound beating with a sock full of pennies. For whatever reason, I caved, mainly because I have to live in this neighborhood and don't want to have some sort of ongoing feud, so I got in my car and moved it. I should have forced his ridiculous ass to trek the couple of blocks in his shearling lined driving mocs like the rest of us peons have to do, but I didn't. I moved my car, pretty much humiliated by his little, "you don't belong here, poor girl" routine. It was like high school all over again, when I was the poor kid at what might as well have been fucking West Beverly. I haven't felt so ashamed and inadequate since those awkward years.
My only consolation is that I flipped him off as I drove past on my way to find a shitty spot blocks away from my place, in a kind of sketchy area. As soon as I got in my door, I burst into tears, furious at myself and furious at Douchey for actually thinking he's better than me. I may not be rich, but I work full time during the week and go to school ten hours a day on Saturday and Sunday. I bust my ass to live where I do, I bust my ass to reach my goals and actualize my dreams, and this pampered shithead has the gall to try to make me feel small about my life. I could probably put my fist through a wall right about now, but I won't.
Instead I think I'll have a drink, study for my three exams tomorrow, and plot my fantasy revenge (which I will never carry out, but hopefully it will make me feel better). Die, yuppie scum. I hope your wife's fucking the pool boy.
So, let's just say I'm a young(ish) twenty-something trying to carve out a place for myself in this world, renting an adorable apartment in a fantastic neighborhood in the city. The type of neighborhood I would never, in my wildest fantasies, be able to afford to buy a house in when I grow up and do responsible adult stuff like buy property. I understand that this is probably the only time in my life when I'll be able to live here and I love, love, love my 'hood. It's vibrant, beautiful, close to downtown, and there are enough apartments mixed in with the mansions to keep the general population pretty young. Most of the stroller moms don't have to work and spend their days working out, getting botoxed at the local cosmeceutical salon and shopping, but for rich bitches, they're usually not too much of a pain in the ass. All in all, a pretty sweet living situation for Stepchild.
However, as it's in the city, I have to deal with the annoyance of street parking. To me, the sacrifice is worth it. Sure, sometimes I have to trek for blocks when my street is pinned, but most of the time, it's not too hard to find a decent spot. Tonight, however, was kind of sucky. Except for the "kind of" part.
I got home from school kinda late because traffic was a clusterfuck, so I had to drive around the block a couple of times before I saw someone pulling out of a spot on the street behind my building. I was stoked to be home and steered my car into the empty space. A moment later, a fancy SUV pulls out of the driveway of one of the mansions on the street, speeds over next to my car with tires squealing and horn blazing.
A middle-aged dude in what could only have been a $1000 sweatsuit throws the drivers door open and begins screaming, "Noooooooooooo! No! No! Nooooooooooooo!" at me. He starts flashing his brights and basically throwing a tantrum in the street, so against my better judgment, I got out of my car and asked what his major malfunction was.
"I live in that house right there, and I wanted to park in this spot. Move your car!" he commanded.
My response was basically, "Tough titty, broseph."
Well, I wish I would have just said that and peaced out, leaving him to his cashmere pj's and sense of righteous indignation only the ridiculously privileged could feel about something so stupid.
So, Douchey Hoyt Stalworth, III starts telling me that technically the spot should be his since he lives in a house near it and it's not fair that the city won't allow him to buy a parking spot on the street. I pointed out that I live right behind him, and street parking is first come, first served, and we all get beaten out for the spots we want sometimes. Welcome to city living.
His response:
"Well, I OWN my home, and could AFFORD to pay for a spot if the city would just allow me to do so. You, clearly, are a renter, and could never afford to buy a parking spot if you wanted," he sniffed condescendingly. "It's not fair that you stole my spot!"
"I don't see your name on it, buddy," I replied. "People take the parking spot I want every single day. It's called life. I don't lay on my horn and yell about it like a baby. That's probably not the best way to get me to do you a favor."
"Well, I'm sorry I yelled at you," he managed to bite out between his veneers, clearly not in the least contrite. "Would you please move your car?"
I don't really know why I did it. I don't. This asshole deserved nothing more than a sound beating with a sock full of pennies. For whatever reason, I caved, mainly because I have to live in this neighborhood and don't want to have some sort of ongoing feud, so I got in my car and moved it. I should have forced his ridiculous ass to trek the couple of blocks in his shearling lined driving mocs like the rest of us peons have to do, but I didn't. I moved my car, pretty much humiliated by his little, "you don't belong here, poor girl" routine. It was like high school all over again, when I was the poor kid at what might as well have been fucking West Beverly. I haven't felt so ashamed and inadequate since those awkward years.
My only consolation is that I flipped him off as I drove past on my way to find a shitty spot blocks away from my place, in a kind of sketchy area. As soon as I got in my door, I burst into tears, furious at myself and furious at Douchey for actually thinking he's better than me. I may not be rich, but I work full time during the week and go to school ten hours a day on Saturday and Sunday. I bust my ass to live where I do, I bust my ass to reach my goals and actualize my dreams, and this pampered shithead has the gall to try to make me feel small about my life. I could probably put my fist through a wall right about now, but I won't.
Instead I think I'll have a drink, study for my three exams tomorrow, and plot my fantasy revenge (which I will never carry out, but hopefully it will make me feel better). Die, yuppie scum. I hope your wife's fucking the pool boy.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
You Know, Not Like a Punctuation Mark. The Other One.
Okay, here' s the situation. (Sidebar: I cannot say "okay, here's the situtation," without jumping into the rest of "Parents Just Don't Understand," by the one and only Fresh Prince. If you can, I envy you because that song is always in my effin head). I continue to be appalled and saddened at the utter crap that the kids these days are calling music. Yeah, yeah, apparently I'm eleventy, but holy shit, people. We are in crisis! I wrote better lyrics to my song "I Love the Monkey Bars" when I was six than the majority of the new garbage I hear on the radio.
Por ejemplo, let's just start with my current favorite phrase in a song. "I'm heavy, like a first day period." Yeah, that's right. Think about it. Heavy. Like your flow on one of those super absorbency tampon days. What a poetic, illuminating simile. I didn't quite know what the insipid songstress meant by "heavy," but now it's clear. So that's what God made maxipads with wings for: soaking up talentless whores. Now I understand! Carry on, Kotex!
Someone actually managed to write that sentence down with a straight face, nod their head at their own genius and say, "That's it. Let's put it on wax." At least that's what they said in my imagination because that's what all songwriters say in my fantasies. The truly sad part is, someone decided to produce that record and it's now apparently enough of a hit to make it to my local radio station. These are dark days.
I mean how arid does the well of ideas have to get for you to go with a line like that? Why not, "I'm heavy, like the brick you shit the day after a serious bender"? How about, "I'm heavy, like a bloated corpse that's been floating around in the East River for the last month"? Those options are just as viable according to whatever brilliant mind created such subtle, richly-hued imagery as a fucking musical reference to period blood.
End of rant.
Por ejemplo, let's just start with my current favorite phrase in a song. "I'm heavy, like a first day period." Yeah, that's right. Think about it. Heavy. Like your flow on one of those super absorbency tampon days. What a poetic, illuminating simile. I didn't quite know what the insipid songstress meant by "heavy," but now it's clear. So that's what God made maxipads with wings for: soaking up talentless whores. Now I understand! Carry on, Kotex!
Someone actually managed to write that sentence down with a straight face, nod their head at their own genius and say, "That's it. Let's put it on wax." At least that's what they said in my imagination because that's what all songwriters say in my fantasies. The truly sad part is, someone decided to produce that record and it's now apparently enough of a hit to make it to my local radio station. These are dark days.
I mean how arid does the well of ideas have to get for you to go with a line like that? Why not, "I'm heavy, like the brick you shit the day after a serious bender"? How about, "I'm heavy, like a bloated corpse that's been floating around in the East River for the last month"? Those options are just as viable according to whatever brilliant mind created such subtle, richly-hued imagery as a fucking musical reference to period blood.
End of rant.
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