An open letter

Dear inconsiderate assholes living above us,

This is a letter from one of the people living below you.

You are fucking assholes. Why do you have to move furniture before nine in the morning? How much furniture do you actually have to move that you do this every single weekend morning? Why do you think that telling your children to stop running around and screaming like banshees means that you're "stifling their creativity"? You're dickheads. You're also dickheads because your children will grow up and start writing really shitty poetry but they will think it's great because their mom never stifled their creativity and then they'll get big heads and they'll become convinced that they're poets when their poetry makes me cringe. And then they'll post it on some popular social networking site for their friends to read, and their friends will unknowingly open the post because they'll be curious about what it might be, and then they'll be forced to read through the drivel written by someone with the IQ of a shoe who thinks that they can see all the world truths that nobody else can.

Your dogs are also really noisy. Your children are noisy. Your children are very noisy when they play with your noisy dogs. Those children will get sick when they move into this place because there is mold, and I feel badly about that, sort of, but maybe if you weren't such fucking assholes I would put more of an effort into making sure that something gets done about it. But really, I'm in this place for four more days, so I don't really care what happens to it after I leave.

The garbage situation here is also intolerable. I get that you have kids that probably still wear diapers (although I'm pretty sure they're too old for that...) but you're filling up our garbage can to the point that they won't pick up our can (which contains two small kitchen catchers. That's it.) and then we have to go another week with you cramming your garbage into our can and then it doesn't get picked up again.

You know what, though? I don't really care about that last one, because you're going to have to deal with it when we leave. And I'm going to create as much garbage as possible for when we leave, just so you have to deal with it.

You know why?

Because I really find you to be that intolerable. You're inconsiderate, loud, creepy as fuck (please stop closing our windows because it's really fucking weird) and you have literally no control over your children, which makes me think that you're not even worthy of an ounce of my respect. Also, your kitchen is mint green. It's really awful and that also makes me hate you.

Sincerely,

The pissed off bitch who lives below you that has been blaring music as loudly as possible for the last week.

P.S. I fucking hate you.

P.P.S. But thanks for the free internet that helped me write this post.

Very long update coming soon!

That's right. I'm posting about something that's coming up.

I'm only doing this because I don't know how long it will take me to do it (I want it to be filled with facts. Filled. With. Facts.) and, as a history major, I like to research in excessive amounts, read through everything, make summaries of each article and read each article again whilst taking notes before I make an argument.

In case you didn't guess, my rant is going to involve a lot of history. YAY.

But I'll give a hint... it's about a certain revolutionary figure that left-wing student idealists everywhere know nothing about yet insist on wearing shirts with his face slapped on them.

In case you actually didn't get that (I'm somewhat upset that I just gave it away, actually), my rant is going to be about Che Guevara.

Stay tuned! Or... reading or... whatever.

I don't know why I have a blog.

I fail at updating. I really fail at updating. And it's not like I haven't been angry a million times since my last update, which was apparently two months ago.

LET'S DO THIS.

This is a school-related rant, but it's not about my classes themselves.

So I'm in a first year class that I couldn't get into in my first or second year. Being a third year in this class makes me realize what (I'm sorry, but it's true) snotty little toe rags first years are.

Allow me to set the stage so you'll understand my urge to bring a large rock (or a baseball bat, I'm not picky) to class on Thursday. It'll be like the sword of natural selection, except... the bat of OH MY FUCKING GOD COULD YOU BE MORE RUDE YOU LITTLE DICKBAG.

Okay. The prof for this class is interesting. Aren't most writers interesting? He started out as a rock journalist and he's got a potty mouth and an epic beard and a really chill teaching style. Needless to say, I think he's epic.

I don't know if people just don't read the little blurbs provided on the school website, but it seems like a lot of these little toe rags are signing up for classes and not realizing what they actually are.

And apparently a lot of people don't know the difference between fiction and non-fiction. I would like the sword of natural selection now because HOW CAN YOU BE THAT STUPID.

Anyway, in the first class, last Thursday, some little toe rag actually stood up and left about half an hour into the class. As in, FAR past an acceptable, "oh dear lord I am in the wrong classroom this is so embarrassing I'll just wait til everyone is distracted and I'll go so they don't judge me I want to die I'm so stupid FUCK" length of time. And yes, I have an anxiety disorder, I do not need anyone (except my doctor?) to tell me this.

Anyway, she stands up and starts walking out the door, right? And the prof asks her if he's done something to offend her, perhaps, that would make her leave at... well, basically at such a weird moment and IN SUCH A RUDE FASHION DID I MENTION IT WAS RUDE. And she gives him this look like, "eww I'm paying for this and I don't want to be here" and she says, "No, I'm just in the... wrong place." And we all know from her tone of voice that it's not that she's in the wrong place, it's that she straight up does not want to be there. So he asks her what she's going to do (HELLO IT'S THE FIRST WEEK. He meant whether you were going to drop the course, not the "hilarious" response you gave in return.) and she says, "I think I'll go have some breakfast."

UGH I WILL KILL YOU DID NOBODY EVER TEACH YOU MANNERS. You couldn't have sat there for a little longer, even until the end of class so you weren't rude because it's not like you had anything better to do anyway since you put aside all that time for the class. You had to get up and then be a rude little bitch about the fact that you were leaving?

And then today, I overheard some idiotic little girl talking to her friend about how she doesn't want to be in a class where we don't, like, write creatively. READ THE FUCKING COURSE INFORMATION. IT'S TWO SENTENCES LONG AND IF YOU DON'T, I WILL FUCKING SMASH YOUR FACE IN WITH A BAT.

All of these conversations go the same way. "Oh... I only really like writing poetry..."

You and 85% of this campus. The real question is, do you write it well? I imagine you don't, because poetry is kind of a fail-proof genre for people to turn to (hello free verse?) and it makes them feel creative. I'm not trying to sound like a snob but drama all the way. That's all I'm saying.

You know, because non-fiction writing can't be creative or anything. Not at all. But fuck, we HAVE writing courses that are more "creative" (although really, see how creative you feel when you have deadlines to work to, a bunch of people critiquing your work while you sit there and profs who essentially want things done their way and their way only. The writing department, in my experience, is pretty uptight for a "creative" bunch of people, and that's why I decided to drop out of that program this year.) and if you read the goddamn course information I wouldn't have to kill you.

Hand me my bat at once.