do do do doooooooooooo

You know when a former friend can't seem to let go of the fact that you're not friends anymore?

It usually goes one of two ways. Either they message/text/talk to you from time to time, trying to be nice and start conversations (that are clearly not welcome) or they finally screw up the balls to attempt some sort of "confrontation" over perceived wrongs and act like a petty little bitch.

Both of these situations have happened to me, and I hate them both.

For the most part, I try to make sure people know why I don't want to be friends with them (if it's necessary - obviously if they've been inconsiderate dickbags or if we haven't spoken in ages, etc, I don't feel it's necessary in the slightest) but the reason I can usually give (and it's usually true) is that we've grown apart.

I'm twenty. I'm going to be gaining and losing friends like mad over the next couple of years, and the vast majority of my friends from high school won't be my friends in the next five years. Are there exceptions? Of course, I certainly think there are, but the fact of the matter is that there are other people in the world, making and losing friends is completely normal and acting like a douchey bitch isn't going to make anyone want to be friends with you.

I think the most important thing to do is to try and handle losing a friend with some... dignity, I guess? If you have any bones to pick with them (the weirdest pictures come up in google when you put that in, I don't understand), for fuck's sake, don't do it on the internet.

Dealing with confrontations over the internet when you have every ability to do it elsewhere makes you look like a cowardly dick.

If you have a problem with someone, texting them is really not the best way to deal with it.

Pick up a fucking phone, people. It won't kill you and the other person will automatically have a bit more respect for your (perceived or otherwise) balls.

Also, I hate working during October with a passion. Work makes me hate Halloween.

People also make me hate people. I seriously contemplated breaking necks today.

I'm too tired for this. Shitty rant over. I'll do a better one... later? I dunno. I'm feeling a bit depressed because I don't get to go home at all this semester.



Does that about sum up your feelings on that last comment? If so, fuck you.

I think....

That I either need to abandon this blog and start a new one, or keep this blog and make another blog about things that don't want to make me break everything.

I think it might make people think I'm more... sane? I don't know. Perhaps?

What do you, all five of my followers (love youuuuuu) think?

My other blog would probably be reserved for my awkward moments, nice stories (like the customer that gave me the rose plant), memories and perhaps a bit of my writing, if I can get around to it.

Post your comments or text me or tell me at work or write on my Facebook wall... but do tell.

I hate my awkwardness.

This is going to be a different kind of rant, since it's about myself and something I do... but it's also about how people don't respond to my awkwardness correctly.

Obviously.

So Wednesday was just... a really awkward day for me all around. I don't know why. I know I said a couple of weird things, but I'm going to focus on one in particular, and then talk about another one from today.

Okay. So I had gone to the grocery store to get some milk (alone, which I hate doing, but roomie was in class til late and I didn't want to leave it until the next day because I was making cookies and milk was necessary for taste testing purposes after) and I was already all anxious about being alone. I don't know why, but grocery shopping alone is the most awkward thing on the planet for me. I walk in and I just want to shout that I have friends. I can (somewhat) handle shopping for other things alone (like... umm, I dunno, but some stuff, I think...?) but for some reason, grocery shopping alone makes me want to die.

So I was already feeling pretty weird about being there when I walked into Safeway, and my weird feeling intensified as I was walking to the back to grab some milk because my brain managed to convince me that I was the only person shopping alone in there.

I'm sure I wasn't, but when I tried to reason with my brain, I could only remember seeing families or couples or FRIENDS shopping together.

Oh dear god. I was the only person shopping alone in there and I probably looked like such a weirdo with my purse and my giant reusable bag and why had I come here we could have gone a goddamn day without a jug of milk.

And then I remembered that I still had to go through the cashier, and it got worse.

Desperate, I grabbed a little carton of whipped cream (I had also made Jello with fruit in it, so I thought it would be nice to have it on top) to prolong that moment, but in a (fleeting) moment of bravery, I walked up to the express till.

I was in line behind a family, which didn't help, though they were definitely from Newcastle (I have an excellent ear for the various English accents due to my Anglophilia) and it amused me slightly. But then it was my turn.

I saw the cashier give my two items a weird look and I started to panic.

So I decided to try making a joke about it. NOTE: My jokes in socially awkward moments are never funny and they tend to make people really uncomfortable.

"Obviously I'm not lactose intolerant!"

Yes, that is what I said. And then it got worse, because the cashier responded. OH GOD WHY DID SHE DO THAT

"Yeah, lucky you."

I automatically began breaking down that response.

Why did I even say that OH GOD SHE'S PROBABLY LACTOSE INTOLERANT AND I JUST MADE A JOKE ABOUT IT AND THAT'S WHY SHE SAID "LUCKY YOU" AND I'M THE BIGGEST FUCKING DICKHEAD ON THE PLANET I'M BLUSHING SO MUCH THAT I'M GOING TO DIE PLEASE SAVE ME PLEASE LET NOW BE THE MOMENT I GET SMACKED UPSIDE THE HEAD WITH A HAMMER.

I don't need you to tell me that I have an anxiety problem. I'm already quite aware of it, thank you very much.

After that, I kept obsessively thinking about it, and I finally came to the conclusion that she should have tried harder to make conversation with me, because I was obviously so uneasy. That bitch. I should get her fired.

And right now, just reliving that moment is making me want to die, so I'm going to leave the story about my awkwardness from today until later. I just don't want to think about it. My heart's beating all fast and I'm pretty sure I'm blushing.

I need a damn car.

So on Friday night, I was taking the bus home. And by "bus", I mean two buses. Now that we've moved, I have to take two to get home from work.

Anyway, yes. I was on the bus. I was waiting at a bus stop downtown and I basically got mauled (yes, literally, want to see my wounds?) by a group of guys that I would call "party boys", only because "frat boys" don't exist in this city. Yet. And hopefully they never will.

They kept asking me where I was going and telling me that I should go wherever they were going, and I kept saying no, that I was going home, that I had just gotten off work and that I wasn't really in the mood, but they wouldn't shut up. When the bus got there, I thought I was saved. I was really hoping that they weren't taking the same bus as me.

But they were, of course. And they were going to get off at campus, same as I was. So they kept bugging me on the bus, until I finally lost my temper (what? I never do that) and told them to shut the fuck up because their pointless and uninteresting babble was making me want to smash their heads together.

They were all shocked, of course. I dunno, perhaps they thought that my shortness and, you know, state of having a vagina (also known as being a woman) would mean that I wouldn't snap like that.

But you know what? Nobody should have to put up with people being so fucking obnoxious that you want to rip their intestines out and strangle those fuckers with them.

Anyway, once the bus got to campus, they staggered off, and I walked over to get on the next bus. I quickly discovered that I was essentially the only sober person on the bus, and I cursed my terrible luck. I was resigning myself to a short but irritating (and potentially amusing) bus ride when some assfaces in the back seat started singing that fucking "Ignition" song by R. Kelly.

Yes, I know what you're thinking.

"But that song wasn't even good when it came out! It's fucking terrible, in fact! Only people who deserve to run marathons whilst on fire would sing that song!"

My sentiments exactly. In any case, it was only one guy that knew all the words, and everyone else just kept joining in at the, "It's the freaking weekend, baby, I'm about to have me some fun!"

UGH it was so irritating. I was thinking up various ways that I could kill each of them (I wanted to give each their own method of death, of course) when the loudest ones all got off at the same stop. Beautiful!

So I was sitting there thinking to myself that the rest of the bus ride was going to be fine. NOT SO! Some annoying guy from high school was talking (well, trying to talk) to me, and I was being pretty short with my answers. We weren't friends at all in high school, and I really wasn't interested in talking to him, I just wanted to get home. He made some comment about me being a big bitch (thank you), and I just said, "Yeah, I am" so he fires back with something else that actually bugged me, so I said, "Shut the fuck up, your full name here."

I don't want to put his full name, because that would be weird and I also don't want to get in trouble, but yeah. I came home and told Kaydee about it, and the second I finished the story, she said, "Did you actually call him *his full name*?"

In short, working on Friday nights sucks because everyone on the bus home is wasted and you're tired and cranky and you wish you had a big wrench to clock every single one of them.

Oh, also! I worked Saturday night as well, and the bus I was taking home was a double decker. I figured I could avoid the drunk kids on the bus by going up to the top level, since the narrow staircase of doom can be difficult to navigate sober.

NOT SO. I was trying to get off at my stop, and I'm pretty sure a kid had passed out on the stairs.

So yeah. No more Friday and Saturday nights at work for me. Hopefully I'll get booked for some events instead...

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.