A Three-Part List

I haven't been able to write on this blog for a while now - not for lack of ideas (because believe me, I have more than enough topics I could bitch about), but because I've been weirdly depressed and trying to sort myself out.  HOWEVER MY FRIENDS, that strange one month ish period of my life is drawing to a close because today, right now, at THIS very moment, I have decided to sit here and take my Klonopin and write out a brand.  new.  post.  And not just any brand new post, but a post that contains a brief list of NOT JUST ONE, but SEVERAL things that are slowly ruining my life.

 All of that rainbow puke you're chundering up will do an excellent job of hiding the boner you just popped over the fact that I'm writing in this again.

So, let's get this Donkey show on the road, shall we?*

Unsolicited Advice:

Remember those times growing up when you would be trying to hook up the N64 and your siblings would all be breathing their hot pizza breath over your shoulder, saying things like "No dude it goes in the other slot" and you're all "What slot?" and they're like "The other one" and no one is using their fingers to point to which fucking slot your supposed to plug the wires into and everyone is offering you all of this advice on how to set this N64 up but it isn't working, and everything you seem to be doing is not good enough for anyone and the pressure boils over so you throw the N64 on the ground, and then later when mom comes home she's like "Who broke the N64?" and that's when your siblings finally decide to use their fingers to point to something and it's you and everyone hates you?  Remember that?

Okay, maybe I did more than just throw it on the ground.

It's like, I could have set up that N64 in a fucking HEARTBEAT had I not been put under the pressure of everyone watching and offering their two cents.  I mean, right off the bat there is that saying "giving your two cents" - do you not realize that the phrase is JUST two cents because WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH TWO CENTS?  Do you know what I do with two cents?  I throw it in the garbage.  I'm not even rich and I literally take pennies and I put them in the trash can and I think to myself "Fuck these pennies, what am I going to ever buy with these pennies?"  And I know, I KNOW, there are people starving in Malaysia (and America . . . have we seen Angelina Jolie lately?  Christ), but the point that I'm trying so desperately to make here is that I don't want your two cents.  Keep your two cents.  Don't offer me advice when I did not explicitly ask for it.

Don't even start with me, Ben - I will tape your eyes open and make you watch as I melt down pennies into a large copper dagger that I will then stab you with.

Simply put, unsolicited advice is the worst because it makes you question your every move, double-guessing yourself so that you eventually wind up messing up anyway, and then everyone who is offering you this advice that you don't even WANT in the first place just sits there and laughs at you and tells mom you broke the N64.  The thing I don't get is how unsolicited advice literally comes from everyone.  The other day, for instance, I was ordering a chicken salad sandwich from a deli and after I placed my order with the deli guy, the woman standing next to me taps me on the shoulder and goes "You're not going to like that, they use WAY too much mayo." 

And in my head, I'm like: I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that you knew everything about my personal preferences.  I actually happen to love mayonnaise.  For all you know, I'm going to go home with this chicken salad sandwich and slather it all over my naked body and if I was a boy, I would totally get a boner over it because maybe that's how much I fucking LOVE mayonnaise, so next time you want to take your bony little finger out of your K-Mart brand business pants pocket and tap me on the shoulder so you can inform me that I, a complete stranger, am not going to like something, you can think again and remember to keep your mouth shut, you bumbling thundercunt.

But of course, instead of saying all of that, I just looked at her and said "I like mayo", and then she said "Oh well you'll love it then" and then the guy handed me my sandwich and I opened it and took a bite while staring at her.  And then I left the store.

Bottom line:  Unless I am in serious, life-threatening peril, or I look at you and say "Hey what do I do I need help", take your two cents and your opinions on mayonnaise and keep them to yourself.

People Who Used to Be Fat That Have Recently Become Thin

Everyone knows at least one person who has gone through the dramatic transformation of dropping 40+ pounds, and I want to start off by saying seriously, good for them.  Losing weight isn't an easy thing at all.  This one time junior year I responded to a break up by eating everything in sight and I gained like, 10 pounds.  It took me four solid weeks of puking after meals to get back down to my normal, pretty girl weight, and like, that was only 10 pounds.  Imagine how many weeks you'd have to go bulimic to drop 40+?!?!

I don't even want to try to caption this.  I'll just leave it here for you to think about.

The thing that gets to me about these people who used to be fat isn't that they are now skinny and I can no longer stand next to them to look thin, but rather it's the fact that the ONLY thing they seem to be capable of talking about is how much weight they've lost.  It's the worst kind of compliment fishing - am I supposed to tell you you look so much better now that you aren't obese, or what?  What do you want me to say?  "Good job on weighing a lesser amount than you did five weeks ago, you realize we are all going to die no matter how much we weigh (only now maybe you won't die fat and alone)"?  Is that the right thing I'm supposed to respond with?  I have no problem offering one initial compliment to these people - they just accomplished this like, totally epic goal they had and deserve a solid pat on the back.  But if I start complimenting you on your tremendous weight loss, then you're going to keep talking to me about it, and do you honestly think I want to hear about how you go for a run every twenty minutes and how you only eat a slice of lettuce for breakfast and a protein shake for dinner?  If you want to go toe to toe with fucked up eating habits, walk on to a college campus and initiate a conversation with the nearest girl wearing sorority letters.  She will laugh at you and then give you her secret diet plan of adderall, diet coke, and anal sex (because what work-out could make you sweat more, AMIRIGHT? Lolz).  I'm just over it after about five minutes, not because I'm not really happy for you, but because you talking to me about how much you work out reminds me that I am the laziest fuck in the world, and that you, an ex-fat person, would be able to out-sprint me if, say, we were being chased by a large grizzly bear.  I would be mauled because I have neither the stamina nor the body frame to support working out, and that's just not something I want to think about in the middle of the day.

It's ironic because this is what fat people look like when someone touches their Oreos.

Bottom Line:  It's awesome that you used to be fat, but shut the fuck up about it because no one in this world cares about anything unless it has to do with themselves.

Checking Voicemails

If you ever leave me a voicemail, may the Lord Jesus Howard Christ on his holy little cross in heaven have mercy on your soul because the fury I feel at having to punch in my password and sort through all the fucking options with that robot bitch of a voice taking her sweet ass time to actually LET me listen to my messages is absolutely immeasurable.  It makes me want to light myself on fire. 

"Please enter your password, then press pound."

The only person who I give permission to leave me voicemails is my technologically handicapped neanderthal father who's hands are far too large for me to ever think he will be capable of texting.  And you know what, his voicemails are usually very nice - "I miss you, I'm proud of you, thanks for not throwing up in my mouth when you were a baby", the usual parent stuff.  But voicemails from my friends?  Unless you are shit faced drunk and saying something so funny that you know I will immediately get diarrhea from laughing so hard, what are you fucking thinking?  You're ruining my life.

Bottom Line: If I don't have time to answer your phone call (i.e. if I'm screening your phone call because I don't want to talk to you), then I'm sure as shit not going to have the time to listen to your voicemail.

*Do NOT Google the phrase Donkey Show.