Things That Are Slowly Annoying Me to Death

This is a list of things that aren't yet so terrible as to reach the degree of "ruining" my life, per se, but are rather just minor annoyances without the existence of which, I feel I would thrive more fully in life.  In more relatable words, these are the things that, upon accumulation, are enough for me to total up at the end of the day and say, "Wow, today sucked a bagful of sweaty dicks."  These things fucking blow, is what I mean.

Things That Are Slowly Annoying Me to Death

1. When my sock falls off inside of my boot.  If there existed a benevolent God in this universe, he would find it in his gracious heart to smite me every time this happens, but alas, I am still living.  Coincidentally, this is the main foundation for my argument that God does not exist.

2.  This motherfucking Verizon ring-back tone:

 Part of my job as a Personnel Director involves me calling over 130 teenagers every two weeks or so, whether it be for scheduling, meetings, or just to generally ream them in the urethra for doing a shitty job, and the amount of times I hear this ringback tone within an eight hour work day interval is actually inhumane.  I think this is a strong contributing factor to my recent belief that I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Editor's Note: I do not actually have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, nor do I believe I do.).  All I can tell you is this:  I will not enjoy the fucking music while my party is reached, Verizon.  I won't.  And if you think I will, you are more grossly mistaken than Lindsay Lohan that time she dated Aaron Carter.

3.  Shipping anything via the United States Postal Service, which apparently only offers jobs to the oldest motherfuckers I've ever had the displeasure of interacting with.  Nothing is worse than going to the post office to send out something that you assume (naively) will cost no more than $5 maximum to ship and having it cost an unexpected $45.  How could shipping this 2 oz CD possibly cost me my life savings?  And you know you're not going to walk away, because odds are, if you are shipping something, you're doing it at the last possible second and can't afford to wait and figure out more viable, affordable options.  No, you'll pay the $45, and when you get into your car you will feel the burning of the Sauce of Shame sliding down your back because you know you've just overpaid for something that you shouldn't have, and the Sauce experience will be much akin to the feeling of Conditioner creating a Hot Zone for hair to collect in your anus.

4.  Crickets, also known as the second leg supporting my argument that God does not exist.

5.  Boys who sit in their pick-up trucks with their windows open blasting Screamo at decibels the human ear was not made to handle.  Listen, I'm really sorry you and your girlfriend just broke up and your parents just got divorced and your favorite goldfish just passed away, but can you at least roll up your fucking windows if you're going to listen to such deafening horseshit?  The only thing I can make out is a slight pitch variation in the assorted guttural screams of whoever the fuck is supposedly "singing", and frankly, my day started out pretty nicely before this intrusion of vocal anger.  Like honestly, if I wanted to hear someone screaming their lungs out, I would bring a fucking tape recorder with me the next time I murder someone, which will more than likely be you if you don't stop blaring your angry music in the parking lot of Applebees.  Seriously though, how can someone be so angry that the only music they are fond of is the sound of a grown man literally screaming into a microphone at close range?  I feel as though I harbor a lot of anger inside of myself, more-so than the average person I would argue to say, and even I can't handle the sounds of hardcore Screamo for more than a few seconds, if at all.  This isn't something fans of Screamo should be proud of - you all should really spend some time with a therapist and try to work through these issues that you blatantly have.  It's scary.  I'm frightened for you.  Please, just get some help before you and your awful music force me to commit a murder-suicide.

6.  Wearing gloves and then trying to operate an iPod or iPhone.  Thanks for all the technology, Mr. Jobs, but where was the winter foresight?  Obviously, since I'm buying your product and all, I regard myself as a special kind of "Person On The Go (With A Disposable Income)", and I really don't have time to be removing my gloves when I'm trying to text while driving and/or having sex (why am I wearing gloves while having sex?  Not sure.  It gets cold in the depths of Hades where I host my Satanic orgies, but my stars is the cell reception amazing!).  And I will be damned if I am caught dead wearing those hideous "smartphone" gloves, which I'm ninety percent sure don't really work anyway.  I don't know, man, I just really don't like minor inconveniences.

I will only wear these if they come in leather with a sheep's wool interior.

7.  FUCKING GAS PRICES ALWAYS WHY ARE YOU SHITTING ON MY DICK AMERICA JESUS CHRIST.

8.  Trying to superglue anything.  Have you ever had something that you've needed to fix, and you were like, "Oh, I can just superglue it!"?  And then you look through your family's junk drawer (everyone's family has a junk drawer right?  It's that one drawer in the kitchen that's filled with the most miscellaneous assortment of items you could ever imagine, like bobby pins, a Chinese take out menu, broken pencils, an old pair of safety scissors, one used birthday candle, broken zip-ties, an empty book of matches, your school photograph from the second grade, and like, a dreidel, even though your family is not Jewish?) and you find a crusty old bottle of Krazy Glue that is literally one single fluid ounce of superglue, and so you sit yourself down at the kitchen table, surgical lamps blazing overhead, and you squeeze the glue tube as hard as physically possible, and . . . . nothing fucking comes out.  And so you go and grab a push pin, and you stab a microscopic hole through the years of accumulated superglue jizz encasing the tube, and then you go to apply the superglue to the designated area that needs fixing and it fucking EXPLODES all over the place, getting all over both your hands and the thing you are trying to fix, and you know that shit dries in probably ten seconds so you quickly smash together the two broken pieces of whatever and then run to the sink to get the superglue off your fingers before it binds itself to the pores of your skin, but it's too late, IT'S ALWAYS TOO FUCKING LATE, and looking over at your Fix-It Job you see that you've superglued everything crooked and that there are little, hardened superglue fingerprints all over the thing you're trying to fix, and you fall to the floor and weep because not only is your shit ruined entirely but for the next three days you will have superglue all over your fingertips, making it impossible for you to use your sense of touch (as though you could feel things to begin with).

Why do you look like you're going to be so helpful, but always wind up hurting me.

9.  The continued existence of Mariah Carey on the planet Earth.