"I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind."
By popular request from my best friend, who, though talking to her is also akin to performing community service (god), always manages like none other to say the perfect things:
Did you ever have one of those one, two week spans of time when just about every little thing in your life, one after another, turns to ass? Your only friend in your current city moves away, but you feel bad for feeling bad because you're genuinely happy for her success. Your only trifling source of income and publishing for your quasi-professional yet still stylish writing dries up without warning. You find out painfully late that someone you unwisely let yourself care about is utterly ordinary and doesn't give half a shit about you. You're stressed out about a new job and having to find a real one panic-inducingly soon in a field that appears to be disintegrating before your eyes, while the losers running your government announce they're hiking student loan interest rates again just as you're graduating. Your attempts at retail therapy all prove fruitless. You, copy editor extraordinaire, get cut off by a car with "BE HAPPI" on its license plates, quite plainly mocking your very being. You discover the only makeup you've found that matches your fine deathly pallor is on clearance because it's being discontinued. You get a random migraine out of nowhere. You run out of printer ink the night before a paper is due and have to scramble like a madwoman to the store before it closes. Random sorority whores clomping behind you like linebackers in their pastel Ugg boots insult your awesome backpack buttons as you walk down the street (squirrels do indeed rock, bitches–and they rock infinitely more than you). The grocery store is out of coffee truffle ice cream. Your usually reliable simpleton president disappoints you with a lackluster State of the Union. Someone takes your laundry out of the machine because you weren't there immediately when it finished, and you have to either wash everything again or live knowing some damn dirty hippie has fingered your underwear. And to top it all off, your favorite shoes decide to give you horrible heel blisters every other pair of shoes you own aggravates so they refuse to heal, contributing to your slipping on a patch of ice on a relatively busy sidewalk and scraping up your knee. And does anyone stop, or so much as ask in passing if you're OK? Nope, some asshole just laughs at you. Why, I ask you, do people even live in a society? Just fuck you all.
Ah, how cathartic. I am a hollow reed.
p.s. Anyone looking to finance a cutting edge children's television show about a wacky doomsday cult–complete with hand puppets–produced by yours truly and a demented art major, do drop me an e-mail.
edit: p.p.s. And the cherry on top to finish off my Monday? A $30 parking ticket. Oh, I laugh because I am now officially dead inside.
Did you ever have one of those one, two week spans of time when just about every little thing in your life, one after another, turns to ass? Your only friend in your current city moves away, but you feel bad for feeling bad because you're genuinely happy for her success. Your only trifling source of income and publishing for your quasi-professional yet still stylish writing dries up without warning. You find out painfully late that someone you unwisely let yourself care about is utterly ordinary and doesn't give half a shit about you. You're stressed out about a new job and having to find a real one panic-inducingly soon in a field that appears to be disintegrating before your eyes, while the losers running your government announce they're hiking student loan interest rates again just as you're graduating. Your attempts at retail therapy all prove fruitless. You, copy editor extraordinaire, get cut off by a car with "BE HAPPI" on its license plates, quite plainly mocking your very being. You discover the only makeup you've found that matches your fine deathly pallor is on clearance because it's being discontinued. You get a random migraine out of nowhere. You run out of printer ink the night before a paper is due and have to scramble like a madwoman to the store before it closes. Random sorority whores clomping behind you like linebackers in their pastel Ugg boots insult your awesome backpack buttons as you walk down the street (squirrels do indeed rock, bitches–and they rock infinitely more than you). The grocery store is out of coffee truffle ice cream. Your usually reliable simpleton president disappoints you with a lackluster State of the Union. Someone takes your laundry out of the machine because you weren't there immediately when it finished, and you have to either wash everything again or live knowing some damn dirty hippie has fingered your underwear. And to top it all off, your favorite shoes decide to give you horrible heel blisters every other pair of shoes you own aggravates so they refuse to heal, contributing to your slipping on a patch of ice on a relatively busy sidewalk and scraping up your knee. And does anyone stop, or so much as ask in passing if you're OK? Nope, some asshole just laughs at you. Why, I ask you, do people even live in a society? Just fuck you all.
Ah, how cathartic. I am a hollow reed.
p.s. Anyone looking to finance a cutting edge children's television show about a wacky doomsday cult–complete with hand puppets–produced by yours truly and a demented art major, do drop me an e-mail.
edit: p.p.s. And the cherry on top to finish off my Monday? A $30 parking ticket. Oh, I laugh because I am now officially dead inside.
posted by Holly at 10:48 PM
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