I don't mind telling you all that I can be a little bit crabby. Maybe downright bitchtastic. I generally have a great sense of humor, am mostly social and will talk and giggle at raunchy crap with just about anyone. I do have my limits of graciousness and this limit, and subsequent trip to WTFville, is usually crossed when some flavor of fucktard has an IBS flare up in his vocal box. Kittens, I am trying like a pimp checked hooker locked in a trunk to get out and behave. For whatever reason Karma is hating on me hard and testing my ability to restrain from raining down a shit storm of dirty words on people. I keep stumbling into ass hats virtually jumping up and down waving their idiot flags in front of me; taunting and begging for sweet Trying To Be A Better Person Cat to morph into glorious Crazy Bitch In A Murderous Rage Cat. So I have to tell you about these people because you are my friends and this way the jackholes I keep tripping over can be your problems, too! Maybe is you lose some sleep over them- then I can get a little rest and feel like the good people of New City are safe having me roam about!
Smart people bother me sometimes. Not your average smart person- but the ones that are too smart, know it and take every opportunity they can to prove they are right and have the degrees to back up their brilliance. I used to date one- he made me insane. He was sexy but jeezuz it was work to have a conversation with him or spend any time with him. If we went out to dinner and wine was involved (as if wine wouldn't be at MY table) he would put the poor waiter through the wine snobbery dance! Where was it aged, in oak, did this chill on it's side and the one thing that would make me order the most insanely expensive item on the menu then not eat it...him sniffing the cork. Seriously mother fucker? Because shoving that in your nostril while you look down the bridge of your nose at the peons dining around you somehow tells you it will taste ok? You know what works better? Lets have the waiter pour a giant glass of that for me and I will slam it while he goes to the back and flips a booger into your salad. He would return my cards and love letters to me also. Edited with red ink and grammar rule explanations. When we broke up I did not talk to him about it, I delivered a two paragraph manifesto on why he makes my head hurt. The sentences where diagrammed and I had my English Professor grade it. She put a giant A+ at the top and wrote "well done!" at the bottom just above her Dr. Catherine Rainwater, Professor of English at St. Edward's University stamp and signature.
Since I have started this blog, I have stumbled into a few of those types, which is fine, because they provide for comic relief. People who want to argue about the proper name of of a color (sorry, if it looks pink...it's pink..not fucking light coral with a dash of purple), that I am a bad example because I bend grammar rules (that's why I am a creative writer...not technical writer) and complaining about my use of the ellipsis.... here's some more... You are welcome. I can totally take criticism and The Man often corrects me, but be cool about it is all I ask. No reason to drop a hurt bomb on my peeps that read my blog or on fans on my Face Book. Seriously, you know who you are and you are in dire need of a whom alert. To those types all tightly bound up in staying in the lines and following every little rule I say, life is way more flavorful and fun if you stray away from the ingredients list, m'kay? And if you happen to be three days away from turning forty, like I am, you should lighten up a bit. If you don't you may not make it to 41 because your stressed out, butt puckered, rule whore self might fall out of your straight goose stepping line because your heart stopped from boredom.
Staring at people is rude. Staring at my man's crotch will get your eyes scratched out. We went out to a hip little joint for drinks the other night and seated near us were two very pregnant chicks. Now I don't know if they were hungry, cock deprived or dreaming of an upgrade but they had laser focus on my mans package. Since yours truly was feeling all surly and maybe had a beer or ten, I wanted to punch them in the head. I refrained from such unlady like behavior because I didn't want to have to stick around and watch one of the dirty whore bags give birth on my black patent platforms. I couldn't really say anything because news in New City gets around fast and I don't need people pissing in my food when I eat out because I had to bitch attack a couple of hussies in pregnant heat. Plus we were with people and this was the first time they met me up close and live, so I felt like I had to behave a little bit. So I gave them a quiet, "look all you want because that anaconda man is mine you dirty rude skanks". Not that I wanted them to be sister wives anyway, we don't want any babies or fertile chicks running around in the bungalow because babies smell bad and pregnant chicks would eat all of my chocolate and want help scrubbing the floors and stuff. Probably would forget to fold my laundry, clean the litter box and shine my shoes, too.