Hateration: Being a list of things that pissed me off this week
The “I'm not a plastic bag” bag.
This bag is the idiot’s equivalent of Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain. My arm is not a plastic bag. Neither is the keyboard I’m typing on. But that doesn’t mean I have labeled either as such for others to see.
The gaudy diamond ring epidemic.
The once exclusive diamond ring has become the female penis size: there is a point where big = ridiculous or gross. Rest easy that for each carat of your wang bauble, 250 tons of earth were mined. That's 50-60 elephants or 8,000,000 "I'm not a plastic bag" bags worth of dirt. Go green, indeed.
Sunglasses on the metro.
I hate to break it you, oh diva of the subway, but you are underground. The sun does not shine in the bowels of the city. The rest of us surface dwellers know this, so what’s your deal?
Aviators on the metro.
If the above is a flush in terms of annoying, this a full house.
“How was your weekend?”
I’m pretty sure you don’t care what I did with my weekend any more than I care what you did with yours. It’s cool with me for us to just say good morning and go on with our day.
The moniker “Up and coming.”
In terms of DC neighborhoods, this means you live in a place that hasn’t quite gentrified to the point where it’s safe and/or clean. You pay an absurd amount of money to live in an absurdly small studio and walk outside and trip over a sleeping hobo or two. Or four. It probably also smells bad.
Public health.
Outreach in the form of fliers makes me want to make life style changes. For instance, posting pictures of diseased pudenda in the bathroom doesn't just gross the hell out of me while I pee, but makes me want to be less of a slut.
Men.
I missed the part where stepping foot outside equals an open invitation for the most random requests, statements, or comments being directed at me. I would start wearing a nun’s habit, but I have a sneaking suspicion that would only encourage them.
The Commonwealth of Virginia.
Thank you, Virginia, for the opportunity of paying you $250 a year for the privilege of owning my v. own car, and the added bonus of paying an additional $10 a year for paying for the convenience of the privilege of paying for my v. own car.
My landlord.
I'm quite certain the man to whom I proffer nearly a thousand dollars each month is a Homo habilis or some other form of early bipedal ape. Does it pain me that he gets my money every month to chip away on obsidian tools instead of fixing things or caring for his property like a Responsible Human Adult? Exceedingly so.
This bag is the idiot’s equivalent of Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain. My arm is not a plastic bag. Neither is the keyboard I’m typing on. But that doesn’t mean I have labeled either as such for others to see.
The gaudy diamond ring epidemic.
The once exclusive diamond ring has become the female penis size: there is a point where big = ridiculous or gross. Rest easy that for each carat of your wang bauble, 250 tons of earth were mined. That's 50-60 elephants or 8,000,000 "I'm not a plastic bag" bags worth of dirt. Go green, indeed.
Sunglasses on the metro.
I hate to break it you, oh diva of the subway, but you are underground. The sun does not shine in the bowels of the city. The rest of us surface dwellers know this, so what’s your deal?
Aviators on the metro.
If the above is a flush in terms of annoying, this a full house.
“How was your weekend?”
I’m pretty sure you don’t care what I did with my weekend any more than I care what you did with yours. It’s cool with me for us to just say good morning and go on with our day.
The moniker “Up and coming.”
In terms of DC neighborhoods, this means you live in a place that hasn’t quite gentrified to the point where it’s safe and/or clean. You pay an absurd amount of money to live in an absurdly small studio and walk outside and trip over a sleeping hobo or two. Or four. It probably also smells bad.
Public health.
Outreach in the form of fliers makes me want to make life style changes. For instance, posting pictures of diseased pudenda in the bathroom doesn't just gross the hell out of me while I pee, but makes me want to be less of a slut.
Men.
I missed the part where stepping foot outside equals an open invitation for the most random requests, statements, or comments being directed at me. I would start wearing a nun’s habit, but I have a sneaking suspicion that would only encourage them.
The Commonwealth of Virginia.
Thank you, Virginia, for the opportunity of paying you $250 a year for the privilege of owning my v. own car, and the added bonus of paying an additional $10 a year for paying for the convenience of the privilege of paying for my v. own car.
My landlord.
I'm quite certain the man to whom I proffer nearly a thousand dollars each month is a Homo habilis or some other form of early bipedal ape. Does it pain me that he gets my money every month to chip away on obsidian tools instead of fixing things or caring for his property like a Responsible Human Adult? Exceedingly so.
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