3 ideas I hate
Self-perpetuating Guilt
Is there any other kind? Guilt, guilt, wonderful guilt! I wake up guilty, I jump into a guilt shower and try to clean all the guilt off, but the water emanates guilt. I was lucky enough to be born with absurdly easy access to water that doesn't make me sick and is available at a moment's notice. Unless I'm downtown late at night. My God, is that the worst water-shortage predicament I can think of? I feel so guilty because I feel guilty because I feel guilty because I feel guilty because I feel guilty! Fuck me!
After my guilt shower with my sweat-shop-made toiletries that I didn't buy at WalMart because I'm too yuppie (read: deluded about my complicity) to stoop to actually remind myself of the messages that perpetually infiltrate my consciousness through the media. Which is plural by the way--but I feel guilty whenever I notice people pretending it's singular, feel superior just like when I notice people can't spell, especially people who seem so confident otherwise. Bad spellers who walk the streets with their heads held high! The gall! They should hide in their hovels and keep their noses in their primers until it sticks! If it doesn't stick, then they should try spellinng yoga. I hear there's a woman in a panda suit who makes yoga videos for bad spellers. I'm such a bad-speller oppressor. I want to die. Remember kids, it's down the road, not across the street.
Deliberate Crushes
Oh, you are so kind to me. We actually seem to have a chance at the fairy tale thing! I mean, you're the right age for the best possible Chinese zodiac compatability, you're bloody hot, you seem to be single like moi, and we would make the most amazing kids/item/family/b&b/traveling circus/restaurant/soul-healing-connection/ego-humbling-sex/roadtrip/partnerrs-in-crime. My utter lack of anything to say to you when I'm in your presence simply means I'm ready to take it to the next level: The Crush.
I'll find everything I can about you on the internet. I'll save my funniest stories for when I'm with you, only to bumble them out like an idiot. I'll make cute little comments on your social networking profile. I'll flirt with you. It will be the kind of flirting that neither of us sure is really going anywhere, and you'll play along briefly until one of us loses the chicken game (me). Because I'll think the mature way (read: the controllable way) to break the news of my attraction is to email you, logically outlining your good points, your endearing points and most importantly the various fated moments we shared that created something else, something bigger than both of us. I'll remind you of the magic we feel when we're together and you will have no choice but to fall madly head over heels because I'm such the charmer, that's what they say.
Pigeons
Pigeons, with their sonorous calliope of song, always with the shitting. awwWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!
Is there any other kind? Guilt, guilt, wonderful guilt! I wake up guilty, I jump into a guilt shower and try to clean all the guilt off, but the water emanates guilt. I was lucky enough to be born with absurdly easy access to water that doesn't make me sick and is available at a moment's notice. Unless I'm downtown late at night. My God, is that the worst water-shortage predicament I can think of? I feel so guilty because I feel guilty because I feel guilty because I feel guilty because I feel guilty! Fuck me!
After my guilt shower with my sweat-shop-made toiletries that I didn't buy at WalMart because I'm too yuppie (read: deluded about my complicity) to stoop to actually remind myself of the messages that perpetually infiltrate my consciousness through the media. Which is plural by the way--but I feel guilty whenever I notice people pretending it's singular, feel superior just like when I notice people can't spell, especially people who seem so confident otherwise. Bad spellers who walk the streets with their heads held high! The gall! They should hide in their hovels and keep their noses in their primers until it sticks! If it doesn't stick, then they should try spellinng yoga. I hear there's a woman in a panda suit who makes yoga videos for bad spellers. I'm such a bad-speller oppressor. I want to die. Remember kids, it's down the road, not across the street.
Deliberate Crushes
Oh, you are so kind to me. We actually seem to have a chance at the fairy tale thing! I mean, you're the right age for the best possible Chinese zodiac compatability, you're bloody hot, you seem to be single like moi, and we would make the most amazing kids/item/family/b&b/traveling circus/restaurant/soul-healing-connection/ego-humbling-sex/roadtrip/partnerrs-in-crime. My utter lack of anything to say to you when I'm in your presence simply means I'm ready to take it to the next level: The Crush.
I'll find everything I can about you on the internet. I'll save my funniest stories for when I'm with you, only to bumble them out like an idiot. I'll make cute little comments on your social networking profile. I'll flirt with you. It will be the kind of flirting that neither of us sure is really going anywhere, and you'll play along briefly until one of us loses the chicken game (me). Because I'll think the mature way (read: the controllable way) to break the news of my attraction is to email you, logically outlining your good points, your endearing points and most importantly the various fated moments we shared that created something else, something bigger than both of us. I'll remind you of the magic we feel when we're together and you will have no choice but to fall madly head over heels because I'm such the charmer, that's what they say.
Pigeons
Pigeons, with their sonorous calliope of song, always with the shitting. awwWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!