a rant
This is, as I have noted, a rant. Translated, that last sentence means: you should not in any way feel obligated to read this post. Should you chose to do so, here it is:
1. To the editors of this world: you suck. You are allowing far too much shit to be published as literature. Raise your standards! Do your job: edit! cut! change! tell aspiring authors that they suck! You, and you alone, are responsible for what you publish. If your author writes horrendously, the duty lies on your shoulders to tell them so: do it! You have a terrible, thankless job; you are blamed for bad writing and skipped over for praise of good writing. I'm sorry for that, but it doesn't mean you can do your job badly. The rest of us have to suffer when you do, and sooner or later the public is going to smarten up and realize that you have been feeding them utter crap from day one. For pity's sake, do your job and start weeding out the bad writing of this world.
2. Sometimes parents suck. They nose into their children's lives, unwelcome and uninvited. They fuss over things that don't matter and don't care about things that do. Sometimes they manage to do everything exactly wrong. I know I'm saying this as a child, but this is my rant, so sod off. I appreciate what my parents do and have done for me, I really do. But I wish they would be a little less concerned about me. I'm a kid; I'm going to do stupid shit. But the more I'm pressured to be perfect and exemplary, the stupider and more dangerous that shit is going to be. If my parents didn't care so much about drinking, I probably wouldn't be so tempted to go drink myself into oblivion right now (well, I just had 30 screaming teenagers invade my house; that's debatable right now). Life would be a lot better for everyone if parents would get laid once in while.
3. Thirteen-year-olds. Do I need to say more? Probably not, but I will anyway. Thirteen-year-olds are loud, inconsiderate and irritating. A large number of them recently invaded and violated the sanctity and (relative) peace of my house, and I am quite distraught over it. They came with their loud, almost-changing voices and their silly mannerisms and their overbearing, insensitive, self-centred rudeness. I hope to God I wasn't like that at 13. They left their trash all over the house. Three of them thought it would be funny to hide in the basement, behind the boiler. Several of them thought it would be a good idea to throw snowballs at the house (Pops cured them of that notion rather expiditously, mostly by white-washing them). Thirteen-year-olds are not bright people.
4. I hate society. I don't like people, especially in large groups or consisting of teenagers. I do not fucking want to be "social." Telling me to "mingle with the guests" is like forcing me to undergo the most exquisite mental torture available. It is agony to my soul. Now, I do not mind small gatherings of intelligent people, when I can discuss pseudo-intelligent, collegiate topics and use SAT words at my discretion and make Shakespeare puns that people actually understand. But I do require a level of intelligence and, generally, moderation in my company. A youth group Christmas party fulfils neither of these requirements; nor, in fact, does a large portion of this God-fucking-awful thing the bloody Americans call their precious "society."
This concludes the first of several Christmas rants. To those who read all of it and are not mentally condemning nor mocking me, congratulations! You get a cookie.
1. To the editors of this world: you suck. You are allowing far too much shit to be published as literature. Raise your standards! Do your job: edit! cut! change! tell aspiring authors that they suck! You, and you alone, are responsible for what you publish. If your author writes horrendously, the duty lies on your shoulders to tell them so: do it! You have a terrible, thankless job; you are blamed for bad writing and skipped over for praise of good writing. I'm sorry for that, but it doesn't mean you can do your job badly. The rest of us have to suffer when you do, and sooner or later the public is going to smarten up and realize that you have been feeding them utter crap from day one. For pity's sake, do your job and start weeding out the bad writing of this world.
2. Sometimes parents suck. They nose into their children's lives, unwelcome and uninvited. They fuss over things that don't matter and don't care about things that do. Sometimes they manage to do everything exactly wrong. I know I'm saying this as a child, but this is my rant, so sod off. I appreciate what my parents do and have done for me, I really do. But I wish they would be a little less concerned about me. I'm a kid; I'm going to do stupid shit. But the more I'm pressured to be perfect and exemplary, the stupider and more dangerous that shit is going to be. If my parents didn't care so much about drinking, I probably wouldn't be so tempted to go drink myself into oblivion right now (well, I just had 30 screaming teenagers invade my house; that's debatable right now). Life would be a lot better for everyone if parents would get laid once in while.
3. Thirteen-year-olds. Do I need to say more? Probably not, but I will anyway. Thirteen-year-olds are loud, inconsiderate and irritating. A large number of them recently invaded and violated the sanctity and (relative) peace of my house, and I am quite distraught over it. They came with their loud, almost-changing voices and their silly mannerisms and their overbearing, insensitive, self-centred rudeness. I hope to God I wasn't like that at 13. They left their trash all over the house. Three of them thought it would be funny to hide in the basement, behind the boiler. Several of them thought it would be a good idea to throw snowballs at the house (Pops cured them of that notion rather expiditously, mostly by white-washing them). Thirteen-year-olds are not bright people.
4. I hate society. I don't like people, especially in large groups or consisting of teenagers. I do not fucking want to be "social." Telling me to "mingle with the guests" is like forcing me to undergo the most exquisite mental torture available. It is agony to my soul. Now, I do not mind small gatherings of intelligent people, when I can discuss pseudo-intelligent, collegiate topics and use SAT words at my discretion and make Shakespeare puns that people actually understand. But I do require a level of intelligence and, generally, moderation in my company. A youth group Christmas party fulfils neither of these requirements; nor, in fact, does a large portion of this God-fucking-awful thing the bloody Americans call their precious "society."
This concludes the first of several Christmas rants. To those who read all of it and are not mentally condemning nor mocking me, congratulations! You get a cookie.