2 posts tagged rant
This is the time on my blog when I get to rant about the things that have happened to me over the course of the week, and you all can tell me to either shut the fuck up, or commiserate and become my new favorite person. Here we go.
If I give you my phone to look at one photo, that does not make it okay for you to start scrolling through all of my pics.
You asked me to come get coffee and now all you’re doing is talking about how great your boyfriend is. This shit ain’t fun for me, k?
Mom, if you call me and I don’t pick up, that means I’m busy. Calling me over and over again and leaving multiple voicemails will not make me want to call yo ass back.
I had that parking spot first. Back off my balls, guy.
Don’t try and make “spontaneous” plans then get mad when I’m already busy. I’m very important (duh), you need to schedule in advance.
Blackberry, get your shit together.
My hair looks fantastic today and you know this, so don’t not compliment it.
Oh, I see, you can RT some random slut but you can’t bother to even favorite my very clever and witty tweet? Eff off.
Not gonna sugar coat it: I hate sick people. Or, more specifically, I hate it when people I work with come into the office, hover around my desk, and cough while asking how my weekend was.
For starters, that is nasty. You could cough anywhere; into a tissue, at a biodome, the Dollar Store, Michelle Obama’s belly button, an ice skating rink, the dishwasher, a Children’s Hospital, your bedroom, in a neighbor’s shower, the Pop music aisle at Target, on a butterfly, a Glamor Shots studio, on the Twister game mat, into a bag of movie popcorn, on your collectors edition copy of The Little Mermaid, at a McDonald’s drive-thru, in Italy, at the water fountain of your local park, at the pajama store, on a scooter, in the GAP, over your plate of eggs Florentine, at the public restroom where George Michael solicited sex, at the Beverly Hills Hilton across the street from that bathroom, into your own shirt, onto your pet cat “Snarfles,” or while swimming at the YMCA. The point is, I don’t give a shit where you cough, just don’t do it on my damn desk.
The reason is fairly simple, and that is that I’m a hypochondriac. And, as a result of my coworkers sniffling, sneezing, runny nosing, all around my person, I have now convinced myself that there is a breach in my immune system.
My plan is to load up on enough Vitamin C to kill a baby, or five of them, I don’t care so long as it pulverizes whatever disgusting thing that has been passed onto me.
I’m a bitter sick person, did I mention that?