observations

Can Someone Please Help Me With Bathroom Etiquette?

UntitledReal talk, I have no idea how I am supposed to act in a communal bathroom.

I’m not even going to lie, I immediately go into the handicap stall if it’s free.  A more spacious experience is a better one, in my opinion.

I could be missing the bigger picture here, mostly because I am not handicapped.  I do feel guilty, but at the same time, I don’t like small spaces because I was locked in a suitcase and a bathroom when I was younger.

Do I just suck it up and sacrifice space for sanity?  Or do I go for the gold and ignore the haters hoping to all heavens that someone doesn’t wheel in with the burning need to release their bladder?

Then if you are in the bathroom and you hear people come in, you have to look at the feet, right?  You need to know who it is, and if you do know who it is, is it weird to say hello?  No one wants eye contact through the stalls, that’s awkward as hell.  Keep your head down, analyze the foot traffic and make an assessment.

Does knowing who people are by their feet make you a weirdo?  Asking for a friend. 

If you do know the person, but only a little bit, you’re not obligated to talk to them while you’re washing your hands right?  It’s like the rules of elevator etiquette apply here.  A nice, firm “hello!” and then a quick wash of the hands and be on your way.

My reasoning is because after you do establish a small talk conversation where you both mutually agree that it is either warm or cold outside and you wish that the week was over, it just becomes an awkward hang out until one of the two of you decide what safe topic to discuss next.

Do I have to make small talk in the bathroom with someone I barely know?

I get that after twenty-five years, these rules should have been clear.  But honestly, I’m navigating the sea of life, and I find myself severely off course more times than I can count.

All I do know is that you never, under any circumstances use the first stall.

Please help me.

This Weekend, I Kicked Adversity Square In The Face.

You know, because adversity has a face, and it’s most definitely square.

Sometimes life hands you lemons, and if you’re me, you grab a glass of wine and make some bangin’ sangria.

But sometimes, life hands you presents neatly wrapped with pretty packaging and bows on top.  You know, like the ones you’re thinking about the entire time your grandmother is talking about pickling olives or how she’s trying a new foot cream.

So innocent.

So innocent.

That’s how I feel when I’m at work and I know there’s a big, fat bottle of wine waiting for me when I get home.

Among other things, like food and water, I think that wine is a necessary part of my diet.  It’s just that one little slice (okay, it’s like two slices, and they’re pretty big) that makes up the pizza of sanity I need while I’m here on earth.

I was minding my own business, ready to indulge in Pinot Noir bliss, when disaster struck.

Using my mustache wine opener, because I’m trendy as hell, I attempted to open the bottle.  Right when I’m about to remove the cork, the mustache part of the corkscrew popped off.

And suddenly, I was left with this obstacle to overcome.

#HELP

#HELP

True to form, I am not one to step away from a challenge.

First I tried using my sheer, brute strength to open the bottle, but my fingers can’t grip tight enough, and frankly, I’m weaker than a newborn baby, so my efforts failed.

I know what you’re thinking, “Hey Meg, why don’t you just give up and not drink the wine tonight?  Maybe have a glass of ice water and go to bed?”

And to that I say, “Shame on you.”  I never leave the scene of a crime.

CHA-CHING.

CHA-CHING.

I struggled with my decision to continue my attempt at opening the Elusive Yellowtail until I realized that I had pliers and a brain.

I took the pliers, and reversed the corkscrew out of the bottle.

Instead of going to bed by 830pm, I was up a little longer.  But what I learned through this entire ordeal, is that if you want something, you may just have to use the toolset your father gave you for Christmas that you bitched about because it was a manly gift and you’re a woman who would prefer to not be lumped into group gifts just because you have three brothers.

So, thank you, Father.  Thank you for that majestic tool set.  I will never complain again.  (Don’t quote me on that.)

Cheers.

 

A Rational Response To This Ridiculous Article On Why Guys Think Girls Are Crazy.

snucvtIn the most non-shocking news of the day, men and women are really different.

Women are relational.  Men are reserved.

Women are figurative.  Men are literal.  (Except they literally can’t even sometimes.  They die.)

But despite all the differences and the arguments that may arise from them, there are some things that just don’t make sense when it comes to women.

I admit that we are all a little crazy.  It’s because we have to think about the fact that after we’re married, we’re most likely going to be confined to our home cleaning up other people’s shit for the next thirty years of our lives.

#Feminism

Anyways, my coworker shared this article from Elite Daily entitled The Dictionary Of Everything Girls Do That Guys Label Crazy (Even Though They’re Not), and again, it gives normal women in the world a bad reputation.

What I want to do is clarify this list of crazy things, explain why this girl is not speaking for all women, and give credit to men where credit is due. 

 Editor's Note: Original article's 10 thoughts in blue. 
 My 10 thoughts are black, like my soul.

1. Say we’re fine when we are far from fine

If you are at a point in your relationship where you still have to pretend you’re not fine, you need to reevaluate that relationship.  Stop making the person you’re with read between the lines.  Honestly is the best policy.  Tell them you hate the way they chew their food, or that their shoes smell like dog poop.  It may not fix the problem, but it damn well will fix the fact that you’ll be pouting for the next thirty minutes and he’ll be wondering why you’re doing it.

2. Eat salad for dinner

Women should not accept salads for dinner as “the norm.”  This is the reason for drunk eating, and binging, and hiding food and pretending you have allergies that you don’t (I see you gluten).  Eat some bread and get the penne ala vodka and enjoy yourself.  Be an adult and know stop you’re full.

3. Take forever to get ready

If you have no one waiting for you, take however long you want.  Just don’t tell anyone how long it took you.  If someone is waiting for you, be an adult, learn some time management, and get ready in a timely fashion.  You’re not a doctor, no one wants to wait for you to decide you’re ready.

4. Spend an entire paycheck on makeup

This is absolutely, positively, mind-blowingly crazy.  If you spend your entire paycheck on makeup, I assume you have never learned anything about budgeting.  You also probably live at home with your parents and are working a part time job where spending a pay check is a reasonable thing to do because you don’t have normal living expenses.

5. Go to the bathroom in pairs

In a crowded club or bar, absolutely, no one wants to get abducted.

6. Only drink vodka waters

This probably means that you’re constantly worrying about your weight and can’t enjoy life.  Have a beer, drink wine, vodka is not the skinny girl drank of all women.  I’m sure at the time, you weren’t worried about how you’d look in the morning after sweating on the dance floor, or after taking your heels off and walking home. Deal with the bloating.  Have a beer.

7. Eat our feelings

Refer to number 2.

8. Stalk people on social media

Everyone stalks people on social media.  It’s the degree to which you do it that’s crazy.  If you just met a guy on tinder and have already found out where he went to high school and whether or not he has a sister or a girlfriend in his profile picture, that is where you draw the crazy line.

9. Gossip about our friends then love them 10 minutes later

This is stupid.  Man up and talk shit about your friend you hate to the friend you hate.  Being an adult sucks, but it comes with the fact that confrontation is expected and respected for a mature friendship to last.

10. Have 10+ pairs of black heels that correspond with our 10+ little black dresses

Girls like collecting clothing, regardless of color or size.  But there are men out there who are just as bad with their shoes and hats.  So it’s an even playing field in the fashion department.

11. Spend over $100 on a clothing item that is smaller than a piece of underwear

I don’t know what piece of clothing you can justify buying that is smaller than underwear for over $100, but girlfriend, you’re doing it wrong.  Go to Marshalls – get more for less.

An Open Letter To My Alma Mater,

college-fees

I hope this letter does not fall on deaf ears.

But apparently, each time I tell you to remove my name off your list, nobody seems to listen.

So here we go.

I’d like to thank you for your recent telephone inquiry on whether or not I would be interested in donating any denomination of money to my former institution of higher education.

Unfortunately, I will not be able to contribute this time around, or any time in the near future.

I get it; higher education is more than just monetary value.

Well, except when the price tag for tuition is more than three arms, six legs, your unborn child, and childhood pet.  Couple that with the fact that most students will be paying off the loans taken out, just to attend said university, until they are old enough to run for president, and then higher education is about the monetary value.

Please forgive me if this sounds rather short.  I don’t mean to be rude.  I am currently stressed about paying my rent, budgeting for groceries, and figuring out how to have an active social life on a miniscule salary.

I simply cannot commit to giving my money at this time.

I can, however, provide you with multiple instances over the course of my stay that conclusively clarify my budgetary commitment to the institution that taught me so much more than how to shotgun a beer in ten seconds or that I have a serious issues with self-control around all-you-can-eat buffets.

For four years, I donated to this university when I purchased countless supportive sporting event tickets.  When concerts or special events came to campus, I paid to attend.

Freshman year my RA decided my floor-to-ceiling denim blackout curtains were not only atrocious, but a fire hazard; and instead of admitting I was fined for fashion faux pas, I considered it a mandatory donation.

Every time I walked into the school store to buy a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, or a hat to represent school spirit,  I donated and subsequently advertised.  Because, in case I didn’t mention, I’m a local celebrity, and what I wear makes mad buzz ripples around the hometown circuits.

When I finally completed all my degree requirements, I donated when I bought my cap and gown, and again when I wanted copies of my transcripts.  I paid to wear a black, cloth trash bag.

I just simply cannot commit to giving any more of my money at this time.

Maybe when I am older, I’ll have finished paying off my loans, and established myself in my career. Maybe I will have more of a disposable income to allocate such funds towards the school that did not really do much to help me get a job upon graduation.

Or maybe I’ll just be saving up to put my kids through school.

All so you can call them after graduation and ask if they’d like to donate any of their money to the institution that will give them the brightest future and the most hope.

PS – I’m sorry I hung up on you after your introductory sentence.  That was rude and I am sorry.

Sincerely,

Anyone Who Has Ever Graduated Or Attempted To Graduate College But Is Too Poor To Give Back Or Too Cynical To Care

 

 

The Spice Girls Are The Reason I’m Weird

Well, no, they’re not.  But they did tell me to spice up my life.  And I’ll be damned if I don’t listen to Scary Spice, because she is actually terrifying.

This morning when I was trying to justify drinking wine instead of beer at a baseball game, I was met with inquisitive looks and confused stares.  America’s past time apparently has no room for deviations from stereotypical sports drinks.

But, I knew I was different back when I was twelve and my friends all started wearing makeup and watching what they ate.  I was more interested in sleeping in and eating snacks.

Self-confidence is hard to come by growing up.  No one likes knowing they are less than normal.  But as years passed, I realized I’m weird as hell and just went with it.  Apparently, people find quirks endearing in your twenties.

Because variety is the spice of life.  

Being mismatched, weird, quirky, eccentric, or unconventional is far more exciting than being plain, common, or regular.

Nobody wakes up and strives to be basic.  Success isn’t success when it can be attained by the ordinary.  In today’s world, we need to embrace differences and enhance the distinctions between us so that we can stand out.

We should all aim to add variety to our life.

Do shit you’ve never tried. Walk a different way to work.  Move on a whim.  Ignore your bank account and see what happens when you keep swiping your debit card.

Drink wine at a baseball game and throw shifty eyeballs and middle fingers at anyone who seems to care.

Because who the fuck is busy caring? You’re at a goddamn baseball game.

Be the variety in someone else’s life. 

When all life has to offer is a 9-5 job, be that person who can brighten up a day.  That phone call that will change a mood, flip a frown, or create a smile.

Aspire to be that person that people call because they know you’ll lighten the mood.  Because you’ll alleviate the pressure of real life, and make it all worth it.

Embrace the ways you’re able to make a first impression.

You will never get anywhere being plain. Be weird, stand out, make an impression.

The boy at the party won’t remember that girl who talked about the the weather for twenty four minutes.  He’s going to remember the one who talked about that distinct scar on your face, even if you did lie about getting into a knife fight with a rabid racoon.

Because normal is just, well, normal. 

Conventional love stories are boring.  We never want to read normal news.  As a culture, we’re obsessed with the weird, the outrageous, the unknown.

Immerse yourself in lifestyles that you don’t know about, extend a hand in friendship to a person you normally wouldn’t.  Being culturally aware is one of the smartest things you can do as a human.

Because we’re all curious, and we just want to know what the other person is all about.  Being inquisitive is not a crime; most times it’s appreciated, and has even been known to stop racism, bigotry, and ethnocentrism.

(WHAT? BUT DOES THAT MEAN I ACTUALLY HAVE TO TALK TO SOMEONE?)

So put some spice into that dish we call life.  A little weird, adventure, a bit of charm, wit, and a dash of embarrassing anecdotes are a good start.  Bring to a boil, and I promise you’ll be bungee jumping in Taipei by December.

Or you could just be normal.

(Note: Recipe for a spicy life should not be taken literally.)

What do you do to add variety to your life?

The Common White Girl’s Thoughts On Driving

When I get in my car, it is for a reason.

I have places to be.  Meetings to make.  People to see.  Errands to run.  Songs to sing at the top of my lungs to relieve my stress.

I have important tasks that need attending, and everyone else on the road should know this.

There is a code of excellence I expect my fellow road companions to adhere to, and frankly, I just don’t know if everyone knows what they are.

I am a common white girl, and I am the most important person on the road.

When I get into my Volkswagen Jetta, I immediately plug in my ipod, put on my favorite Early 2000’s Pop Hits station, and make sure I have the proper song vibes to truly coast to my destination in nostalgic style.

While waiting at a traffic light, if it happens to turn green before I notice, please refrain from honking. I am most likely drafting an extremely urgent text message containing vital information like: what kind of sushi rolls are my favorite, if I prefer red or white wine, how I’m doing on my summer diet.

Or I am impatiently staring into the distance after regrettedly rereading the eighty messages I sent to my boyfriend that he still hasn’t respond to yet.

While en route, I may forget to put on a blinker or two when I’m switching lanes. Please allow extra room for this. I will unknowingly enter your lane and claim it as my own, and get extremely upset and flustered if you so much as give me an angry glance.

I am fragile, and so is this car my father bought for me.

If it looks like I am not paying attention to the drivers on either side of my vehicle, it is because my sunglasses are too big and cover too much of my face.  I simply cannot be held responsible for my peripheral vision when I have dark brown bugeye lenses that are shielding my precious pupils from the sun’s harmful glares.

When I drive, I follow the mantra set forth by none other than the Goddess of Country music, Carrie Underwood.  I don’t wear seatbelts, I let Jesus take the wheel.

Sidenote: I will also dig my key into the side of anyone’s pretty, little, souped up, four wheel drive, and then promptly carve my name into the leather seats.  After, I’ll take a Louisville Slugger to both of the headlights, and slash holes in all four tires.  So don’t even think about cheating on me.

And yes, sometimes I will hit things.  It’s not my fault.  I can’t see over my steering wheel, and even if I could, I can’t be held accountable for that mailbox post taking growth hormones and sprouting overnight, or that curb that miraculously appeared out of nowhere.  I hope you understand.

Yeah.  I’ll write you a check.

Realistically, I hit something because I was stuffing my face with food that I  inevitably “forgot” I ate, so those calories don’t even count.  That’s right, food consumed in the car does not count towards any dietary caloric restrictions.  And if it doesn’t count, it never happened, just like that mailbox I hit.

Either that, or I was looking out the window and saw a gorgeous patch of grass that needed to be Instagrammed.  People must know what I am doing at all hours of the day, or else they will think I live a boring life completely devoid of fun, filters, and friends.

And we can’t have that, now can we?

So, excuse me while I completely cut you off, forget to go on green, or run over your lawn.  I am a common white girl, and I am the most important person on the road. 

 

I Got Lost In The Dating Pool

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Caution: Enter At Your Own Risk

You know, that unfathomable abyss full of unknowns, what are we’s, and should I’s?  That God awful place in life where no one really knows if you’re out to dinner because of a mutual interest or because the end result is a hopeful bang.

Yeah, welcome to the dating pool.  Put on your best swim suit, get in the water, and Marco Polo your ass over to the deep end.  You may find what you’re looking for, or you may just want to hold onto the wall for a while until you know it’s safe to start looking.

First off, you’re going to want to utilize the buddy system.  There is no substitute for an effective wingman in the dating pool .  You’ll need that guy or girl to help when you’re drowning in guilt, self-doubt, and with the all too familiar life question, “should I text him back now or in forty hours?”

Always remember to apply sunscreen, the dating pool is never in a shortage of burned bridges, scorned lovers, and hot love making; all of which need the necessary precautionary protection.

For those who are eager to jump right in to a relationship, feel free to enter at the deep end.  There are diving boards of various heights, all of which are easy identifiers for the type of relationship you’re seeking.  If you want a low maintenance, easy going relationship, try the spring board.  If you’re looking to add a lot of time, effort, and danger, you may want to jump off the high board.

Warning:  High risk does not necessarily equate a high reward at the dating pool.  He or she may just be a psycho.

All other patrons can enter at the various laddered and step intervals found throughout the vicinity.  The shallow end steps boast most of the new relationships.  These are the ones still undefined and unlabeled, the ones still just trying to figure out if this is what they want.

People in the shallow end need not worry about those that are treading water in the deep end.  While some of the swimmers look like they have it all together and their heads above water, beneath the surface may reveal a struggle and they just know how to put on a brave face.

Because in reality, they may just want to get the fuck out of the pool and onto dry land.

Those in the deep end, and maybe in the shallow end, may not be comfortable enough in their own skin, thus, they have garnered the ever so tacky floatation devices.  Ranging from large to small, these devices signify that the person they are outfitting is neither ready, nor willing to fully immerse himself in the relationship.

This person could be wearing floaties due to a failed relationship recently.  He or she could have almost drowned due to suffocation, over-exertion due to putting in too much effort, or because he or she felt they had to babysit their previous significant other and does not want to be pulled down again.

If you see someone using a kickboard or a noodle, they are drunk.  These are crutches that we use in order to make dating more fun.  You may look like a jackass, but god damnit, you’re having fun while doing it.

While in the pool area, you may encounter a bunch of people just laying out on the sides.  These are the people who are not interested in relationships.  They do not want to go into the pool.

This means your advances will be shut down, your invitations will go unanswered, and your money will be wasted on frozen treats at the snack stand with no return on your investment.

It is easy to get lost when you’re in the dating pool.  One minute you think you’re going to sit by the water and tan, the next thing you know you dove straight into the deep end with Marcos from Prague who is visiting for the summer.

I’m not going to say it won’t last, but I am saying maybe you should have taken a floatation device with you, because that shit is going to be ROUGH later on.

There are children allowed at the dating pool.  Just be advised, it is a lot of work trying to handle kids while wearing a bikini.  One wrong move and you have a rogue boob on the loose, and that never looks good on anybody.

Unfortunately, there are no lifeguards at the dating pool.  This is an enter at your own risk environment, and if you get pulled under, there’s no one to save you but yourself.

The (real) 10 Reasons I Never Had A Boyfriend

If you’re reading this hoping I’ll finally come out as a lesbian after all these years, I’m sorry for your inevitable disappointment.  I do, in fact, still like men.  A lot.

Recently, I expressed my differentiating opinions on the things everyone thinks on their first date, and I figured it was time that I responded to another article.  This one is not nearly as ridiculous, and I don’t think this girl is crazy, rather she is just not telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Thought Catalog tends to post uplifting, motivating articles about feminist pride, relationships, and confidence boosting lists.  And yes, I love it.  I’m completely guilty of going forty pages back on my lunch break, having my eyes glued to the screen wondering what the Eight Ways to Make A Failing Relationship Work While You’re Living In A Treehouse could possibly be.

But my friends, I am also a realist, a truth teller, and a lover of self-deprecating humor.

I read this article and identified with it.  I liked her reasons, but felt they lacked authenticity and anecdotal support from the late bloomer’s perspective.

So, I am here to save the day (not really), and embarrass myself beyond all belief when I tell you the real ten reasons I never had a boyfriend.

1.  I was ugly. 

I’ve talked about myself being a late bloomer many times.  I am not joking, if I could invent the teleport I would go back to 200-2009 and slap myself in the face every single day for nine years.  A girl that looks like she was just attacked by her brother’s wardrobe and willingly went to a school dance afterwards will not get a boyfriend.

Oh, but she has such a good personality!  Save it.  We all know that doesn’t have any weight in the game of puberty.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

2.  I have a resting bitch face.

Apparently, I am unapproachable because I look pissed off all the time.  I guess people tend to stay away from girls that look like they are going to murder your first born or steal your puppy if your leave it outside while you’re in line at Starbucks getting your $14 frappe venti mochacochalino.

3.  My best friend was better looking than me.

And I’m not saying this out of jealousy.  I mean, this girl was freaking beautiful.  How am I supposed to reel in a classy lad when I have a genetically impossible broad traveling with me wherever I go?  Did I mention she has a heart of gold?  Yeah, no way I could compete with that.

4.  I liked people out of my league.

I tried telling Leo DiCaps it would work between us.  But I guess when you aim that high in the relationship department, there is nothing to expect but failure, defeat, and disappointment.

5.  I don’t understand social cues.

I don’t know why you invited me to prom with you, but I can sure as hell assume that it’s not because you wanted to hook up with me.

6.  I drove a Ford Taurus.

Try picking up a dude while you’re rolling through the parking lot in this.

Exhibit C.

Exhibit B.

7.  I am a terrible looking eater.

No one wants to take out the girl that not only immediately tucks her napkin into her shirt to create a makeshift bib, but one that looks like she wanted to wear the spaghetti sauce after she was done eating despite her napkin neck protector.

8.  I’m not good at feelings.

See here.

9.  I was fat.

I had cankles when I came back from studying abroad.  Guys couldn’t tell where my boobs ended and my stomach began.

Exhibit C.

Exhibit C.

10.  Everyone thought I was a prude.

People assumed I didn’t hook up with anyone, so why should they try?  Nothing worse for a guy than putting in all this effort with a girl and getting denied multiple times after sexual advances.

Bonus:  I eventually figured all these things out and obtained me a high quality, grade A piece of man meat.  Even though my face still rests pretty bitchy, I guess figuring out social cues was a step in the right direction.  And he’s apparently really into the Ford Taurus VW Jetta.

ATTENTION: Pumpkins Are Using Jedi Mind Tricks On All Of Us

A pumpkin after my own heart.

A pumpkin after my own heart.

Summer is practically synonymous with sunscreen, ice cream, and barbecues.  I mean, I can already smell the bbq bacon cheeseburger coming fresh off the charcoal grill and it’s not because I am eating a cheeseburger at 10am.

Or it is, the jury is still out.

With each season, there is a specific scent we associate with it.  Normally I’m all for it, because scents mean that there is food somewhere in the vicinity, and that’s never a bad thing.

But I have a bone to pick with one particular scent/flavor/permeation that really just makes me angry, because it’s trying to be the favorite, and I learned in kindergarten that being the teacher’s pet meant getting special treatment, and then everyone hates you.

I’m about to drop some high voltage knowledge bombs about this goddamn pumpkin spice obsession.

I’m not going to say I hate it, because hate is a word I reserve for push button faucets and people who talk in elevators.

I’m just not all up in pumpkin’s face asking it to hang out with me.  I don’t let it have a special season, because that’s how egos grow, and I need pumpkins to know their place in this world.

Frankly, I just think that pumpkins are jedi mind tricking us all into thinking we NEED them in our lives, creating demand during the fall solstice.  Whoever is marketing for the pumpkins of the world, reveal yourself!  I need you on my team, you could probably take this here blog to new heights and help me achieve my dream of being married to Danny McBride and Jimmy Fallon at the same time. 

Seasonal privileges are for treats that make you feel like you’re going to vomit if you so much as look at another piece.  Like candy corn. It’s a scientific law that candy corn has to get the hell out of your life by October’s end, because you start to see all foods in a tri-color hierarchy of white, yellow, and orange.

Let me make this perfectly clear, there are rules set in place that have been there for hundreds of years.  They were rules created by the bromagnons and the bromosapiens to protect our taste buds from over-indulgence.

In order to be a seasonal treat, you have to follow a strict criteria, which goes as follows:

1. It must be a treat that is solely used or consumed during a specific season.

ie. candy canes, candy corns, peeps, eggnog.

2. You must want to vomit after over-consumption of said treat.

Ever tried drinking Eggnog after December? It’s almost impossible. It’s at this time you may actually realize that it doesn’t even taste that good to begin with, and you’ll regret all of it.  Eggnog = regret. Remember that.

3. You can’t be a gourd.

Plain and simple, they are a decorative item in a cornucopia. You can’t have your own season if you’re part of a fucking cornucopia.

4. As  a seasonal treat, you have to have absolutely no value to the outside world after your said season is over.

You don’t see candy canes trying to make an appearance on Valentine’s day, or Peeps trying to squeeze their demonic candy crusted bodies into your summer pool party.  They know their place, they don’t want to be in the pool with you, they want to be there when you’re running around your house trying to find where your mom ninja-hid all the colored eggs.

There you have it. A tale as old as time, a song as old as rhyme.  Pumpkins, go back to your hole in the ground, ya gourdy betch.  You don’t deserve your own season; not on my watch.

Now let me go finish my breakfast cheeseburger.

Don’t You Have A Text Message To Answer Or Something?

It’s that person talking to you on the subway, the one asking about the weather in the elevator, that guy in the bar trying to make conversation with you while you’re waiting for your friend to show up.

Yeah, they’re alone too, but seriously, don’t they have a text message to answer or something?

The whole idea of spontaneous communication has been misconstrued.  If you talk to me without a reason, I assume you want something from me, you’re weird, you’re lost, or you’re just creepy.

You’re definitely not just friendly, right?  No, definitely not.  That would be… well, weird.

It may be because I hail from the northeast.  Things tend to move a little faster up here, we tend to be a little more ornery when it comes to personal space, and I guess, maybe we just think we’re a little more important.

Because we definitely have text messages to answer, and if you’re talking to me without a reason, it’s not going to be well received, because my mother needs to know that I ate three pork chops for dinner, and it’s imperative that I type it NOW.

When did it become uncomfortable to wait for someone without the security of a screen?  Why do people feel the need to answer text messages at dinner?  Or pick up phone calls on the subway?  Why are we so dependent on constant connection, yet we can’t seem to welcome a social interaction that isn’t primarily digital?

We are so concerned with friend counts, that we would request to be ‘friends’ with strangers, getting excited at how many people like what we’re doing, but we can’t sit at the same bar with a new face and speak to them directly without questioning intentions or why he or she cares about our lives.

In short, the world is fucked up.

Genuine conversation is depleting faster than the ozone layer. It is so hard to talk to someone you don’t know.  I mean, really, though… what are you supposed to say?  Hi? That’s dumb.

Standing in line waiting for lunch, some guy is talking about his favorite sandwich condiments.  He happens to love BBQ sauce almost as much as his unborn child, just like me.

But I have text messages to answer, no need to chime in with my two cents.

The older man at the bus stop has a war veteran patch on the jacket he wears every day.  He’s been through some serious shit, seen things people should never see, has perspectives that would shatter bigot minds and open eyes to what is really going on.

But no one notices his patches, no one hears his stories.  There are text messages to answer.

How about those love stories where the two people met on a bus and sparked up a conversation, the girl who dropped her keys only to have the guy of her dreams pick them up for her, the guy who moves into his new apartment and rides the elevator with the girl of his dreams?

Oh yeah, those things don’t happen.

Because there are text messages to answer.