One of these days I’m going to slip at work. Instead of saying, “Have a nice day!” or “Thanks for choosing us!” I’m going to loose my mind and say something to the effect of: “Next time you have a thought, make sure to call your doctor: he’ll want to know you’re slipped out of the coma.” But, they probably won’t get it.
It’s the small stuff. Sometimes it is stuff no one else even notices. I can handle the big problems, because they can be fixed. Everyone notices the big problems and wants to fix them. But everyone says you’re crazy or nitpicky when you go bat shit insane because someone took the last coffee pack and didn’t tell you and now everyone’s annoyed with you because you didn’t order more. I try hard to do the best I can and keep to myself, in everything: life, job. But this small stuff is slowly chipping away at my very soul; soon I’ll have enough pieces to make a horcrux.
I’m sweating buckets of small stuff. If you sit in line at McDonalds for five minutes and then get to the speaker and still don’t know what you want: please die. They have… hamburgers. If you like Avatar because of its awesome 3D and original story: go Google Pocahontas and then go outside, look around and realize everything you see is in 3D, why is it more awesome when you box it down and put it on a movie screen? If you drive ten under the speed limit in light rain and twenty under the speed limit in light snow, please drive thirty under the speed limit off a cliff. If you like Twilight, if you think the books are well written, if you think the movies should be nominated for awards: I don’t know you. Vampires do not sparkle.
Dear old people: learn to use computers; if it kills you, you probably weren’t that far from death anyways. If your name is ridiculous and made up, because your parents were drunk when they conceived you and high when they named you, go change it; no one is stopping you. Teachers, you get summers off, holiday breaks, weekends off, snow days, spring break and are generally out of the school building by at least four-thirty. Stop whining, you have a great job! Guy with huge lift kit on his truck, you can jack that sucker up all you want buddy; it will never make your penis bigger. Speaking of impotent, retard hill jacks- if your house looks like an abandoned meth lab and you have four starving kids that don’t love you: yet you own a really nice pimped out car, a 72 inch TV, fifteen dogs, every season of The Dukes of Hazard on DVD and Blu-ray or have a tattooed map of Azeroth on your ass, I have no sympathy for you or your hepatitis.
And I haven’t even scratched the surface.