I’m pissed off. I’ve had a shitty, SHITTY couple of fucking weeks, and nothing seems to be getting better– in fact, more things keep going wrong. So I’m going to rant about a few things that are bothering me. Feel free to skip this post, because it really just is a bunch of angry snarling. Ready? 1. I don’t care about your fucking kids. Do not send me pictures of them, do not talk about them at great length, do not expect me to coo over them. I don’t fucking care. Your fuck trophy, as it were, is not of any interest to me, nor is the idiotic craft of the day they did at camp, nor anything else. Children are about as smart as dogs up until they’re ten, and even after that, the dog is better behaved. Do not try to fucking guilt me into doing anything using them. If someone snatched them off the street in front of me, I’d call the police, but that’s all I’d do. Do not expect me to watch them. Do not say I’ll change my mind when they’re my own. I’m not having them. Period. End of discussion. Yours are not going to convince me otherwise. Why do I bring this up? Because people keep sending me pictures of their larvae, or larvae they enjoy being around, and expecting me to find it as enthralling and adorable as they do. They’re not. And they get all fucking weirded out when I have nothing to say, because what do you say about to a misshapen little creature that can’t figure out the complexities of a sliding glass door. There has been ONE person that has a kid that respects this limit of mine. She sent me ONE picture, and that’s when the kid was born. And that was the end of it. Follow her example. 2. Do your own fucking job, and do not expect me to do your job. I love helping out. I do. I’m happy to do it. But not when it impacts my work. I should not be doing the lion’s share of your job while you’re off chatting and fucking around. Further, do not expect me to be happy if you change what I’m doing every five fucking minutes and I can never finish anything. And do not expect me to accomplish anything if you will not let me. 3. If someone commits suicide, there’s a reason for it. I never said it was a good reason, but there’s a reason. Depression is an evil disease. And chances are, if someone killed themselves and you “can’t imagine why they would do that/what could be so awful/what they were thinking,” chances are you’ve never been depressed. I’m not even going to bother going into the way it twists and distorts the world, but let it be said something that is not necessarily a good choice seems the only solution at times. Anyway, if you have no experience with suicide/depression, here’s what the proper thing to do in that situation is: SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH. Don’t fucking go on, especially to anyone that knows anything about mental illness, about how much it “hurts” you that they offed themselves. Don’t go on about how they should have “reached out.” Chances are, if you had no idea there was anything wrong, you were part of the problem. Or, at the very least, you were not of any help. So, shut the fuck up. In addition, the proper response to someone dying via suicide that you supposedly care about is not to pat yourselves on the back about how sorry you are and how much you were a great family/friend/whatever and you can’t fathom why they would want to leave you. It’s also not to fucking complain about making the trip to the funeral, it’s not to gossip about who’s having a baby. Oh, and it’s also not to share the life plan that YOU had for the deceased, and lament that now you’ll never see that plan completed. The proper response is to mourn, you self-centered twats. TL;DR: If you didn’t know, you’re part of the problem, kindly fuck off. 4. I can’t have male friends. I can’t. Want to know why? Because they, apparently, all think I’m supposed to be their fucking girlfriend without the sex. Or with it! Most of them think that if I REALLY got to know them, I’d want to fuck them instead! That I would explain, “Oh ho ho! Silly me, I don’t love my girlfriend! Please, stick your cock in my mouth and I’ll make you a sandwich after clad only in a maid outfit! Tee hee!” Let me explain something to you men, the few of you that are reading this: I am bisexual, but that does not mean you have a chance. I am not going to be your frat buddy that you send nonstop jokes about tits back and forth with. I am happy to provide a female perspective for you, but I am also not the end all and be all of what womanhood is. I’m actually a very poor example, given how gender fucked I am. If I laugh at your jokes, I am not flirting with you. If I talk to you, I am not flirting with you. If I text you, I am not flirting with you. If I message you, I am not flirting with you. If I am nice to you, I do not have feelings for you. You have no chance, none at all. AT. ALL. FUCKING. STOP. Now, this all sounds extremely arrogant. I know it does. But over the past five years of my life, I’ve discovered I’m not allowed to talk to men without them saying things that make me very uncomfortable. Such as that “They have feelings for me, and just want to be honest.” Or, “they were thinking about, in an alternate universe, how good we’d be together.” Or feel the need to ask me to rate their attractiveness. Or make inappropriate comments/ask questions repeatedly that I have declined to answer about my sex life, body, and person in general. I fully admit this could just be a symptom of where I am in the Midwest. I sincerely hope it is. I will stop fucking talking to you, and I will not tell you why. I’m an asshole, I know, and that’s a classic “girl” move. I know this. But I don’t feel like explaining to you every fucking thing you’re doing wrong. Chances are, by the time you’ve gotten to that point, it’s a long list. I want to have male friends. Badly. For me to rage quit, you have to have pissed me off in quite an extraordinary way. And furthermore, if you’re not smart enough to know that you shouldn’t say those things to people, I don’t think you’re going to comprehend what I’m going to tell you to begin with. Protip: If a person changes a subject, DROP IT. Further, when I am welcoming comments and critiques on my body, I will ask for them, or be dressed as a literal whore. And now, I feel somewhat better, or at least less like punching a fucking wall. Thanks for reading.
A Rant on Many Things, But Not Shoes or Ships or Sealing Wax