Man. Lately I am just so…pissy. I’m kind of tired of it. And really tired of feeling so out of control of my emotions. And downright SICK of having people pat me condescendingly on the head and make stupid comments about my hormones.
So I’ve decided to take a new tack. I’ve decided to blame you. And by you, I mean the universal You. As in, everyone. Everyone. In. The. Entire. Universe.
Like the lady at the deli counter who spent a good 6 minutes grilling the poor minimum wage earning, English as a second (and still in the process of being learned) language speaking deli clerk about whether or not the “turkey breast meat” that comes in that obviously fake breast shaped loaf was organic. And then, when she didn’t get the response she was hoping for, proceeded to make said deli clerk read the ingredient list of the salami. SALAMI. Unidentified animal parts, salt, chemicals, and fat. Are you kidding me? Go buy some carrots and get the hell out of the way so I can order a corn dog and some chicken strips. Or better yet, buy a beetloaf and shove it in your pie hole.
Or how about the guy who told a room full of people recently that he didn’t want to have any responsibility for coordinating and executing a particular project, and then spent the entire afternoon today spewing ugly and petty emails about how those same people botched said project. (Sorry, that was vague. I’m not fully ready to rant about it yet.)
Or the neighbor kid who rings my doorbell 25 times in quick succession every time she comes to the door.
Or my own damn dog who won’t listen to me and farts endlessly.
Or the HR person at my former place of employment who INSISTED that the reason my W2’s weren’t mailed to the correct address was 100% my fault because I obviously hadn’t updated my information with her office. And then two seconds later, without any prompting or information from me asked if I would like the W2’s sent to my address on, “Insert the correct address that the argumentative shrew had all along here.”
And now, even though I am STILL fuming about azzhat number 2, I am going to bed. Where I will undoubtedly get to replay every word of every email exchanged today, and fantasize about changing all my courteous and professional responses into various forms of “Fuck You, Fucker.”
Did I just type that? Really? Sorry. I’m hormonal.