|I can't explain it. It's just been on our fridge for 22 years.|
Possible side effects include a mood that makes me unfit for human consumption. All non-fat Greek yogurt and no pie makes Lisa a dull girl. Cranky, too.
My complaints are first world and if I had a lick of sense, I'd be embarrassed to release them like rancid toots into the blogosphere, but that's the thing - I've reached that place where I don't much care. Like how I said toots instead of farts? My mother passed gas. MathMan's mother let out air. I toot. Like there's a horn up my ass or something. Were anyone around, they'd say I had something up my ass, but since I'm alone, let's just declare it a bad metaphor and get on with the bitching, shall we? (Language warning. Unfiltered, uncensored, unedited.)
AT&T. If the calls aren't sketchy, they drop. And that business with the Broadband Link Error when I'm surfing ****? Buzzkill. Way to ruin a moment.
Assholes. In general. And there's really no nice way to tell someone to fuck off, is there?
Long sleeves. My hands are in water a lot. Water inevitably runs up my sleeves. Wet sleeves? I could live without them. The other day Sophie came into the kitchen where I was scrubbing the hell out of some pots and pans who hadn't done anything wrong. "Where's your shirt?" she wanted to know. She's at that age where parental nudity is anathema. To her, we are Never Nudes. In answer to her question, I explained preventative stripping.
The cats. The staring must stop. They cannot be hungry all the time.
Time. Too scarce. Too easily wasted on things that don't matter.
My skin. Am I fourteen or eighty?
How the people I live with don't seem to recognize that when my butt is in my chair and my fingers are tapping away, it's a bad idea to just start talking to me. And umbrage that I wasn't paying attention? Blow me.
Guilt. I'm sick of dragging you around, you useless trunk of horrors.
Memory. I love you. I hate you. I need you. You're a curse.
Information about publishing. I love you. I hate you. I need you. You're a curse. And this bullshit about the gender imbalance in publishing? Fuck that.
When the media grabs a phrase they think is clever or hip and they proceed to pound the ever living shit out of it until you want to do an Elvis on your television and then take a bite of a peanut butter, banana and bacon sandwich.
The fact that there aren't any new Foyle's War episodes to watch.
The fact that I forgot to listen to the Decemberists live in studio tonight on The Spectrum. Yeah, it'll be rerun, but I'm still annoyed.
Me. Myself. And I. My own worst enemy, critic, obstacle, excuse and enabler.
That's it for me. I'm going to have some ice cream and then whine about being cold.
Your turn. What's up your ass?
(Good catch, Holly!)