Ever consider the military?
I keed, I keed.
Seriously, though, don’t sell yourself short. One of the other schools might just come through for you, competitiveness levels be damned. Yer a Doper fercryinoutloud. Not everybody can say that about themselves.
My cousin, much as I love her, is a douche. Jesus Fucking Christ, she is an pretentious, elitist, self-centered douche. When someone comments your list of “15 albums that changed my life” by saying it could be the line-up for a radio station, it’s not an insult, it’s a comment. Responding by asking if they are “insulting me and my musical taste” and going on to say “I would like to think I’m slightly less pedestrian in my musical leanings” is exceedingly douchey.
For the record, “pedestrian” is defined as “lacking in vitality, imagination, distinction, etc.; commonplace; prosaic or dull” – and yeah, your list included 14 albums that were so overplayed on the radio that they most definitely fit the definition of “pedestrian.” Seriously, you want to be considered “edgy” “cool” “eclectic” or whatthefuckever else, don’t list albums that sat in the AT40 top 10 slots for months, mmmkay?
FUCK! I want to say something to her, but I love her and I know that it would cause a rift between us, but I am honestly to the point that I remember why I stopped wanting to hang out with her around her senior year of high school – she’s pretentious and douchey. Ugh.
I stopped on my break to give you directions. You waved me down.
I watched as you drove the OPPOSITE of where I told you to go. The OPPOSITE.
You fucking lunch break waster!
Nah, moutain lions are actually picky about their food. They perfer Master and PhD 
And because I was responsible and did not sit in my room being pissy but rather screamed into a pillow, posted angrily here, and then got off my ass and went to class, and actually had a very productive class, I feel like I’ve wasted a perfectly good ragemope. So, um, I’m pissed off about not being more pissed off now.
But what else will we call the paradigm for the core competency matrix?
Dearest Husband. Light of my life. Father to my current and future children. I know you’re sick. I know you hate being sick. I know you see it as some sort of battle on a cellular level with your heroic white blood cells pummeling the viral invaders. I am more then happy to make you tea, run and get you Sudafed and pick up the nasty Korean food you insist on having every time (and only!) when you’re sick that makes the whole house smell of pickled. . . things. . . But please, for the love of all that is holy, STOP TELLING ME ABOUT YOUR MUCOUS.
I don’t care. More then that, I’m vaguely nauseated. I don’t need to know about color, texture or volume. Really. If you don’t stop telling me about it then I swear in about three weeks I will start giving you a VIVID play by play of my period. VIVID, dearest. Think about it.
Also, adorable yet idiotic kitty. I know the places where the baby pulled keys off my keyboard are shiny and interesting. But please, don’t lick them. I’m pretty sure that’s bad for both you and my laptop. And stay out of my knitting.
Dear Editor of Stephanie Meyer’s Eclipse:
A doorbell PEALS. It does not PEEL.
Where the fuck did you learn the language?? :rolleyes:
Fuck off and … get really ill.
Dear State of Illinois,
Fuck you for harassing my parents over my “unpaid” tax bill from last year. I use quotes because I FUCKING PAID IT, YOU ASSHOLES. I had it deducted automatically from my federal refund!
Also, it’s forty fucking dollars. You’re harassing my parents over forty dollars?
Also, I was a fucking Peace Corps Volunteer at the time. Fuck you on principle for demanding forty dollars in taxes from someone who was making $3000 a year. (No, I did not forget a zero.)
I wouldn’t be QUITE so annoyed about paying my forty fucking dollars if I thought it was going to something, you know, useful, but I trust the government of Illinois about as far as I could throw Rod Blagojevich.
Fuckers.
(Okay, it’s my fault that I haven’t dealt with this issue since I first found out about it, which wasn’t that long ago, because they sent the notice to my parents, who let it sit around for a few months before they forwarded it to me, but I guess I was living in an imaginary world where they would eventually realize that I FUCKING PAID MY FORTY FUCKING DOLLARS.)
You’d think I’d be used the geographic ignorance about where I live, Omaha. But good gravy…
On the phone with a customer service rep and have to give my address: blah de blah de blah street, omaha nebraska.
Rep: How do you spell that? O-m-a-h-a-w?? And what’s the city?
She thought Omahaw was a part of my street address. Yes, m’am, my street address is 123 Main Street Omahaw (is that like Main Street Northeast??? Is Omahaw a direction in your world?)
And of course, the question from people in the Midwest about what time it currently is in Omaha.
Uh, the same time as it is where you are, you idjit. Nebraska, not Alaska. We’re straight north from you???
From what I’ve seen on TV, he’s kinda short, so between the two of us, we could probably heft him a good 25 yards I’m thinkin…
I once had a similar problem when I lived in CHICAGO.
Me: Okay, can you send that to [my address], Chicago, 60640?
Idiot woman: What city is that?
Me: Chicago.
Idiot woman: Can you spell that?
Me: Ummm…C-H-I-C-A-G-O?
Idiot woman: What state is that?
Me: How do you remember to breathe?
Okay, I didn’t actually say that.
People r dum.
It’s forty, not fourty. Are you in kindergarten? Then you shouldn’t be writing forty thousand dollar checks!
Why does my bra fit on one side and not the other? It’s a nice bra, uplifting and satiny. It’d be wonderful not to have to wrangle my boob around every 13 minutes or so because the wire slips forward and up.
I’m falling behind in my accounting class and I have no one to blame but myself. I have a quiz tonight and I’m certain I’m going to fail. Why do I behave this way, every single time? I start off so well…I study, I memorize, I’m motivated. Then it all slides away from me and I just let it.
Ugh.
I have one boob that’s about a half cup smaller than the other, so I have similar problems. I went to Dillards and got silicone push-up insert thingies to fill out the cup. Solved it for me and makes me feel like a Hollywood starlet with half a boob job.
I’m going to have to rant about the ladies complaining about their boobs without supplying supporting photo evidence.
ditto!
I hate it when computers think they know better than you do. The program is called Textedit. Why is it not displaying, I dunno, text?! Yes, okay, it’s a htm file. If I wanted to see it as html I’d open it in a browser. Or Dreamweaver.* I want to see text. (I made the pages in Notepad on my PC. I don’t have Dreamweaver, and I’m not going to install it. Notepad works great for me.)
I’m also not going to rant about the mouse not having a right button. It’s a Mac mouse. Just cuz the other Mac lab has mice with two buttons doesn’t make it required. *ARGH! Why can’t I right click?!! *
I don’t think you want a photo of my boob-wrangling. It’s not glamourous at all, and I’d like to keep some of the mystery-that-is-brassieres!
Another rant: to my client. I understand you work at a hardware store. I realize that it’s a dirty job and you may not have time to clean up before you rush down to cash your check on lunch break.
That does not mean you need to clean out your fingernails with a pocketknife while standing across the counter from me. I *see *the remnants of whatever gunk has been lodged up there now adorning my area. It’s damn clear you haven’t washed your hands since…ever, and I suddenly have the urge to call my local CDC.
From now on, I’m breaking out the air duster as soon as you walk in. And the Windex.
From spellcheck, like the “editors” of seemingly every other book in the last 15 years or so.
Aaaargh.
