Who do you even think you are. Stop that.
Hey ya big dork,
What on earth were you thinking, staying in a shared dorm in a YHA on a Saturday night in Sydney? What are you, a recently-legal overseas visitor on her first trip to Australia? How exactly did you imagine it was going to pan out, trying to go to sleep at 10:30pm in a 6 person dorm room? My favourite part was your stubborn determination to not “rent a towel” so you could “have a shower”, because nothing says respectable attendee at a Sydney Opera House event like someone covered in two days worth of Sydney city humidity.
Let’s also talk about your decision to drive back to Armidale after a Sunday afternoon/early evening concert with the intention of going to work on Monday. For future reference, you are definitely too old for that shit. You are 30. Don’t be silly. Next time you should probably fly, let’s be honest.
In conclusion: you haven’t come all this way through all the poor student/crazy young person phases of the moon to still be avoiding the finer, slightly more expensive things in life, particularly when you can definitely afford them. Rent a hotel so you can go to bed at 10:30 like you like, and get a peaceful, holiday-quality full night’s sleep, like you like. Enjoy towels that are included in the bill. Avoid other humans at your discretion. You’ve earned this. Enjoy the serene and solitary while you can.
I’m so very sorry for you that other people are being vegan and talking about it. Maybe us crazy animal-lovers are even sharing opinions about the industry of consuming animals and possibly speaking directly to you in an online public space about it? Maybe we’ve even pointed out the environmental impacts? Ouch, I’m just so sorry you’re being made to think about your choices.
I note that it’s barely worth pointing out to you how silly you look by banging on rather adamantly about how much you resent Other Opinions being expressed in any way – especially seeing as I’m running so fucking low on protein *weakly crunches down on carrot stick*.
Your level of defensiveness with regards to people speaking passionately about things they do differently to you is pretty fucking telling, just FYI. The implication that ‘some of your best friends are vegan’ and they’re alright because they’re the ‘right kind of vegan’ veers dangerously close to the justifications I hear about racism, sexism and homophobia. It bothers me that any ideas outside of the white, able-bodied, male, consumer-driven status quo are automatically militant until proven they can toe the line when needed. I’d point out more connections but I haven’t the word count available to me, or any cares to give. Plus, you know, just so weak from lack of iron.
I’m not interested in engaging anyone in a conversation about how many ways they’re wrong when they have quite blatantly stated they’re well within their rights to yell loudly and blindly into the internet stratosphere about their stupid, meat-eating feelings.
Fair warning: this one’s a grumpy old bastard post.
On occasion it is a requirement that I orbit in the vicinity of people who talk a lot. Mostly I ignore the irrelevant pieces of the constant chatterboxing (sometimes, stubbornly, I will ignore the relevant bits too). There are a few frequent offenders that seem, mysteriously, to have a voice of a particular timbre that I am unable to ignore. These people are the living worst.
They talk to make noise. Like silence for a second will remind them that we’re all going to die eventually; that maybe they will end up half-eaten by Alsatians; that nobody cares about their stupid feelings.
Let me take you by the shoulders and shake a truth into you, Chatty Cathy McChatterson: being quiet even 50% of the time will dramatically improve my quality of life and possibly even yours, as I may choose to let you live instead of greasing up the stairs and looking on faux-horrified as you tumble down them (no doubt making an awful racket). Being quiet can lead to such positive effects as Increased Productivity! Learning Things! Less Enemies!
I accept I am being an elitist asshole about this. Perhaps I should consider the implications of this from a feminist perspective: do chatty women annoy me the same way chatty men do? Are there chatty men? Does that even work as a concept? Do all things men say carry more implied weight and significance to me? Am I subconsciously more likely to listen to a man speak?
These are great questions for further discussion, especially seeing as I am apparently all for giving voices and the power to be heard to those people who are regularly silenced. For now though, for today – I just wish the chatterfolk would quit their chatter. Shhhhht. Stop talking to make all that noise please.
(This is as close as I get to road rage – I’ll be shouting the URL for this rant out my window at you, and if we’re very lucky all you’ll hear is ‘stupid’.)
I know there’s a lot of things going on when you’re driving a car. There’s possibly gears to change, and sometimes you’re going to be driving by distractions such as rainbows or two kids on each other’s shoulders wearing a trench coat, and there’s other cars on the road too. It’s tough. I get it.
There’s a simple rule of the road I want to share that I think will be handy: I do not know where you are driving to and I therefore do not know when you will need to make a turn to get there. Maybe you will make a series of turns to get there. I don’t mind. I’m open to it. More power (steering) to ya. But for the love of my brakes and my over-stimulated adrenaline muscle, or whatever it is, please use your indicators. Going to turn left? By all means, be my guest. Going to turn right? I’m also ok with that, although have you thought about keeping left? #politics
I would like you please to indicate with your blinky orange light what your plans are in the near to very-near future about your turns. This way I will not run into you and you and I will never need to meet in person. This way I will keep all my bits of headlight in one smooth bit, as God and Nature intended.
While we’re here: if you’re not going to be turning, no need for an indicator at all. It’s fine. Put that shit away. You bloody idiot.
Hey, pal with foot-in-mouth issues:
I’m sure you didn’t mean to call me “messy” in front of a good chunk of people we know when you noticed that I had a red face and was wearing gym attire. I’m sure what you meant to say was “you look like you’ve had a good workout”. I’m sure that was it.
You calling me “messy” in such a public context, however, is a fail. What it says to me is that it’s not appropriate for me publicly exhibit signs of having recently performed physical activity. Well, not quite that. What it says to me is that it would be preferable if I were to perhaps not sweat or get red while doing said activitiy. Perhaps also that I was giving off a few too many “I don’t give a fuck” vibes because I was all cracked out on endorphins from a tough but amazing workout.
When you call me “messy”, it makes me feel like my choice to pursue a healthy activity is a bad choice. It makes me feel like my very real and human physiological response to exertion is unacceptable. It makes me feel like it’s preferable for me to be seen and not heard. It makes me feel like I should feel bad about my body.
And I don’t, I really don’t.
Don’t call me messy. Don’t set up barriers for me to trip myself over on in my quest to be a fitter, healthier, more productive member of the world. Just don’t do it.
hey people: seriously?
In a professional capacity, I am pretty great at stuff. Not all stuff, not every stuff, but some stuff. The stuff I care about, and even some of the stuff I don’t really care about. Mainly the former – stuff like being helpful to people and laughing at their jokes and understanding what part of the thing they’ve called or emailed me about is the real issue to be resolved.
The doing things for people thing, I do it well. Partly because it is my job but mostly because I can’t look people in the eye or the ear and be unhelpful with a clear conscience. I am very good at doing the thing.
I am telling you this, people who don’t know how good I am at stuff, because you fuckers clearly don’t know and aren’t going to tell me. Do you know how many times I’ve stopped people from crying actual tears of frustration and stress? I would ask you if you care, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that. I don’t want to hear you actually say it.
How do you think stuff gets done, exactly? Do you realise that I don’t even make known half the stuff I do because I’m the shy retiring type who doesn’t like to blow her own trumpet, MOTHERFUCKER?
WHY DON’T YOU KNOW HOW GOOD I AM AT STUFF?