I can’t believe you people.
It’s awkward enough to be this attractive and not already be on TV. It really grinds my gears that you rustled up a whole lot of people who just can’t seem to nail down The One and matched them up with each other and I wasn’t informed or contacted. I am not that hard to find, and you know it.
Particularly when I’ve now watched the season finale (don’t you worry, I’ll be going back to watch the whole season online at my convenience) and I note the attractiveness of the man options. I could have definitely managed getting married to any of them before knowing anything about their personality. Who even needs a personality. I clearly have enough for both halves of a couple. These men seemed mostly normal, compared with women who didn’t know how to do laundry or butter toast. I would never suggest anyone leave their farm that they loved.
I would have done wonderful to camera bits. I would’ve opened up about any feelings I had about anything ever. I would have taken it seriously. I would have put out on the honeymoon.
I would have spewed forth clichés with warm and genuine inflections. I would have tried new things, like other ones in addition to getting married to someone I’d never met before.
I would have been a total dreamboat, and now I never will, and it’s all your fault.
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.
Goddamn you sexy-voiced professors, you do it to me every time.
I get in the habit of flexing my vast administrative powers simply for my own entertainment: if someone is less than polite to me, it may take me a little longer to attend to their request. If someone expects unreasonable turnaround times, it takes the regular amount of time plus 10% more time. Weird.
I am not always the living worst. Sometimes I do a complete 180 and go out of my way to help someone. I like the ones who are good at banter; the ones who know they’re asking a lot and open with a wonderful easy-out disclaimer like: “I realise this is probably pushing it, but…” or even “I’m a complete idiot and I just realised I need such-and-such, like, yesterday”. Bow down and admit you need my help and I am right there with ya.
The other way to get me to help you, and I’m not entirely proud to admit it, but it needs to be said: have a smoky velvet-like phone voice. Make it warm, infuse it with humour, dip it in gratitude and I will expedite whichever form you like. I will stop just short of filling out the form for you, because I am mindful of setting expectations too high, but fuck it – I’ll stretch the rules a little, why not? Now let us both laugh at my funny joke.
The cherry on top: a follow-up thank you email wishing me a good weekend. I. Am. Yours.
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.
Hey you lousy so-and-so’s
What makes you think you can dictate something which is so clearly a horrible idea? Which one of you monkeys wanted Thursday afternoons to be an actual thing? Do you hate everyone? Must you punish us all in this passive-aggressive, all-encompassing way that results in documents that have not been proof-read, conversational tangents that are frustrating even to simply overhear, consumption of over 3 cups of tea?
You’ve gone and made me invent a drink based on things I could find for free around the office, and let me tell you that a Mocha Milo on Nescafe with two white sugars is fucking awful, and I’m still going to drink the bloody thing in a vaguely masochistic attempt to wake myself up. YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN.
I can only assume that some old wealthy white folk sat around a table and were all like “Let’s make them work at least 8 hours a day for 5 days of the week – we’ll dictate start and finish times and proscribe exact breaks, and that will make the idiots do some work”. I hate you, old white wealthy (let’s face it) men. You’re awful.
Let me put it to you that I’d like to come in at 7am and leave at 7pm some days, and other days (read: Thursday and Friday afternoons) just not be here at all. Let me put it to you that I’d rather look at the amount of work done, not the amount of time taken to do the work.
We need to fix this shit. It is ridiculous.
Hey spinners: I get it. I get why you’re there. Having recently bowed down to the power of RPM (or spin class, for the players at home) I do understand the weirdly addictive 5.30 starts (I hear it’s because of the endorphins; that shit is like crack).
We need to chat about an attitude adjustment when it comes to sharing toys, though. Multiple uses of the same spin bike on semi-regular occasions does not equate to possession. I understand it’s tough to break up your routine. It’s early in the morning, it’s cold, and some asshole is sitting where you wanted to sit when you walk in. Everything is topsy turvy; you don’t know your lefts or rights anymore; Christmas is ruined.
I have it on first-hand anecdote that the gym I go to is very much ‘first in, best dressed’ when it comes to gym equipment, but there’s still the sort of huffing and puffing coming from you that would passive-aggressively blow a house down. I sit wherever the fuck I want because I have decided to take this ‘best dressed’ sentiment on its merits. I thank you for not bothering me personally so far, if I have ever sat at your bike.
I concede I’m also somewhat unapproachable when psyching up for a 50 minute class of pedalling hard in the dark with a backlight on and dance hits pumping. And yes, I have noticed that first two rows of bikes are better. They just are, aren’t they?
Stay tuned for the update: To people who take my fucking bike in spin class.