Being the self-centered perfectionist that I am, I was reading through my various blog posts the other day, analyzing if everything was up to my humor standards and doing miscellaneous editing. I was generally pleased with my posts (as I hope you all are!), but I did notice a somewhat disheartening theme: I’m kind of a nitpicky jerk. I mean in my defense a lot of my rants are justly inspired and I’d never complain for the hell of it, but there seems to be a slightly pessimistic mood hanging over BT Dubs and I am very much a glass-half-full kind of babe. I’m obviously not going to turn into Mother Theresa anytime soon, and there are still plenty more things in this world with the potential to rub me the wrong way, but I decided that for today’s post I’m going to go about voicing my opinions on these issues much like Leah Dieterich does in her blog THX THX THX: showing appreciation for what pisses me off. Who needs therapy? I’ve got the whole inner peace thing alllll figured out.
To the pyromaniac teenage boy who sets off firecrackers at 1 in the morning: While being jolted awake by the wailing screech of a roman candle is not exactly my ideal alarm clock, I’m thankful for the fact that you’re an equal-opportunity nuisance and manage to do this at the point where my street and your street connect so that the entire neighborhood is getting annoyed right along with me. If I felt like you were seeking me out, I’d have flashbacks to the scene in Billy Madison where Billy smoothes things over with Danny McGrath and narrowly avoids the wrath of his hit list. I don’t want that. Your utter disregard for the fact that I’m not sleeping in until 2 in the afternoon like you are doesn’t bother me in the slightest, because I know in about four years you’ll be in my shoes, and we can cry together. Let’s agree to agree and you can set off your potential deathtraps on only the patriotic holidays, like 4th of July, and Memorial Day, and St. Patty’s. Until then, I give you a hearty pat on the back and encourage you to pursue your other favorite hobby: being horrible at basketball.
To my bright idea of leaving most of my clothes at my apartment at school while I’m home for the summer: Hindsight is always 20-20. At the time, I know I was feeling very logical, thinking, “Well I need to pack for Europe and summer vacay, AND I’m flying home so it all needs to fit into 3 bags along with my Caboodle and the justifiable amount of hair supplies that I own,” leaving me with a handful of tops that I’m tired of wearing and dresses that I’ve owned since junior year of high school when my boobs were much smaller and my style was way more embarrassing. Luckily, this fashion faux pas has granted me two bits of wisdom that I’ll cherish forever: my mom’s clothes fit me, and are more expensive (read: NICER) than mine, so closet shopping is clutch; and I’ll appreciate my clothes that much more when we reunite in a few short weeks. This also means that when I’m sitting at home with nothing to do, a trip to the Polo outlet is not only a sufficient time waster, it’s a necessity – unless you want me to go bare buns, I need those twill embroidered shorts. I’ve never taken an in-depth econ class, but I’m pretty sure this is what they mean by “supply and demand.”
To humidity: I did not miss you while I was in Austria. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. However, you serve as some of the best inspiration around to get me up and out of bed before 7am so that I’m not choking like an asthmatic nerd during 7th grade gym class while I run in this horrid July heat. Also, you give me a free pass in the hair care department, because it would be pointless to spend the extra 25 minutes blow-drying and straightening my hair when I’ll inevitably be wearing a Pomeranian on top of my head the second I step outside. I just braid it and go and suddenly my laziness is a part of one of the chicest hair trends of the summer. It might be nice if you could reconsider your involvement in the whole heat index thing too, because I honestly don’t need it to “feel like” 115 degrees outside at any given moment. I’d like to sing “I’m Walkin’ on Sunshine” without actually feeling like my body’s being engulfed by flames. I know you’ve got my back girl!
To alcoholic beverages: Damn you and your exorbitant prices. No human in their right mind should have to pay $8 for a Peach Caipirinha, especially when you jip me by using crappy rum instead of the traditional cachaca (didn’t know I knew that, didja? Don’t insult my drinking intelligence, breh). That being said, I’ve come to value your costly nature, as it sheds light on not only how much I consume on any given night, but also, who is buying the goods. Hate to sound like every spoiled brat with a short skirt, but I’m not a fan of paying for my own drinks. As the evening progresses and my cup runneth low, it is important to gauge just how important that next Jack & Coke truly is if Billy Buckteeth over there is holding the cash. Do I really want to owe him a decent conversation later on? No. Do I really want to cough up another $5 for what will probably be Coke with a limp-wristed splash of whiskey? Definitely not. Looks like it’s time to go home, thanks a heap rip-off drunk juice!
To the couple I watched fiercely make out as they drove down the street: You know what you two, I’m going to be completely honest with you. I wasn’t grossed out one bit by your intense PDA. Considering you don’t often see couples that genuinely like each other these days, I thought it was very sweet, and the fact that you were willing to risk an accident and put about 5 other people’s lives in serious danger is quite a testament to our generation’s views on monogamy. When we all safely arrived at the stoplight, I unapologetically stared at you in my rearview mirror, because I was sincerely impressed with Boyfriend’s multitasking skills. His face had been buried in Girlfriend’s neck the entire time, and yet he drove a completely straight line and stopped with the required 15 feet between his car and the car in front of him. Your impatience to get down to the biz in the privacy of your parents’ basement is completely understandable, as I’m sure a totally romantic Bruno Mars song had just come on the radio and the mood struck. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that you and I didn’t get into a fender bender, but only because I would have felt incredibly guilty about ruining your special moment. Two thumbs up and an enthusiastic horn-beep to you love birds; you’re in it for the long haul for sure!
To Lawn Hottie, the super sexy lawn mowing guy who my best friend and I shamelessly stalk around the neighborhood: I have no complaints. Keep doin' what you’re doin'.