Deaf Fuckers & Their Dogs

After an agonizingly long, snowy (for Western Washington) winter, we had our second day of spring today. Yes, this is only the second beautiful, sunny day we have had. Tonight it's lovely and the frogs are croaking. I'd love to hear them and enjoy the silence. Maybe open a window for some fresh air.

EXCEPT EVEN WITH THE WINDOWS CLOSED, SOME FUCKER'S BARKING DOG IS INTRUDING ON THE PLEASANTNESS OF THE EVENING. For a fucking hour or so. What the fuck is wrong with these shitholes who let their dogs yap ceaselessly? I'm seriously about ready to get in my car and find the source, pull up to their house and lay on the horn until someone comes out. And just keep laying on it, staring at them, and BARKING madly at them out my window.

Get the picture you inconsiderate festering fuckheads?

DVD Cases

How the film industry makes up for money they lose to piracy: by making their discs impossible to extract from their cases and super-breakable. I know! Let's get people to buy their favorite movies and television shows at least TWICE! How? By impaling each one on little plastic rosebuds with kung-fu grip strength. When they enthusiastically try to remove them, they bend, crack and/or break! AWESOME!

Fuckers.

Ding Dongs & Better Desserts

My birthday was on Tuesday so I've allowed myself a few disgusting treats, namely chocolate susans (those white cookies from Safeway with turd-swirls of chocolate frosting on top) and a box of Hostess ding dongs. Oh, and some Russian Caravan tea sweetened with sugar (I normally try to steer clear of caffeine and, lately, simple sugars).

Aside from the normal guilt (and discomfort up-to/including migraines) I get from eating total crap, I feel horrid about buying SHITTY desserts. I mean, if I'm going to splurge I really would prefer to get really high-quality desserts. There are a number of good bakeries in town, two of which SOMETIMES have Pain au chocolat. The problem is they only have it in the morning, are closed before dinnertime, AND MY WILLPOWER IS AT ITS LOWEST WHILE MY DESIRE IS AT ITS PEAK AT NIGHT.

Pastries and warm bread and chocolate aren't things I want to schedule in advance into the loathsome morning (not that I don't enjoy eating those things in the morning, I just don't *crave* them then / am thoroughly capable of resisting them at a time of day when swallowing food sometimes makes me want to vomit). I want doughy, gooey, sweet, melty and chewy deliciousness AT NIGHT. When I'm in bed with my girlfriend watching overwrought BBC dramas. When it's dark out with no light to distract me from the flavors in my mouth. When I'm setting the stage for my favorite part of the day: the time when I SLEEP.

Sigh. Food is the *only* thing that makes me wish we lived in Manhattan. Seriously.

Hairy Socks

Screech!

Nothing sucks harder than discovering AFTER you've donned socks AND shoes that there's a long hair inside your sock. And it's wrapping around your toes like a tight strand of twine, or simply wedged in your toe cleavage and sharply cutting into your tender flesh each time you take a motherfucking STEP.

Pain and irritation (and anything I have to BEND OVER to remedy) are things I bitch about often.

Motherfucking Phone Books

I get so fucking sick of seeing those yellow pieces of shit and those extraneous other weird off-brand bullshit phone books, assloads of new ones every year, stacking up in the fucking house, wrapped in plastic laying in your yard, blah blah blah. I want to stick those fuckers right up some advertiligious buttfuckers ass. We should be able to opt out of getting those things or press littering charges against them or SOMETHING. They should have a kiosk or something for people to pick them up IF THEY WANT THEM. If, you know, they're living in a world without the internet.

I'm ready to go crazy and find all the stupid phone books lurking in our house, taking up space, gathering dust, wasting paper and just go shrieking out of the house throwing them around, ripping them up, freaking the fuck out.

I'm so sick of being a garbage receptacle/processor in my home. SICK of it. Waste of my time, waste of my space, calling card to robbers that we're not home when you toss them onto our porch . . . I don't want your yellow fucking pages foisted upon me.

I should wipe my ass with a page of telephone book every day and mail it to the fucking shitholes. Oh! You didn't ASK me to RSVP my feces to you? TOO FUCKING BAD. When you quit, so will I.