Fuck The SUN

:: the beginning of August, 2024 - western Washington state ::

Fuck this fucking SUN. Give it a fucking rest, already! Can we have some fucking clouds??? Some motherfucking clouds that release RAIN?

Oh yeah ... we *have* had some nice foggy, overcast mornings. Today, for instance. So much like yesterday. Where you wake up and think, "finally some PEACE ... some light diffusion ... some softness." But by the time you spend the best of your energy doing chores and dealing with fucking BULLSHIT, that beautiful grey layer of safety is YANKED AWAY and that cuntface fire fuck is blasting daggers of sizzling bright cook-your-eyeballs energy right at your poor aching migraine head, and making it too hot to lay down and take a nap.

I want to fucking puke. I want to tell everybody to stop saying it's a nice day. It's not a nice day. It's a shit day of too much motherfucking sunshine. Stick the sun up your fucking stupid summer-vacation asses, buttcunts.

This light is KILLING ME.

Royal Pain in the Match

Why I won’t ever play the popular free game “Royal Match”.

WARNING: this gets a bit dark and deeply unpleasant, and may be triggering.

Save the king in Royal Match puzzle game before he DROWNS!

I hate that sniveling grotesque quaking king in the game ads. The sound of his quivering warbling fear disgusts me.

Other people apparently have fun saving him, but I just want the fucker to hurry up and die. Drown, get eaten by the snake, burn yourself up … I fucking hate him. I hate seeing him, I hate hearing him, and nothing about him makes me want to play that game.

I don't think I realized how much the Royal Match King in the ads upsets me until I was making temporary friends with someone on a cross-country train ride. We were talking about apps and games we enjoy, and she brought up Royal Match. I could see the look of horror on her face as I suddenly morphed into a raging spitting bitch, declaring how much I hate The King. I know my entire visage melted into monstrous ugliness as I expressed my vehement disgust with this cartoon character guy that apparently other people think is cute?

This guy is not worth saving, let alone hurrying to help him.

I say this as someone who loves a lot of match3 games (obviously, if I’ve seen so many Royal Match ads that I’m this annoyed by the king in peril - I’ve got to be seeing these ads for the game somewhere).

Writing this post made me google a bit about the Royal Match game. I quickly found out via this post at OldCynic.com that the king-in-peril isn’t actually featured all that much in the game at all! He says,

… the Royal Match app is just like the ads; in that you can rescue the King! But, it’s rare. It’s only on Special levels called the King’s Nightmare.

The old cynic goes on to say that you can even SKIP the save-the-king levels. Phew!

So having read that, do I now want to install and play Royal Match to fuel my match 3 game addiction knowing I do not actually have to see or hear the inept King moron?

NOPE.

Because I don’t just hate the king. In fact, I think the whole entire game is UGLY.

Yup ... even a droopy-brained dog is better at chess than the nose-picking king.

The colors are ugly. The shapes are ugly. The whole look of the Royal Match game is gross and depressing. Compared to other popular match3 puzzle games like Candy Crush, Bejeweled Blitz, and Empires and Puzzles, the design and the sounds are just fucking ugly. Nothing about it is cute or dazzlingly-illuminated or joyful.

I think one of the main problems I have with the game that is not about aesthetics is the message to “HURRY UP”. Hurry up and save this incompetent man with a lazy face who clearly doesn’t even possess a sense of urgency to suck up his own drool in time before it falls and drips down his royal vestments. Have empathy for this king who doesn’t deserve his throne and is going to get the whole kingdom in trouble. I don’t want to be told in ugly bubble letter words to hurry when I’m relaxing, and I don’t want to think about a story where I’m supposed to empathize with anyone, let alone this swollen-lipped stooge. That is not a fun escape (for me, anyway).

Telling me to HURRY UP to save this dumb shit motherfucker doesn't sound relaxing.
Just drown already and let me play a game that is actually pleasurable.

It’s possible that the ads are the problem, not the game itself, and they’re just pitching it to people who are not at all like I am. But of course I wouldn’t know, because the ads are so extremely off-putting to me I will never ever try this game even though it’s possible I might actually enjoy it. I am a person who cannot even bear to have photos of people I love on my desk or hanging on my walls because it’s so stressful and distracting and confrontational, seeing faces and smiles and eye contact. Even when it’s just a flat static image and not an actual human. Like what do you want from me now?!? Oh my god you’ve got feelings on your faces and I’ve got to do something about your feelings and respond to them and I am sure to fail can I not just concentrate on my work for a while? Please leave me the fuck alone with my naturally-flat facial affect!! Who the fuck let you in here?!?

Seriously, the king is almost like my fucked-up stepdad and I’m being told how bad I make him feel by not being more loving towards him. “Help me! Help me!” It’s gross and terrible. I don’t want to save him or be more loving, I just want him to fucking disappear and never open the bathroom door on me again when I’m on the toilet or naked on the precipice of showering.

Royal Match doesn’t look or sound like a charming addictive pleasurable escape into a rainbow bright grid of sweet electric magic with music and sound effects carrying you along on a rewarding easy magic carpet ride. Instead it looks like a second-hand dungeon of seventies furniture. It’s so ugly you can almost smell the mustard and brown plaid couches with the king leaking stale fried chicken and gravy out of his royal ass in a nightmare that takes place at the sadly-run-down Excalibur hotel and casino in Las Vegas.

Royal Match seems like a free buffet in a dingy basement with diarrhea dripping down the walls mixed with the smell of watery overheated green beans all mushing around out of a can, where every metal tub of food reeks of e coli and salmonella and is served by greasy-haired minions wearing unruly sticky comb-overs and filthy aprons with shit under their fingernails.

In the nightmare that is Royal Match’s buffet of kingly peril, you’re invited to load up your plates trying not to slip and crack your head open on cheap steaming moist tiles grouted together with black mold and feces before you try to choke down this absolutely diseased blended-squash-and-rotten-liquified-meat-and-green-peas mush, on the verge of vomiting but being forced to try to swallow it as fast as you can in an act of fealty to this worthless thumb-sucking motherfucker the king.

All the while the king is stuffing his face at the head table making the most pathetic obscene noises as his gastrointestinal distress increases and threatens to explode in a b-movie’s special effects version of a burst colon. What, is he about to cry now? Snot dripping down into his smelly-ass thick facial hair where it will congeal and broadcast an aroma of rotten teeth and stale man-breath?

It’s deeply unpleasant how writing this made me realize how much the king in this stupid game’s ads triggers a morass of extremely yucky feelings about my stepdad. I never made the connection before, but I can see now that it stirs up so many conflicted distressing messages and feelings I received as a child and teen, and memories of actually empathizing WAY TOO MUCH with people like my stepdad who were big gross self-serving unhinged babies and not to be trusted or forced to live with.

I just want to put this nasty bug-eyed fucker out of his misery. The king is beyond saving. I’ll play almost any match 3 game but not this one. I don’t care if it doesn’t have ads. You’d have to pay ME to put up with grotesque nightmare of unfun.

These Goddamned HAIRS

I fucking can't stand HAIRS. Especially my own long strands of bullshit: on the counter, in the sink ... getting wrapped around my fingers.

It drives me crazy: the sensations, their menacing wispy omnipresence. Their motherfucking DEFIANCE.

There is something so fucking gross about them all curled up in slimy wet kitchen moisture when im trying to wipe up the counters.

They are like inanimate ninjas. Tiny tickling ghost zombie legions borne of my own stupid fucking head and its relentless SPINNING SPINNING SPINNING and shedding. Trailing long thin poltergeists of death everywhere I go.

Pedestal STINKS: II

As I try to get the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube and onto my toothbrush, I am reminded again how fucking much PEDESTAL SINKS SUCK!

It's painful enough trying with all the might of my tiny fingers to squeeze any lingering remnants of toothpaste out of a spent tube, but INFURIATING not being able to keep the wee bit of toothpaste extended far enough AND STAY THERE long enough to apply it to the bristles.

It's comical, really. Squeeze with both hands and EMERGE! Let go with one hand to grab toothbrush and ... IT DISAPPEARS!! SQUEEZE! EMERGE! GRAB! DISAPPEAR!

If I had a reliable flat surface to set my fucking toothbrush on and didn't have to HOLD it, THIS WOULDN'T BE A FUCKING PROBLEM. But oh ... PEDESTAL SINK. How fucking ELEGANT and shit this is, half-useless as fuck. There is not enough room to set the toothbrush down without it falling off the edge onto the dirty fucking floor, or just tipping over right at the critical moment because of those soap-holder bumps.

this shit is precarious as fuck, no?

With the house we live in now I'm less likely to totally blame the dude who built it. It's a unique and beautiful creation and we've been lucky to inhabit its spaces for years  He made it with a lot of second-hand and discarded materials, so it's likely the pedestal sink I'm complaining about was salvaged at low or no cost. Aesthetically, it's nice in the super-tiny bathroom space, too.

But from a practical standpoint? Dude ... it would have been fucking helpful to maximize the extremely limited space in this tiny bathroom with a sink with some built-in storage, or just one where if you set your toothbrush on the edge of the sink it wouldn't fucking fall straight into the fucking toilet, which is right next to the stupid sink.

Maybe he even intended to replace it with something better, because it's not even properly attached to the floor. Like, we can just rock it from side to side. It could be lifted clean off the floor, if someone were to be in the mood to pick up a pedestal sink. And I am often in the mood to pick up a pedestal sink, if only to THROW IT OUT THE FUCKING WINDOW, but there is only a skylight in this tiny bathroom, and I"m not quite strong enough to lift the sink above my head AND break the glass. Besides, it would lack dramatic catharsis and would probably not even fly off the roof, but would just land on its side and stay there ... a sink on a roof.

There are a lot of unfinished details in this house ... loose ends of wiring and switches and shit that didn't quite get connected up to actually function. But again, the house is uniquely beautiful, even if a lot of practical things are not fully-functional.

It's a small house, and compromises had to be made for him to fulfill his vision, I guess. Like this one tiny bathroom? It's the ONLY bathroom in the house, and it's UPSTAIRS. Up a beautiful, space-efficient, terrifyingly-steep and dangerous little winding set of stairs. There is no bathroom on the ground floor. It is the furthest thing from accessible for guests with balance issues or limited mobility, let alone anything more challenging. But I guess that's a nice excuse to not be able to host my elderly mom at our place? She's been known to sleepwalk, so even if she can get upstairs to sleep in our bed, I'm petrified she will plummet down the stairs and crack her damn head open if she toddles down the hallway to go pee (in this one bathroom located at the top of the stairs, where one who is unfamiliar with the house in the middle of the night could, even if not somnambulating, mistake the open bathroom door on the left for a closed bathroom door on the right, leading in actuality, when swung, TO THE DEEP DARK DEATH FUNNEL STAIRCASE OF DOOM).

But I digress.

The point I'm trying to make is about PEDESTAL SINKS, and how they are the most pretentious aesthetic dysfunctional insults to the civilized contemporary human with sanitation and storage needs.

If you have space in a bathroom for a fully-functional sink and surrounding surface, but instead choose to install a piece of shit pedestal, AT LEAST install a flat surface and storage adjacent to it. These could come in the form of a period-specific chest of low drawers with a tray placed atop it to be able to set a wet toothbrush whilst protecting the antique wood. I mean, that's just one idea. You fuckers are the ones with the money to "custom build" so you *should* have a superior intellect and problem-solving capabilities but OMG nevermind we all know that is not even remotely true how did you get so rich assholes not talking about our home-builder but like the people selling their homes for the bazillions of dollars with these POS sinks in them.

Stupid, Lazy or Inconsiderate: Just What IS it?

Our quiet residential corner was invaded YET AGAIN by shitty new neighbors running an unlicensed pop-up shop.

Unbeknownst to us, they've been advertising it online for a month with no warning or care given to the people most impacted by a rush of strangers told by them to park NOT ON THEIR STREET or property, but specifically on *our* street. Without any signage or cones or anything to discourage people blocking our driveway or the fire hydrant or our neighbor's parking spots or the trailhead.

So idiots being idiots, all of these fuckers ignore the whole entire street that is empty, and ALL DANGEROUSLY CLUSTER INTO THE CORNER. Blocking our driveway, blocking the fire hydrant, blocking the neighbors, and pulling directly onto the trail to park ON the trail.

I just want to know: WHAT IS IT, EXACTLY, WITH THESE ASSHOLES? Is it stupidity, laziness, inconsideration or a combination of all three?

Is it just ignorance and stupidity (not knowing laws about not parking in front of fire hydrants or within so many feet of an intersection or RECOGNIZING they've blocked somebody else's car in)? A total obliviousness to the heightened risk of crashing into other people?

Is it laziness? Like ah here we are I've arrived at the end of the street where the place is and I don't want to back up or go around the block to park in a safe spot, so I'll just park in the clearly WORST SPOT POSSIBLE and/or I don't want to park five or seven or ten car lengths away down the street and have to WALK all that way, so fuck it I'm going to park my lazy ass as close as possible!

Or is it just inconsideration? I believe this is it. A "me first" attitude in all things. Sure, the stupidity and laziness factor into it in most cases, but when confronting these people what you get is just total self-centered bullshit.

Like the one guy who parked DIRECTLY BLOCKING OUR DIRVEWAY. Before he got out I stormed out and was like, "REALLY?? ARE YOU *REALLY*? GOING TO PARK THERE BLOCKING IN OUR CAR?" And he played like a decrepit little boy with polio or something even though dude's like 67 years old. "I'm not going to be here long!" I'm like NO motherfucker.

And then the cunt (driving a Jetta because of course - see a volkswagon jetta and 9 times out of ten you're seeing a complete jerk) who parked in the blind corner directly in front of the fire hydrant. So I'm taking a picture of her stupid fucking car after she's almost across the street, and she notices and comes back and starts in with that bullshit that cunts who know better but don't care about anyone but themselves do, of "tell me what you need me to do", like she might do me a favor if I play along like I'm the one causing the problem.

I WAS NOT NICE. I am not getting paid to direct traffic. I'm like, that's a fire hydrant. You're parked in front of it. And I'm getting heated -- she's a fit, able-bodied semi-granola gal (no makeup, long wavy hair, but you know she shaves her areas ... like, natural but not TOO natural and does yoga for the hot bod more than the mindfulness) so there's no excuse to not park a little farther away instead of adding to the clusterfuck. It's just that she doesn't care.

So when I refuse to beg her to move her car and instead ask her the question (like seriously I'm just curious if it's laziness, stupidty or  pure inconsideration) she starts in about maybe if I asked NICELY like I don't have to BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. You're the stupid cunt, and I wouldn't be out here if you didn't do the dumb shit you just did. I'm not like some random angry troll who crawled out of the woodwork for NO REASON; I'm a human who lives here, being disturbed, suffering an assault on the senses, and being trespassed upon by a steady stream of shit-for-brain motherfuckers with so much time and money on their hands they just go around on a fucking Friday morning looking for random fucking crap to buy. I'm not getting paid to provide customer service; I'M NOT GETTING PAID OR COMPENSATED AT ALL TO PUT UP WITH THIS SHIT. So if you don't want people to come out of their homes and yell at you, don't drive into their neighborhoods and do stupid ass inconsiderate lazy fucking SHIT.

The May Day Drone of Lawnmowers

May Day might be my favorite holiday. In a perfect world, that is, where people recognize, respect and honor nature, the seasons and revel in the outdoors: specifically this time between spring equinox and summer solstice (Beltane) when the natural world around us is beginning to flower, the birds are singing, baby animals are exploring their new-to-them worlds on their own young feet, and the sunshine is almost in full bloom.

Or the old-fashioned anonymous flower-gifting tradition. Quietly creeping onto your neighbor's porch and leaving a bouquet of flowers. I LOVE THAT - it is my FAVORITE!

It's not a perfect world, though.

Instead, May Day was filled with the buzzing not of bees, but of people's gas-powered lawnmowers. Violently cutting back the green. The dandelions THAT SHOULD BE HONORED AS FOOD. Imposing this conformity of pollution and death on one another, violating even our eardrums. Making sure we drown out the small sounds of of life all around us that we should be celebrating.

PInk Grapefruit

When I have the tremendous privilege and pleasure of enjoying breakfast in a diner I like to order multiple beverages: both coffee AND juice. If it's an extra-special steak and eggs treat, I'll get a third beverage: ROOT BEER or some other sweet fizzy soda pop.

My juice of choice? GRAPEFRUIT. But first I have to ask, "is your grapefruit juice pink or ???"

All too often these days, they proudly and confidently reply, "PINK!" Like, of course that's the only reason a person would ask. Because they cannot stomach REAL grapefruit juice and need that pansy-ass barbie-pussy pink sweet watered-down tasting bullshit. And almost everyone these days defaults to this blasphemous half-assed fake fruit concoction.

But when *I* hear them say "PINK!" I'm like, JUST FORGET IT. I guess I'll just have orange juice. And even then, you're going to get some pulpless, no-meat, thin, watery shit, but at least it still tastes of some acid.

It really pisses me off, how difficult it is to even find REAL YELLOW-Y STRONG-ASS GRAPEFRUIT JUICE in stores. Instead it's all this flaccid pink-in-plastic sissy-ass shit.

I WANT MY MOUTH TO PUCKER, FUCKERS! GET IT RIGHT!

WHY EVEN PUT THAT PINK SHIT ON A MENU?!?

DON'T ORDER GRAPEFRUIT JUICE IF YOU DON'T LIKE GRAPEFRUIT JUICE!

Give these fuckers who want pink grapefruit juice fucking HI-C or kool-aid or some other watered-down pastel-colored crap.

*****

There should be diners for people who like real food. Hard-boiled egg types of fuckers who want actual blood pudding, dill pickles, and pulpy sour-ass JUICE.

I'm so sick of people mocking folks who don't want to eat stuff with wheat fillers or who are lactose intolerant and don't want milk or butter added to EVERY MOTHERFUCKING THING AUTOMATICALLY, but these same bullies making fun of people who understand most adults don't produce enzymes to digest milk BECAUSE WE'RE NO LONGER FUCKING BABIES are the same immature crybabies who want their food SO FUCKING BLAND as to be nutritionally void user-friendly ultra-familiar CRAP. Oh, you want your steak WELL-DONE and your grapefruit juice PINK; I get it. You have no palate and you can't be trusted with resources - you will just ruin all of the best things, like actual FRUIT JUICE and BLOODY ANIMAL FLESH. Do you want mommy to cut your crust off for you too, you fucking picky brats?

That also brings me to the subject of "home fries". Why would I go to a diner to get potato wedges? NO. I want SHREDDED HASH-BROWNS. FRIED.

If you can't make hash browns, don't even bother offering breakfast in your restaurant. You can't be trusted to fry an egg or fry a burger or fry ANYTHING. I don't want your shit if you don't have SHREDDED GOLDEN HASHBROWNS. And not like an oblong McDonald's potato puck (though AT MCDONALD'S, I am okay with those). Shred the fucking potatoes and fry the fucking potatoes in SHORTNING (not butter) and you should be able to get them crispy WITHOUT DREDGING THEM IN WHEAT FLOUR, you cheating lazy-ass dumb fucks.

Here's the deal: when I order steak and eggs I want the whole experience. The yolks running all over my crispy-on-the-outside shredded hashbrowns, dragging bits of medium-rare or actually-rare meat through all of it. Washing it down with coffee, grapefruit juice and root beer: all kinds of potent contrasting flavors and textures. YUM YUM YUM YUM.

If you can't appreciate that, stick with cans of spaghetti-o's or whatever soft "food" you're into AT HOME.

One Asshole A Day vs YOU

 

“If you run into an asshole in the morning, you ran into an asshole. If you run into assholes all day, you're the asshole.”
    -Raylan Givens - created by Elmore Leonard

Good point.

Something to think about.

I haven't read the books or watched the shows, so my take away is based purely on this quote, knowing nothing about the context.

Here's what I get out of it:

It's not that the world isn't overpopulated with assholes.

It's not that it's unlikely you'll encounter more than one asshole throughout the day.

It's that if you're going through your day and it's just one asshole after another, and that's your entire perception of everyone you encounter, then the problem you're having is with yourself. You're the one making your entire day miserable, and it's likely that someone who does that to themselves is exuding major asshole vibes themselves.

A little bit law of attraction-ish. Not that I believe in that exactly, but maybe you get what you give.

 

Sick In Public

After all the bitching about people exposing others to their contagions, now I am one of them. And I don't even feel that bad about it.

Maybe I'm too sick to invest energy in shame.

Sleeping With the Enemy

This week I've been sleeping with the enemy: NOISE.

But it's not making me feel bitchy, mad, or resentful. Sleep-deprived? Yeah. But fine with it.

I guess because I'm on an adventure? Or because none of the noise I've been hearing comes from neighbors at home.  Instead it adds color to my journey.

Tonight is particular loud. Loud music, cars, and movies on the street below. But I'm going to sleep pretty great tonight. With the sounds pr9viding an extra layer of adventurous comfort and companionship, reminding me where I am.

Can They Hear Me Swearing?

There's been some neighborhood quiet lately. And beautiful spring rain.

I'm starting to worry that *I'm* the noisy one.

Like when I get frustrated and explode out loud, "ARE YOU FUCKING *KIDDING* ME?!?!" when something doesn't go my way.

I'm not actually asking anyone. I'm home/at work alone. I'm just inquiring of "the universe", I guess you could call it.

Should I even care? Like ... maybe it's good if everyone in the neighborhood knows there's an asshole with an explosive temper  in residence.

When the Thingy Just Comes Off In Your Hand

So tired. So so so fucking tired. Just trying to get through one. More. Thing and eventually get to bed and get to sleep for a minute before being woken up again by involuntary vomit filling your mouth and waking you up to the burning lava before you drown.

You reach to close the slats of the blinds against the night and the neighbors' eyes. And the stupid twisty pole-stick thingy just comes right out into your hands. Just quietly detaches to add to the futility and you just let it drop. Just let that useless-ass stick that gave up functionality just drop the same way you drop your tired puffy aching stupid fat head and slap your whole face down into your too-small hands that just can't even begin to carry all of the weight you've accumulated and saddled yourself with.

One bill at a time. One fork at a time. Another fucking night at a time.

Is it true that some people really wake up ready and well-rested for their day? How does one get that to occur?

All I know is this fucking stick-wand-thingy is still going to be here tomorrow, on the fucking floor on a bed of soft decaying piles of my shed head hair, right under the window where everyone can see in and knows I am an old bitch-ass sloppy-as-fuck sack of shit.

Annoying Ways to Refer to Interstates in Washington: I-5 vs "The" 5

Laughed wryly at this video of a man's furious extra-dramatic rant depicting "Washington natives when a transplant says 'The 5' instead of I-5" (via @rjromain who says "t’s like dragging your nails across a chalkboard for the born and raised lol #seattle #seattlewa #seattlewashington #pnw #tacoma #washingtonstate #pyuallup"):

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A post shared by Rasheed Romain (@rjromain)

As a 4th+ generation Washingtonian who grew up near the crotch  of I-90 and I-5, this doesn't annoy me as much as people calling Puget Sound "the ocean", but ... yeah. I do mentally assign demerits to people who say "the" instead of "eye".

Modest proposal: you must pay five-times pricier tabs if you give directions like this or refer to interstates in Washington this way, or say "THE 520" or "THE 405" instead of just fucking 520 or 405. 

You just TAKE 405, not take "take THE 405". Like ... we don't need that extra pretentious California verbage cluttering up our shit for NO GOOD REASON. And I don't need to insert a fancy i as in verbiage for you to know exactly what I'm talking about.

GARBAGE IN, GARBAGE OUT.

And if you don't like "Seattle" or the way people have been doing shit here for decades or more, WHY DID YOU FUCKING MOVE HERE? You didn't fucking know we lived here and had ways of doing things before you fucking tailgating, California-stopping, road-raging assholes inserted yourselves and brought all that smog with you? And don't even get me started on crazy cult-mindset motherfuckers from Idaho, Utah, Arizona, etc. infiltrating like that stupid selfish shithole cunt who moved to Redmond and things he's going to be the new and improved Tim Fucking Eyman.

A Peaceful Rantless Moment

How happy it made me, sitting on a plastic stool on our front stoop on a fully-formed spring day during a moment of neighborhood quiet, seeing someone walking a dog. Quietly ambling together. No phone in her hand. Just her and the dog. Walking. Together.

Back When We Only Had Scanners

I miss the days before facebook when you had to get a scanner if you wanted to eavesdrop on local tragedy porn and gossip.

Now every motherfucker is on facebook and "nextdoor" and whatever the fuck putting on grotesque shows pretending their interest in the most macabre accidents and crimes is prompted by genuine concern for their fellow men and neighbors.

That shit belongs in your grandpa's garage, not publicly displayed on the internet.

OH GOSH I HOPE EVERYONE'S ALRIGHT THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS DO YOU KNOW WHO IT WAS WHAT WAS THE VEHICLE CAN YOU DESCRIBE EXACTLY WHERE IT HAPPENED OH THAT POOR BABY DOES ANYONE KNOW IF ITS MOTHER WAS AN ADDICT IS IT POSSIBLE I CAN  VERBALLY TONGUEFUCK A FIREMAN'S SMOKEY FURBALL ANUS FOR HIS HEROIC BRAVERY AND RESCUE ATTEMPTS PLEASE NOTICE ME HOW MUCH I CARE I AM NOT MERELY CURIOUS BUT ENTITLED TO THE MOST INTIMATE HORRIFIC DETAILS BECAUSE I CARE SO EXTREMELY MUCH I'M CRYING CAN YOU SEE MY EMOJIREACTS WITH THE TEARS CASCADING DOWN MY FACE WHILE I MASTURBATE MY EMOTIONAL VISCERA OVER TOTAL STRANGERS WHOSE LIVES I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING BUSINESS KNOWING THIS MUCH ABOUT

I get the macabre curiosity. I get the desire to gossip. I really do. What I don't get it is the entitlement and the barfy-weird-ass advertisement and hours invested in checking and posting and desperately waiting for NOTIFICATIONS of some potential new gory tidbit of calamity.

What a fucking shitshow of grody shameless "social" parading and poking, and on top of it squatting on it when they can to piggyback their stupid fucking irrelevant selfish-ass political agendas and willfully ignorant opinions.

The Most Abhorrent Thing About Being Miserable

One of the most abhorrent things about feeling horrible is not wanting to feel better -- actively RESISTING feeling better -- because you think everything will get worse if you feel okay (or, God forbid, GOOD), and you believe feeling horrible is the only way to solve problems and avert disaster.

On top of that you think you're doing damage control by letting people see how shitty you feel about yourself, hoping they will have mercy upon you and not make things worse or try to point out your sisns that you already openly cop to.

Is it some kind of an Irish Catholic DNA problem? Or just a general miserable-bitch malaise?

Plastic Christmas Candy-Cane Sheath

This motherfucking SHIT-to-remove plastic sheathing wrapped with devilish "care" around my sweet stick of striped peppermint sweetness that I am so desperate to unwrap and suck on in my headache-riddled PMS state of post-Christmas come-down.

Got a box of these fuckers on sale the day after Christmas (yesterday) for a dollar and sixty-four cents (even the price is depressing, like nobody is even going to try to make this shit sound attractive or compelling, these frigid old-lady leftovers untouched during the jolly season which is now OVER, and it is just THE SHIT-PIT OF WINTER when conservative responsible retirees immediately take down their light displays so as not to alleviate any of the gloom of January and February for people whose electrical bills are NOT padded with social security or retirement funds.

They will horde all their white-haired light for themselves, letting them be a lesson to us that we should rise and retire early to get cracking on our menial low-paying jobs if we want to enjoy the spirit of giving brightness and joy beyond the cut-off date for anyone giving a token fuck about hardships or humanitarian helping hand-outs. The free turkey dinners are OVER, and the faceless fairy-lit angels are going back into storage in their two-car garages on carefully-organized shelves of boomer propriety. At lunchtime they will walk their stupid little stunted-legged lap dogs by our broken-down cars we can't afford to keep running and cast their condescending cataract-riddled eyes towards those of us bringing their property values down with our squalor even though only one of them will live long enough to need that extra dough for their twilight years in assisted senior living, let alone be conscious enough to enjoy. And the assistants will string the lights up on a two-story artificial tree in the drafty dining room and play nostalgic music from entirely the wrong generations while the drool dribbles drearily from the mouths of their near-death fellow residents.

Fuck this fucking candy-cane wrapper.

TINS that are HARD TO OPEN

OMFG trying to open this fucking tin of fancy candy:

It says "HARD CANDY" but really it should say "Hard-To-Open" Candy.

It is comical, to get some queenly bon-bons for sucking on in luxurious repose, only to have them result in the most inelegant and unrelaxed display of incompetence, scrabbling against smooth metal for purchase, trying to wiggle the lid up enough to get it off, and then finally having it fly across the room and spill the candies all over the floor.

If you're going to get this kind of bon-bon, you really should have a servant at your elbow to pop them in your mouth while they do all of the dirty work and you sigh at their slowness. Or demonstrate Jeeves-like proficiency in the handling of such peevish matters. WWJD, indeed: what would JEEVES do? Jeeves would have it down to a science, or implement some graceful back door by which he retrieves the carefully-wrapped and preserved candies while also maintaining the *illusion* they came from inside the tin, even performing enough with the container to get the magic-metal sounds to slick out as though the package presented no trouble at all, but actually retrieving the candy from a silent container secreted under a sidetable or something.

This is actually the second tin this year to give me trouble. The other is a tin of CBD-infused salve (coincidentally also scented with a cinnamon aroma, like these pear-and-cinnamon candies, but more medicinal). It sucks because I want to be able to use the stuff when I'm feeling ghastly with head- and muscle-aches in bed, but being forced to leave the tin open means it is drying out. I worry it is losing its potency, or at least some of the pleasure of dipping my fingers into its grease. I'm afraid the salve now looks and feels like a container of ear wax.

When tins are hard to open it's quite disappointing; I *love* the old-fashioned vibe of tins, like they came from antique-y snake-oil-salesman times where shit was totally unregulated and you could get coke and opiates and exotic tranquil poisons in all kinds of over-the-counter seemingly-innocuous syrups and compounds. Those things came in TINS and bottles, right? Folded into little papers, and produced to impress with their qualities remedying a diverse range of ailments.

Which reminds me: I had a vivid dream last night about being surprised with a gift of cocaine.

Kind of ruins the fantasy when you can't even open the stuff. Like a nightmare-dream where all of the good stuff is RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU, but you can only struggle to figure out how to move it from right-there-in-front-of-you onto or into your body or mouth.

Can You NOT?!?

 I'm sorry but I just fucking hate people talking on their phones in grocery shores. Fucking HATE IT.

And I'm not even lying about being sorry. I try -- I *keep* on trying -- to remind myself sometimes people have good reasons to do this DISTRACTING SELF-IMPORTANT SELF-CENTERED "multitasking", completely inconsiderate of everyone around them and unable to detect how much they are in other people's way, blasting their hot stupid breath and voices and ring tones all over. And any morsel of empathy, understanding or tolerance I can summon is overshadowed by just FUCKING HATING IT.

It's one of those things we have to resign ourselves to, apparently. An unaddressed much more distressing aspect of "the new normal" than the new normal things that never fully took off as normal and preceded this phase and I just think a lot of it is a performance. It is an advertisement of not giving a shit about others. A show of being soooo important soooooo busy sooooo consumed with sooooo many socials and/or dramas and/or demands placed on you and requests for your supervision. A visual and auditory demonstration of being tuned into something soooooo much more entertaining and on-your-level than this boring mundane process of grocery shopping. Unless it's that thing where you and your mate are SO BUSY *all* THE TIME that you can only synchronize your shopping lists while you're actually doing the shopping at the last minute and it's imperative you consult with one-another while you're doing it and you accept ALL of your calls in the frozen foods aisle as this is your second office, your home office, and everyone else can just accept it -- that you are very important, and this is your time for personal home office work, not when you're in your car or standing in front of the milk in your own refrigerator in your own kitchen because you'll be TOO BUSY in your kitchen or to take the necessary moments in your car because you are so busybusybusy and not a moment to waste you're sooooo important and EVERYTHING in your life and on your phone is SOOOO IMPORTANT and if you aren't important enough to talk on the phone in the grocery store than you must be so lucky and completely ignorant of the extraordinary amount of skill and multitasking an important person like you has to do.

Fuck you and your super-important life where everything is of equal importance except for what you are doing RIGHT NOW, and the people around you who have to passively participate in your bullshit life.

I am trying to think about how to apply the metta meditation stuff to this. I'm able to do it with traffic. I should be able to do it with this phone-talking grocery-shopping thing. But I may have further to go towards actually feeling the same kind of human-animal as these phone-talking people. Maybe it's because grocery shopping (any shopping, really) is often really hard for me and I can't conceive of how talking on the phone at the same time would make it easier.

I also just don't understand people's lack of self-consciousness in general with conversing in public, not caring how many people are overhearing your personal business or the privacy of the people you're gossiping about deserve. I have to be at least a little drunk-ish or in a super-psycho place to get that way. Not unheard of, but definitely not in line with my values or how I want to be. Which is one of many reasons I have not had any alcohol this entire year.

Honestly though? I think it is less shameful to do your grocery shopping drunk than talking on your phone.

Okay ... maybe another thing, I just realized, is probably RESENTMENT. I resent that it is acceptable to broadcast your inane phone calls in the grocery store, but viewed as psycho to DANCE IN THE AISLES OF THE GROCERY STORE WHEN A GOOD SONG COMES ON. I still do it sometimes, but man ... I wish I could do it more. I wish we ALL could dance in the aisles of the grocery store more. It's the only off-topic thing I believe in there, I think. And it's not even off-topic! They're PLAYING MUSIC!!!

Everything is so fucked up. See ... it is not bitchiness that makes me hate the phone talkers. It is my desire for all of us to dance more. To dance whenever we hear a song that makes us want to. And I don't understand not wanting to dance, but wanting to talk on the phone. Why should I be embarrassed of dancing in the aisles of the grocery store, but you're not embarrassed of making everyone listen to your stupid fucking irrelevant ridiculous phone conversation with someone who is not even HERE? 

I am not a bitch. I am someone who wants us to be here together where we are, aware of one another.  Caring about what we're doing. Hearing the music. Dancing.

I guess it comes back to recognizing those phone talkers are not happy. They are suffering. More than I am listening to them, and I should just feel sorry for them and pray for them and shit.

NOT the OCEAN!!!!

 It drives me fucking CRAZY when people refer to the Puget Sound as "the ocean". You did not just swim in "the ocean". You did not sail on "the ocean". You are not watching the sunset over "the ocean".

There's a big difference between THE OCEAN and lesser bodies of salty water. Yes, there may be tides, but that does not make a sound or a strait THE or an OCEAN. Yes, it may be *connected* to the actual ocean, but it is not itself THE ocean.

Listen ... you can count the number of actual oceans using the fingers on your HANDS. There aren't that many of them. Four to seven, according to wikipedia. And you are not in any fucking one of them when you're bobbing around on a kayak commuting-distance to Seattle.

Would you call the Columbia fucking river an ocean? No? Then Puget Sound is not the ocean. Seriously ... a lot of rivers are more boss than Puget Sound (if you discount giant octopi in the Tacoma narrows or the deadliness of the currents at Deception Pass or okay even the currents on the ferry between PT & Whidbey Island).

It sucks, because you cannot correct people on this matter without sounding like a total bitch or an annoying Cliff Claven. Like ... people are so excited about dipping their toes in "the ocean" that you're just a complete fucking asshole buzzkill meanie if you try to say, "well actually technically speaking, dumbass, the OCEAN is a different kind of fucking thrill than this easy-access inland snapshot of saltiness you're dabbling in."

But it's so different. I mean ... YES ... we've escalated our tsunami warning systems to include a bunch of us living on bodies of water like Puget Sound, but IT'S NOT THE SAME. Like, in the event of an actual tsunami I hope you're all smart enough to know the risk is much much lower here on a sound or a strait than ON THE BEACH OF THE ACTUAL FUCKING PACIFIC OCEAN.