Thursday, September 30, 2004

Wanted: One Don't Give a Shit Gene

I don't get it. I really don't. I wish I did, but I don't. How is it possible to not care about the assholes in the world and the stupid blather that they spew from their rotten gaping pieholes? How is it that some people are born with the ability to let stress slide off of their backs like whale shit in an iceflow? How do you turn off the worry switch before it melts your brain like an ice cream cone in Vegas? I do not possess these traits. And it's driving me crazy.

Scientists need to get off of their assess and back-burner something lame like male pattern baldness and check this out. Sorry guys, but a shiny head can be sexy and you can always buy a hat. I think figuring out which chromosonal pair holds the key to the big "fuck you" on a cellular level is much more important. Discovering how to turn off the loop in my head that replays a distressing and rancid situation over and over and over again would be better than finding the perfect pair of jeans.

I truly believe that men, boys, males, for the most part, are born with this gene. This makes me jealous and that's why I must destroy them. But I digress. With the exception of their primal need to kill things and punch each other in the neck on occasion, not much bothers these fellas. Of course, I think both sexes are nutty in their own way, but I cannot express with clarity the seething envy (and in some cases much lurve) I have of those people who can shake off a concern or a nasty exchange with a shrug and a "fuck em". I can do this once-in-awhile, but not on the daily basis that my life requires, and it sucks. Big. Giant. Donkey. Balls.

I worry about everything. I worry about the shape of my eyebrows. I worry about the clerk at the grocery store who didn't understand that I couldn't make eye-contact this morning because I didn't even brush my teeth today and was worried I had a total bat in the cave since I think I caught a cold on a germ-infested flying tube of death last weekend. I worry about the trip to Europe I might take sometime in my life because I don't like to fly and holy crap we'll be over the fucking ocean for hours and hours with no hope if an engine blows and I don't even own a fucking passport!! I worry about the person I haven't spoken to in a few days and have to supress thoughts that I've done something to warrant this non-communication. I can step right into a pile of shit without any effort, so it's not unreasonable to think I might have inadverdently stuck my finger up someone's ass by accident.

I'm extremely sensitive and if you say something the wrong way my temper flares and depending on the gravity of the offense, you'll either get a shiny fang glinting in the sun as a warning or a full-bore ripping of your throat with all my claws. And they are sharp my friends, they are sharp.

And how about text? For a long time I loved the fact that I didn't have to actually speak to the majority of jackfucks inhabiting the earth, and seem to all work for my company, since they could send me an e-mail. But now, I do so much of my communication through written word that the doors for mis-interpretation are way too wide. I was already slightly paranoid. Now I'm the Superintendant of Paranoiaville. Although I will contend that people have brought being passive-aggresive assholes in text to a new art form. Or they have been able to ignore modern culture and still don't get that ALL CAPS IS YELLING YOU RETARDED DIPSHIT.

Sparring is O.K. every now-and-then, you know, batting around a shivering little mouse watching its eyes glaze over with fear then witnessing the realization sink in that they're way out of their league and they should probably start praying for a favorable outcome. Or just kiss their ass goodbye with an "alright, you got me, enjoy the snack". But holy christ on a cracker, this stress-ball shit is ridiculous not to mention boring me to tears.

Granted, I have had an exceptionally bad time in the last year or so, and my stress meter is constantly at 11, but jebus, I either need some Prozac or I need to get laid. Damn.

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