Cranky

Due to a lack of Tanqueray and a simultaneous lack of funds, I find myself at home pursing an affair with my first true love. Vodka.

I have had one of those days where I found myself unable to suppress or ignore the irritants endemic to being a pink collar wage slave. Instead, every typical and minor annoyance made me want to heave my coffee mug at the wall. To be graphic, today was like a yeast infection when you’re taking antibiotics. It was hugely unpleasant and annoying, and it was caused by the normal course of things being all fucked up.

Behold, a brief overview of the things that made me crankier than usual. I apologize for any misspellings or grammatical foibles; I’m busy trying to get a tad tipsy.

1. I would like someone to explain to me why it is that men in offices cannot make coffee. I mean, I know they’re busy making more money and exercising their throbbing male privilege, but give me a fucking break. If I come into work one more time to find a swallow of coffee cooking down into a post-industrial sludge in each of three damn-near empty coffee pots, I’m going to brew a pot using my own urine to serve the slugs in my office.

2. I’m tired of people acting cartarded. You know what I mean, any cocksmack who gets behind the wheel of a vehicle and immediately loses the ability to behave like anything but a fucking douche. You know, like the moron who couldn’t manage to get the ass end of his ginormous piece of dysfunctional Detroit shit out of my way so that I could merge. Fuck you. Fuck your little kid pissing on a Chevy symbol. Can you not see that I need to go home and get a drink? Can not the world see that?

3. Having read/seen a recent spate of stories regarding women who were sexually assaulted and subsequently screwed by the system, I’m left to the conclusion that the only logical course of action for someone who is raped is to kill her fucking attacker—that will at least be something like justice. Apparently, when being screwed against one’s own will, once just isn’t enough.

4. Fuck a bunch of St. Louis summer. 103? Can we just cry “uncle” and be done with it? Damn . . .