Social media zen

I decided to conduct a little experiment. I recently cut back on my social media masturbation. I decided that there must certainly be better things to do with my time than troll shitty posts made by shitty people; thereby making me, a shitty person. This is that account.

There are several social media sites that I toy around with. Some are easier to stomach than others. Reddit is easy. It’s for cute clips of animal videos and the like. That’s all I use it for. I don’t engage with others on this site. I don’t read bullshit comments and I don’t care about cliques or groups. In fact, my husband does most of the research & development for me – he’s usually the one to send me video clips. Our relationship works best when he does the heavy lifting.

Facebook is high school where everyone is running for class president. Everyone is a fucking expert and their ideas just need to be heard. Above all else, their opinion is King Shit. Sprinkle some political Kool-Aid in there, add a pinch of intolerance, a huge helping of ignorance, and there you have it – Facebook.

Twitter – at least here people are straight up about not giving a shit about you. Unlike Facebook, messages of support and well-wishes are few and far between. If you get one, you can almost be certain that shit is for real and not some fake, bullshit, comment someone posted while eating a sandwich & watching a video of a cat and a hamster playing together. If someone on Twitter takes the time to write something kind instead of “Quit crying, it’s not like I fucked your Mom again,” chances are, they meant it. For this reason, I enjoy Twitter. I can count on people being openly hostile. I’d much rather have someone tell me to go fuck myself than have them feed me some bullshit about “Hope you feel better soon. If you need anything, just ask,” and when I do, they fucking ghost.

Change was imperative. I was getting sucked into the back and forth drama of people who couldn’t spell correctly and were arguing against their own interests, but clearly weren’t aware of it. Easy fucking words too. I won’t go into much detail just in case you’re one of the unfortunate assholes I’m talking about. It must be a terrible way to find out that you’re stupid; reading my bullshit blog and finding yourself here. Oh, fuck, there I am.  *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* So I set out to make changes with the best intentions at heart.

I thought that if I stopped logging onto these social media sites I would be forced to get in touch with nature. I would spend more time outside. Maybe I’d be mindful or whatever the fuck spiritual bitches do. I pictured myself going on some earthy hike and munching on granola. Maybe I’d take a break and meditate on some rock and joggers and bicyclists would pass behind me and be like, “Wow, that chick is deep and grounded.” I’d be all Zen and one with the universe. The key to earth’s mysteries would unlock themselves. But that’s not what happened. Not. At. All.

My “refresh” finger has been super itchy. I’ve tried flipping through pages on the Kindle. Not. The. Same. I’ve tried flicking my kid in the ear. I think that’s child abuse. I tried borrowing a book from the library and turning pages in real a book and while that’s slightly more satisfying, I’m not enlightened, I have no desire to eat granola, and the world still perplexes me. So, I’m no closer to being better than any of you. What’s the point in punishing myself then? I was happier sitting on my couch yelling into my phone about some twat not understanding what the hell they were talking about and why don’t they just walk off a bridge. *refer to why I spend more time on Twitter* What else did I do with my time?

I was able to spend a shit-ton of time invested in mediocre films on Netflix. A big thanks for that. I rented films from the Redbox that I returned on time. Probably because they sucked, and I had nothing better to do with my time. I did a lot of running, not outdoors like I thought I would, because that would be too outdoorsy. I ran inside on the treadmill where I could compete with the jerks next to me. I’m so fucking far from spiritual. I’m not sure why I ever thought this experiment would work. Bottom line: I’m just a miserable bitch. Social media doesn’t change that. If anything, staying engaged keeps me from interacting with the public, and that’s probably best for all involved.

The microwave standard

I probably shouldn’t be a dick about this, but let’s talk about the office microwave.

Listen, if I wanted to drink an El Monterey egg & sausage burrito, please know that I’m fully capable of making that happen all on my own. But when you, office co-worker, stink up the microwave with your hydrogenated trans fat, artery and ass blaster, you kill my coffee. Every. Fucking. Time. My chamomile tea tastes like artificial egg and rabbit pellet sausage. That shit they’re calling cheese is a crime against humanity, and you’re leaving remnants of it on the turn table because you’re so fucking eager to put that brick of death into your stomach that you can’t clean up after yourself. And now what? Now, my coffee cup is stuck in that primordial ooze. What a lazy and inconsiderate piece of shit you are. Shit in, shit out, as they say.

The inside of our microwave here looks like someone stuffed a Gremlin in it and turned it to the popcorn setting. I refuse to clean the shit though. I don’t even like cleaning the microwave in my own home, I sure as shit don’t intend to clean up after a bunch of grown ass men who refuse to grab a spray bottle occasionally. For fuck’s sake, we have Clorox wipes! It’s not even a multi-step process; ya lazy bitches.

I don’t care if the science project growing in there makes all these guys sick, it’s not as if I didn’t warn them. What I do give a shit about is the integrity of my coffee. I’m 38, I don’t drink anymore, I’ve given up the hoards of candy I was eating, and I don’t put shit up my nose anymore – let me have my coffee, I don’t have much else that I derive enjoyment from. 

I will re-heat my cup of heaven three or four times. I truly want to savor it. I tune you assholes out when I drink my coffee too. I may look at you, I may even nod, but I haven’t heard a damn word. That’s how it ought to be.

Most often in workplaces you hear rules put into play about the reheating of fish or vegetables. I, personally, would rather have you use the microwave for these purposes than to zap your prepackaged sodium stink bombs. Your leftover Tilapia and broccoli aren't likely to leave crusty cheese on the tray or exploded pepperoni on the sidewalls of the microwave. If it does, you’re more likely to clean that shit up out of shame and incomprehensible demoralization. No one likes to be the person that brought the banned food AND left it painted all over the inside of the communal cancer spreader.

The stuff that’s growing stuff in our microwave has started growing its own little baby stuff. Our microwave is an ecosystem. Scientists are going to be contacting us to harvest Penicillium from John’s crusted cheese, Tim’s lasagna sauce, and Steve’s pepperoni explosion. Fuck it, maybe I’m the asshole here and should just let these guys contribute to science. I’ll get a single burner coffee warmer for my desk and shut the hell up about it.

It’ll be lunchtime soon. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what anyone puts in that hotbox, it must all come out tasting like El Monterey, Italian mold, and plastic eggs. Glad I stick to a strict diet of swear words, caffeine, and 7-11 bought delicacies.

Practiced restraint - a day at work

It’s shameful the amount of joy I derive from catching fools in their bullshit or bold-faced lies, truly. In my personal life, I love being able point out the errors in what you thought was a well-laid out plan. Here, dumbfuck, let me show how that was never gonna work. When it happens in my professional life it’s like winning the fucking lottery.  

I’m not a patient person; it’s in line with that of a 4-yr. old with a full bladder and toys in the shopping cart that need opening. Gratification, now! Answers, now! Action, now! Sometimes it’s as simple as fuck off, now! I don’t let that get in the way of doing a good and thorough job, however. So, when you tell someone that I haven’t completed a task you stand to gain from financially if I were to fuck it up, believe I will challenge you.

I’m anal retentive about my work. A monkey could do this job. A smart monkey, but have you seen primates in the wild? Resourceful motherfuckers! Don’t pay attention to zoo primates, that’s an act. They play dumb on purpose. They’re getting paid extra for the antics they put on, don’t be fooled. That’s terrible and I’m going to Hell for the insinuation that they’re there voluntarily. Add it the list of horrible shit I’ve done or said. I’ve lost count but I’m sure someone out there is keeping track. I’m anal retentive about a job that is remedial, so when you say I haven’t fulfilled my duties, you’re damn straight I’m offended.

Today at work some asshole decided that they’d try to take advantage of the system. Asshole, I am the system. I guess they figured some 15-yr. old was on the other end of the email chain and would rather upload photos to their Instagram account than take the time to do a little research on the matter at hand. This unscrupulous piece of shit wrote a letter declaring their discontent with our corporation because we hadn’t refunded them. They were still receiving the product they had asked to have cancelled months ago and were still waiting on the refund. Here we go…

I’m certain these shady shit bags don’t think someone will spend the time chasing down payment details on a check that’s almost three months old and only $59.95. I certainly don’t get paid enough to do it. Wanna know why I do it? Because I’m a perfectionist and I absolutely love receiving the email confirmation from my girl at the bank with the endorsement on the back showing that this lying piece of shit deposited our check into their account the day after they got it. I want to circle their signature and email it back to them with the words: YOU LYING COCKSUCKER on it, but I’m pretty sure that’s bad for business and we may get another “bad” review. At the very least I think I’m owed an apology. Maybe they ought to buy my girl at the bank a Starbucks card too, that seems fair.

So, from where I stand, you’re still getting the product AND you got your money back? Maybe you owe us a little sumthin, huh? Next time you decide to try to pull one over on someone, do it to someone who isn’t completely neurotic and hellbent on proving themselves right. Or maybe just try being a decent human being who doesn’t try to scam the system, you morally bankrupt bucket of monkey feces.

ich verstehe nicht

There is nothing I love more than being told I understand something that I’ve just finished explaining I don’t.

It’s not humiliating enough for someone like me to look another person in the eye and say, “Yo, I don’t get it, do you think you could explain that to me?” I want to make sure there isn’t a shred of self-confidence left, so can you look at me like I’m an imbecile and insist that I do? That would be great, thanks!

Most people don’t have the issue that I do with admitting that a concept is beyond their grasp. I would rather saw off my own foot with a marginally sharpened popsicle stick. When I tell you that I don’t understand something, I’ve already had 17 internal conversations and played out at least a dozen scenarios where I have lied to you about my knowledge and comprehension. That, in and of itself, is impressive. Now, you want to add water to my grease fire? Okay, but I can’t guarantee your safety.

My sanity on any given day is delicate at best. I’m never certain when I wake up if I’m going to feel like I can take on the world or if a pet food commercial is going to make me cry and question societal norms. You’re better not speaking to me until after you’ve established the following: a) have I been to the gym? b) have I had coffee? c) am I menstruating? You want the answers to the first two questions to be yes, and if you really need help with the third, then you deserve whatever fresh hell I serve you.

I was in a relatively good mood today. I say “relatively” because with me, it’s always relative. Are you hungry? I could eat. Are you in a bad mood? I’m not in a terrible mood. Relative: it keeps me from resolve or backing myself into a corner of being one way or the other. It allows for wild mood swings. I change moods quicker than soccer moms change panties in park bathrooms after the game before going home to their husbands. Like most things though, it was relative, so its lifespan was short lived.

Presented with a task I didn’t understand, we locked eyes and I said those three magic words. I. Don’t. Understand.

The nerve of this motherfucker! I was in disbelief…

Me: I don’t understand.

Them: Yes, you do.

Did you not just hear me say that I didn’t understand some shit? Sound the fucking trumpets! Don’t stand there looking at me like I’m speaking another language. My ass will jump on Amazon and purchase you Rosetta Stone – which edition do you need? Clearly, we have a breakdown in communication. I’d like to help resolve it, but I’m not certain I can do anything about it without either bawling or throwing something directly at your face. Jail time is probable for me. I’m already thinking of places to bury the body.

I’ll wait till they leave the room to start throwing shit…they’re bigger than me. I’ve already copped to being stupid, my ego can’t take my losing a physical fight too.

Note to self: always fully sharpen popsicle sticks and keep several on my person.