The Grammatically Incorrect Use of the Word "Your & You're"

There is nothing more visually offensive (with the exception of a few bitches who have no business wearing the colors brown and black together and whom also take it upon themselves for reasons unbeknownst to me, to ruin my day every day as I walk by them in the CCB, ahem) than the misusage of the words "Your & You're." Did you skip K-5? Or maybe all of high school? My eyeballs recoil in terror. As you indecently assault the poor pronoun, YOU'RE taking a machete to the heart of poor ol' woebegone Ms. BlaBla, YOUR elementary school English teacher (right through her hideous double-knit sweater and array of pins and other flair that at the tender and hardly fashionable age of 10 you still manage to deem a fashion faux pas). While YOU'RE texting me and telling me "YOUR e-mail never went through," I'm thinking that YOU ARE stupid... and P.S....IT DID!!!!! As I watch the undoing and inevitable ruin of our English language, I also notice similarities between those individuals that misuse "Your & You're" and characteristics of people who pee in the pool.

A Few Reasons I Cannot Breathe

Someone get me an oxygen tank, because I can't breathe. There are things that cause an inability to perform even the most basic involuntary action of a human being, taking a breath of air without choking on the fumes from the day's creepiness, bullshit, and most importantly... my own idiocy. My breathing ineptitude comes in the form of fake panic attacks, laughing fits so hard that I simply cannot continue to live out of embarrassment for myself. This rendezvous of monstrosity is typically a daily occurrence. They are in no particular order and each imbecilic bestowal upon me causes me to die a little inside at equal velocities. And here we go:

 "Right-of-wayers"- this isn't in quotes like on paper quotes.....these are air quotes, people. I am air quoting because what the fuck. I let you proceed before I do while coming to a stop sign or what have you, even though I clearly arrived first and your subsequent poky proceedings scream back at me "I jus don' give a fuk, imma take mah tyme!!!" Don't you dare get me started on bicyclists, I don't give the them the right of way, they take it and they take it like candy from a baby. Hey, Pedestrians by allllllllll meannnsssss move at a glacial pace, I have nowhere to be. no, really. seriously. dont worry about it. no, no, no. no need to get off your phone. no, come onnn no need to scoot across the street. my car is made out of kryptonite and I have spiderman on speed dial, it doesn't evennn matter that I'm about to get t-boned by a semi-truck. bitches.

Realizing I've Been Unknowingly Listening to Mexican Banda Music In My Car For The Past 30 Minutes- listening to the Macarena is one thing but unknowingly (and loudly) listening to Banda or Mariachi music and even grooving along in the car is a whole 'nother quandary. And I wonder why my drunken texts or even more shaming... my sober texts are littered with Spanglish (i.e... thank you, thank you, graciassss. what are you doing chica? ....etc). If you can take anything from this post = stay clear of me on the road, my absent mindedness is clearly uncultivated more than you could ever comprehend. 

More to come...

Pardon?

Okay. This will be short, but not sweet. I am writing a formal complaint letter to the record label that made the awful decision to pick up an artist who CLEARLY has an undiagnosed speech impediment, which resulted in the blunder that is Sean Paul. Excuse me, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU EVEN SAYING? Is it english? No, no it can't be. But, first thing is first.... lets get your name right. Is it Sean Paul or Sean-uh-Paul? Actually............ I don't care. Just get the fuck off my radio.

Bathroom Etiquette

Ladies... let's get it together. Don't talk on your phone when you're in the stall. You should know that neither I nor any other bathroom traveler wants to hear your conversation and if you didn't know... now you do. This conversation could be had elsewhere, both the ill-fated phone call receiver and I would both really appreciate it. Its weird enough that I'm within a foot of a complete stranger going pee, I don't need to hear about the vacuous daily happenings from the type of bitch who talks on her phone while going pee in a public zone. And no... it's not enough that you've parked it in the furthest stall away from me... the large one for handicapped people (ruderuderuderuderude). Because clearly your personality is just so huge you need all that damn space. Then again...I don't mind because all of the mouth breathers WOULD pick the stall farthest way... I, on the other hand know better. Perhaps the best kept secret of the Women's Restroom = the first stall is always the cleanest and an A++ in my book ... minimal repulsiveness. HA! I give my harpy pronouncements interminably, but give my wisdom sparingly. No need to thank me this time.

Nose Hairs

Parents who let their rug rats run rampant...a word of advice: STAY AT HOME. I always scoffed at parents who travel with their wee ones attached to leashes (darlingly disguised by a cute little monkey backpack)... now I applaud them. Lazy? No. How dare you say that. They're responsible. Last week while taking advantage of Sushi Happy Hour ($4 Large Sake and $4 32 oz. Sapporo...kidding meee?), I realized the ingeniousness of a feral invention such as a child tether. I had noticed when walking into the restaurant three juvenile offenders were walking on their knees...in crocs... pretending their knees were their feet. First of all....who the fuck dresses their kids in crocs? These people should be flogged in open court. Make them wear Jellies, so much cuter. Anyway, already peeved by a first glance, I held myself back from giving the dwarves a little tap with my shoe as I passed by. After sitting down I noticed these poor asian waiters were doing Mexican standoffs (asian/mexican...stand off? it just doesn't make sense) trying to get past them to promptly serve the dipsomaniacs such as my friend Candace and myself. Helloooo? I'm trying to get inebriated as possible before happy hour's cessation; any obstruction of such plans deserves punishment. As I furrowed my brow and whipped my head around to see a parent leap into action, in return I received a blank stare back from the flighty progenitor. One of her pint sized piques grazed my foot. MY FOOT! ewewewew. I was about to reach into my purse and pop an adderal in the child's mouth. All of this could have been avoided...by keeping your little nose hair at home. Bitches.

Traffic

I meannnnn! Memorial Day Traffic. I'm sorry but what don't you people understand, take the fuckin bus! Carpool! Do awful, awful things for a ride! Goodyear blimp! I don't care how you get there, but get the hellllll out of my way (with the exception of riding a bicycle, I do not condone such in-my-way idiocy) I have about six Bloody Marys with my name on them at my next destination and my second hang over of the day is kicking in. Move It. Or I will lose it. My angry under-my-breath mumblings can and will quickly become all windows down psycho bullshit. I'll be crawling on my knees home later. I dont need to crawl in traffic too. Bitches.

FAIL

My mother recently gave me a gift certificate to Beach Bunny Swimwear. For those who don't know what Beach Bunny Swimwear is, it is basically lingerie that somehow passes for pool wear and in reality you really must stay on the look out for police while wearing it in public as it is borderline public indecency. I strolled in, overcome by the smell of "Angel" perfume which smells something like slutty teenage prostitutes, gold digger and desperation (I too wear this, but I can hate on it because I was not wearing it at the time and considering the sources that it was oozing from), I see two SASSY Latinas with the dressing room wide open. I heard one complain loudly about her huge ass. But she didn't need to tell me that such an ass existed as I had already noticed, with her and her big ass none the wiser. After years of judging and mad-dogging bitches, I have mastered the art of pretending not to look, I will probably end up with a lazy eye or something because of it, but we'll deal with that issue when it arises. Sometimes when I feel like being a meanie, rather than being blatantly rude and wishing to not get beat down I choose to say something passive aggressive a.k.a. doing it with a smile on my face, or I say something like "that bathing suit looks great on your butt!" Lies. Lies. Lies. This was an odious lie! Hehe, I'm such a gem. Anyway these bitches WERE NOT having it, even though they had no idea I was telling a serious lie... a momentous thing happened, I was caught in my own game. She replied, "Yeah you too." I was in sweatpants. BURN! She won this bitch-off. A failure of epic proportions on my part. I died a little inside and awkwardly pretended to look around a little more and walked away with my horned tail between my legs. To add insult to injury she yelled out, "Keep drinking your HATEORADE." Actually it was Smart Water. That bitch shoulda picked some up. But my horns go off that loca lady who put me in my place. Maybe I should post this on Craigslist's "Missed Connections".

Picture This

Minding my sweet, sweet little business and driving down PCH, to my HORROR out of the corner of my eye I first saw what I thought was a leather hand bag in a sultry shade of brown driving a black compact car, was actually a woman in her eighties swerving into my lane. I screeched like the little bitch I am and with my feline-like reflexes I managed to preclude a severe side swipe from Grandma Death by swerving into the other lane, which was coincidentally Southbound oncoming traffic. While swerving back into my lane and trying to compose myself, wrinkles speeds up and flips me off! Clearly she suffered from some sort of age related ailment such as Alzheimer's Disease as she must have forgotten what had just occurred was clearly her g-d damned fault. Interestingly she had a marlboro cigarette or some shit dangling from the corner of what I think was some hole in her face and even more engrossing was that old Nana Ramshackle was driving a Prius. Ohh its too good. Throwing her cigarette out of her mouth and rolling her window down, she began to taunt me with her left bingo wing out of the car window. I may have just had the fear of G-d put into me, I was disoriented and in serious need of a Diet Coke with a straw, but nothing could have shielded me from the pasty white globule that was in the back seat. Grandma Demode's perhaps 11 year old (I'm assuming) brute-of-a-grand-beast wearing a cut off, balled his well-upholstered stumpy fingers into fist and shook it at me. I slowed down as you cannot compete with this sort of craziness and quite flustered the Primordial Creature and her varmint sped off to fill their daily quota of harvested souls. I was not going to throw down with her, and not because she's old but because needless to say she would take me out and fuck me in the street. Why are the people who drive Priuses and other "environmentally conscious" cars the biggest crazies? Blah Blah Blah, they're saving the environment by not purchasing as much gas. I call it being cheap. Hippie Bitches. But I guess its not their fault as they have been severely disillusioned that spending an unnecessary amount of money (thanks but I'll take quality over practicality ANY day) will somehow save the environment. Go over 45 mph and you're burning gas. And as we know these people are all crazy so guaranteed at any given time they will be traveling at a speed that is double the speed limit and killing one endangered animal at a time. But then again a little smog never hurt no one, cause I like me a purple and pink sunset! So burn that fossil fuel honey, were all going to hell in a hand basket.

People with Weird Names

Why are people with weird or "different" names so annoying? I mean I hear you talking about it before the teacher takes roll on the first day of class, I hear you giggle, sigh loudly or bitch about it when our teacher chokes on the flem that is produced when trying to speak your name. There is always that subsequent response, "My friends call me this," or "Just call me this" and its always worse than the individual's real name to begin with... Mental note, not to EVER speak to you, lest I am forced to mispronounce your name and never hear the end of it. It's not edgy, its dumb. And I will most likely try to avoid the fateful day when its comes time for group projects, as I assume your parents obvious stupidity which resulted in the odd misspelling of your name, has most likely been passed through on to you. FUCK, you're in my group. WHY, you ask? Oh, I know why, because my teacher facilitates this inevitable pseudo "friendship" that last for approximately three weeks, because I too have had an awkward first day when it comes time for roll call. We share some sort of sick, twisted common ground. Cameron? My teacher looks around for some dude with a beer gut. ITS ELEMENTARY MY DEAR WATSON! Is it possible that my parents too could have made the portentous decision to name me after a boy? Actually I think I was named after some slutty girlfriend my uncle had in college, or her dog...I forget. And then when I raise my hand my teacher smiles awwwww. LOOK WHO WE GOT UP THERE CLASS....FUCKING NANCY DREW! Yeah I'm a chick. But instead of correcting my teacher and say its "Cami," I'll avoid the hooker names that come along with the misunderstanding of when I correct them. "Candy?" NO. "Tammy" NO. "Kimmie" NO. "Sandy" NO!!! Why did your parents just changed that last letter, OHHH sweet baby jeebus how it would spare me the mental torment, how it would not physically hurt me to hear your name. Leonard I hate you, oh I'm sorry its pronounced LEO-noard.