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.