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...

Ravers

I could simply end this post after the title, but I'll go on. I have a lot of friends who enjoy frying their brains and sticking glitter in their eyeballs and covering their arms in "candy" or multi colored beads from their wrists up to their armpits until they resemble the Michelin Man, so I'm not hating. Well okay maybe a little bit. Why is it every time that someone puts on a techno song in their presence they feel the need to describe what they would be feeling if they were at a rave at that very moment (which they are not)? They are lemmings. If there was a flashing light at the end of a cliff, they would undoubtedly follow it to their deaths. I mean I have never done ecstasy, but the closest I've come would be my escapades at the Spice Girls concert. But you don't see me seizing each time "Wannabe" comes on the radio, at least not in public and its just a little froth at the mouth which I promptly clean up. I pondered for a while as to how or why people even start raving. I guess every hoe wants another chance to dress like a slut when its not Halloween and I guess every guy needs his chance to dress in spandex and act out his homosexual tendencies. Which is something I wish they would do more often! Gay guys are so much more fun. Anyways. I can't even imagine a gaggle of sweaty unintelligible zombies touching me because they think my arm feels like cashmere (which it does, because I moisturize) heads-a-bobbin' in unison to flashing lights and music that does not cease. I mean they honestly turn into infants. How else do you describe people who can't talk, suck on pacifiers, are so easily entertained by the dumbest things and are dressed in outfits that say 3-6 months on the tag? Rave? Thanks, but no thanks. I'll drink six Venti Chai Tea Mistos and listen to Britney, its the same shit.

Ignorant Bitches

Hey- if you're going to be a bitch at least don't be a stupid bitch. I mean lets get real here, I love to bitch, but I'm not that black lady with a government job from which I will never get fired cause government employees NEVER get fired when they should, tapping my 5 inch long nails on the keyboard and giving away attitude like it's samples of Teriyaki chicken from the Asian take-out restaurant @ the Mission Viejo Mall.
"Excuse me ma'am, I was wondering..."
"YOU'RE TALKIN' TOO FASSS, I CAN UNDERSTANNN YOU, NEXT!!!" -->OH HELL NO, I waited in this line, like every other waiting for your hateful ass to help me. As I slowed my roll and asked her again, she pretended once again not to hear me and then called her other (what do ya know) 40-something year old black female cohort to stare me down. My calm and submissive behavior apparently is somehow offensive to black women, cause as only a quarter black I apparently am not black enough for them and I do not posess the full arguing power that they do...but I do try. As I stood and calmly asked them again these ladies continued to tell me they couldn't help me and didn't know what I was talking about as their voices got louder and louder. WHY DO FULL AFRICAN AMERICANS WOMEN dislike me so much, I'm a quarter...but I look half? DO I FIT IN YET?!?!? Finallyyyy the little helpful Asian woman walked over and told me "they couldn't help me there based on what time of the day it is" but gladly gave me the phone number of the people who could help me. I thanked her and walked to my car, flipping those two bitches the bird via my imagination, because in real life you know if I did.... Latrelle (true story this was her name) would high-five me across the face and her BFF would chase me down and slit my throat with those nails of hers. I got in the car and drove off, I dialed the number and while I waited for some grown man game for mah bluetooth, I soon realized she gave me the wrong number. If you're wondering where this nonsense took place...it would be at none other than the post office. DOWN WITH RED-TAPE BUREACRACY !! FIRE THESE BITCHES !!!