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.