Fire at Will

Ever have one of those days? Theoretically, things are going well. You're looking like an urban cowgirl in the best of ways. Three of your friends called you skinny. A coworker likes your hair color. The sun is out and a bucket of strawberry flavored sugar-water awaits the addition of some tequila after work. You're feeling like a pretty pretty princess and should act accordingly. But you just can't get in the Old Navy ad kind of mood. In fact, you're downright cranky. So, I'm going to let fly on what's pissing me off. It's not artistic, but, fuck it.

Coworkers: You are good people, by and large. Many of you are far kinder to me than I deserve. But for the love of God, when you drink the last can of diet soda in the Coke fridge, please put another six pack or two in the cooler so when a caffeine junkie walks in looking for a fix she needn't find that the diet Coke is just sitting at room temperature while only regular Coke is cold. Don't give me a "oh the diet was buried under a flat of Dr. Pepper" routine. The diet is right on top. Act like a proper human and put it in the damn fridge. God. Now my teeth are corroding from consuming regular. Thanks.

Couples: No one is going to steal your girlfriend from under your nose if you stand a foot or so apart from her. There is no need to cling to her like a life raft while riding the T in the morning. Step apart, leave room for the Holy Ghost, whatever.

Misanthropy: My future is bleak and full of woe. There is no way I am ever going to date anyone again. Why? Because I hate everyone I see in public. This couple this morning was a perfect example of horrible couples. Miss Vera Bradley Bag with her fluorescent orange tank top and bright blue ruffly skirt and her boyfriend Mr Monotone. Clinging like an unlined skirt to a pair of tights, they rode the T in together, having a boring conversation about someone equally as boring as them. He spoke in monotone. They never laughed. He held her like I was about to pick her up and sell her into the sex trade if he let her go. Maybe I'm a cold bitch, but I don't want someone who can't step away from me when appropriate. I'll tell you when I want you. Until then, leave me some room.

Government: Hey, Uncle Sam, where the hell is my tax return? Do you want to fight obesity? Road rage? A lack of consumer confidence? Then print my check and mail it. I need to join the gym. Okay? Should I have waited to quit my crappy gym until I got the check? Probably. Too late now. So I've got no physical activity (see also: never dating) and I'm eating nothing but pizza because I am SO PISSED OFF. So my ass grows and I have nothing to do but watch TV and be pissed off. So I'll spend that money as soon as you give it to me. Promise. I won't do anything reckless like save it. MAKE WITH MY MONEY.

Fashion: What the hell is up with the color palate this season? The choices are a) fluorescents to go with your heinous pink Vera Bradley bag or b) pastels. Nobody looks good in pastel. It washes people out. Especially pistachio ice-cream green. Heinous. And I have red hair. It should work. But it does not. It is also not 1989. Fluorescent is good only for bathing suits or clubbing. Office attire should not be Day-Glo. I was in Macy's on Tuesday and it was Day-Glo to the right of me, pastel to the left of me. Horrible. I'll have to make due with my three black tank tops in rotation with flip-flops and two skirts I own that still fit. If I don't get my damn tax return, I am going to fit in the others again because my ass is expanding like a Peep in a microwave.

Gravity: I tried to throw some game this morning. My good-smelling coworker had to use my computer, so I got my urban cowgirl ass up and perched on the edge of the desk, long legs on display, pushing my arms to my side to get a slight hint of cleavage going. Kristen snickered as I tried to start a conversation with said coworker about a neutral topic. He ignored me, fixed my computer and left quickly. Gravity is strong today-- my game didn't go nearly as far as it usually does. It's like throwing game on Uranus or something.

So, in short: fuck the lukewarm soda drinkers; fuck the static-stop couples; to hell with Vera Bradley bags; fuck no, I won't do what you tell me (until you make with my tax return); put the Cris-Cross/ice cream colors back in the closet and screw good smelling guys who are oblivious to my game. No. Really. Screw them.