Forgive me, if you will, for writing an entry in such a lousy mood. I need to rant. Rave. Vent.
If your social status is anything above yeti/caveperson/antisocialite, you can relate with what I'm about to write.
People are stupid.
I can't even begin to tell you how many times in a day I find myself asking, "what's the matter with you?" And this point goes beyond trivial matters, such as "I left my 40% off coupon at home, can I have another?"
Nope, this literary huff is a product of Fed-Up (you do know that Fed Ex and UPS merged,right?) I am sick of people! I am sick of people and their sob stories. Don't get me wrong, it's one thing to have cancer, but having your coupons stolen out of your newspaper by a sneaky neighbor isn't as tragic, by any means. Of course I am using coupons figuratively here, in representation of some stale bread story that can be described as "awful," "terrible" or, "horrifying."
I can think of worse things.
I've found myself amid a myriad of complainers, whiners and overgrown babies. I've come in contact with complete assholes, self-righteous psuedo-intellects and, those I like to call "softies." (Or, those who can't handle anything.)
I'm beginning to wonder if the entire world has it's panties in a bunch.
I want to climb to the highest mountain and scream "GET OVER IT!"
Life is too short.
And there was a time in my life, not too long ago...
Enter: personal reflection period + how I overcame it.
And then I have to wonder what shitty things has life sent this person's way to make them such a miserable wretch? Ah, have a string of bad luck? Take it out on everyone! Consider this A-OK in my book!
But what I think the real problem here is, is the somewhat vague definition of bad. Webster's defines the term bad as: something that is bad. "Softies" define bad as: the worst thing that could possibly ever happen. Ex: dropping toothbrush in toilet or, spilling milk. Someone grab a Kleenex! Boohoo!
What really gets me is all of these supportive minions sporting elastic yellow bracelets in dedication to Lance Armstrong and his battle with cancer. He fell off his bike, figuratively speaking, and he got back on. You don't see him shelling out cash for therapy and anti-depressants. He's playing the hand life dealt him and he's winning.
Take a hint or retire the bracelet. Conformists.
Life is way too hard to lay back on the proverbial leather couch of your therapists office. Grab life by the lemons and make lemonade.
Or get out of my face.
2 comments:
Hey Marissa, I need you here! You can sit next to me, behind the desk, and tell these waaaaa-babies that having a Friday class or an 8 o'clock is not the worst thing that will happen to them in their life. Hell, it may even build a little character. Cause there are smart kids flippin' burgers at Wendy's who would KILL for the chance at an 8 o'clock, but can't afford the privilege.
And then, when we're done, we'll flush their toothbrushes down the john.
~~ jennifer, who's missed you
Does whining about whiners count as whining?
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