Thursday, Apr. 26, 2007 @ 4:14 p.m.
I haven't had a good ranty rant in a while, have I? I don't want to give the mistaken impression that I've been all chilled out or anything, because i haven't. Lately I've had speed-rage. This is the rage you get when you're stuck behind someone moving at a glacial pace, whether in a car or on foot. I'll just start by saying this: MOVE. YOUR. ASS. AMERICA. I'm so freaking tired of being stuck behind you. Actually, I feel a memo-spree coming on.
Memo to the slow-ass fool at the gym:
When I arrived at the gym last night I was running at bit late for the weights class and walked in behind you, slow-ass fool. You were walking so slowly that I nearly pushed you out of the way. You meandered through the door, up to the desk to swipe your card and then down the hall to the locker rooms. Could you not feel me steaming up your tail? There was no way around you and I don't even understand how is it POSSIBLE to walk that slowly! And in a gym! Break a sweat, dude!
Memo to the girl I held a door for last night at the gym:
I was walking through the door and you were behind me so I held the door for you to grab, not for you to waltz through with nary a glance in my direction. I am not a door-holding robot, you cow.
Memo to everyone who's ever commented on my red coral necklace:
It's BRANCH CORAL. CORAL WHAT GROWS IN THE OCEAN. Why the fuck would i be wearing tiny little chili peppers around my neck?
Memo to DMV (I know, this is like shooting fish in a barrel):
I'm currently on perma-hold with you and, I gotta say, your hold information is making me MENTAL. This perky woman who's telling me HELLA useful information ("have a pen handy to jot down useful information!") between painful bouts of Vivaldi makes me want to cry because I've listened to her blathering over and over and over and over again. Thanks, also, for informing me that drunk drivers are not welcome on our highways. Really? Because I just wasted a bunch of money on engraved invitations. Also, when someone is on hold for a REALLY long time what they don't want to hear when you finally pick up is that your computers are down. le sigh.
Memo to James Blunt:
You are fired. No, wait! You are dead to me. I was fine with your sweet little tsunami-injured supermodel girlfriend, but making out with Paris Hilton? I mean, gross dude. Why would you do that? I'm totally going to download your next album illegally. NOT A DIME.
Wow I feel better now.