Category Archives: two sorts of people in the world
PLEASE NOTE: As a throwback to my previously established blog, www.twosortsofpeople.com which involved my unbalanced segregation of all people into two irrelevant categories, I’m hitting you up with a blast from the past, Brendan Fraiser style, with another “two sorts of people in the world” blog entry. Enjoy!
I’m not a huge fan of reality television. I know everybody says that while secretly filming audition tapes for “Wife Swap,” but I’m serious. Yes, I watch “What Not To Wear” on occasion, and dry heave my way through episodes of “Jersey Shore” but like I always say, if I haven’t “liked” it on Facebook, it’s not actually happening.
However there is one reality show that I
anxiously reluctantly allow into my life each January. One that breaks through my general attraction to the – anti-establishment, screw top 40 radio, involuntary mouth-foaming rage at the mere mention of Ke$ha –mentality I harbor in regard to modern pop culture:
It IS… A-MERICAN Idol
Ok, that was supposed to be written with a very obvious Seacrest-ian inflection, but I realize without the 5’2 physique and frosted tips, it sort of falls flat. So use your imagination.
Anyway, American Idol has always had some sort of a mystical hold on me. I can’t quite describe it…
…. so I’m going to try. It’s like the butterfly feeling I get in the pit of my stomach every time I see a Leonardo DiCaprio movie, particularly if he is shirtless, using an accent, or aging to the point of death throughout the duration of the film. Or the agitated trembling sensation that flows through my body when I lie in bed at night, knowing Nutella is somewhere in the house waiting to be eaten. These reactions are very similar to those that I feel when introduced to a new season of American idol, and last night at work during the season 11 premiere those panty-changing feelings returned (ewwww).
I know what you must be thinking. How could such a street-smart, happenin’ chick, with great hair and a vinyl record collection get behind the revolving factory of crap American Idol has proven to be year after year? Simple:
“It’s where dreams come true” …or go to die, depending on who you are.
It’s not just about the often over-hyped singing or the offensively hokey Ford commercials, which frankly I could do without. American Idol has locked me in because every year some 17 year old from North Dakota — who learned to overcome the struggles of being born with one eye to mute parents, by working toward a cure for childhood diabetes in between secret vocal lessons in the local church basement, that no one knew about until she begged to fly to Austin to audition for American Idol using the money earned from the sale of the single, family vehicle, — sings a rendition of a Stevie Wonder song or something from the “Hannah Montana” soundtrack, “wowing” the judges to the point of tears. Said teenage cyclops will then proceed to awkwardly cry, and explain to the camera in a candid post audition interview, that this is her dream and “dreams really do come true” and that she WILL be the next American Idol. As we pan out, one of the judges, probably Randy, will point his never-used pencil at the door and say something like “that’s what it’s all about, dawg. That’s what it’s all about.”
It’s a really beautiful scenario and if you were not moved to tears by my portrayal, get your eyes checked, son. Anyway, my point is that my love for American Idol is often more about the hopeful, inspired feeling I get while watching it, than the actual talent. At least until three years ago…(I’ll get there, don’t worry)
So, according to my limited understanding of the world, pretty much everyone has watched American Idol at some point in its 10 year run. Therefore I feel comfortable dividing all of humanity into two different categories:
People who Passively Watch American Idol and People Who Destroy Relationships Over It
Now I realize not everyone who watches American Idol does so with the same level of dream-realizing grandeur with which I do. There are some people (tools) who watch it to make fun of the talentless hacks (just keepin’ it real), but don’t actually care either way about what happens. To these people, and all other, non-voting, non-psycho viewers who fall into the former category of people who watch passively, I say bravo! You are sufficiently less irrational and cracked-out than me. Good for you. Now go get hit by a bus.
Because really, it goes without saying that I fall into the latter category; the people who destroy relationships over it. I’m not going to lie. Anyone in a category that indicates obsessive, home-wrecking levels of passion for a TV show ought to be dragged out into the street and shot. Not really. But, something to that level. After all, it is completely ludicrous for anyone to get as unreasonably attached to a reality show and its contestants as I do. But in all honesty, I just can’t control myself!
Last night while working the coffee counter I decided to watch the season premiere of American Idol. Just so you understand, this is not the kind of thing I would normally deem appropriate for being in public. Why? Because a typical evening of watching American Idol provokes a certain manic behavior in me that is not in the best interest of society. But every year, I convince myself I will be stronger. I will care less about the poverty-stricken man with a newborn and a nasty case of Tourettes, who can sing like gold. I will care less about the homeless single mother with a Janis Joplin vibe and cool back tattoo. I won’t cry during auditions, or throw pillows at the TV in angst, I will sit back like the passive viewer I used to be three years ago.
Three years ago. What can be said? I was happy, healthy, and armed with sardonic wit about the crazy Sanjaya chick and the unexplainable fandom of David Archuletta.
If you do nothing else in your life, watch this video:
But then Season 8 happened and I fell in love with 16 year old Allison Iraheta.
Ok…marathon voting and crying when she was voted off…no big deal. Then Season 9 happened and I was introduced to Lilly Scott and Crystal Bowersox…
This was a very difficult year for me. Lilly was voted off early but Crystal made it to the finale and I never thought I could be more obsessed with a contestant until Season 10. Arguably the best season in the show’s history, with the weirdest indie-style, jazzy talents ever. I am weeping just thinking of Casey Abrams and Haley Reinhart.
OMG, I need to stop. Let it be known that my need to find videos for this blog entry turned into an hour of me watching and rewatching videos, while sobbing from the tears they all moved me to. I have a serious problem. But it’s important that you see this vulnerable, disturbed side of me because my obsession with Haley Reinhart last season, resulted in several fights with family members, near loss of friends, and two hour voting sessions. The judges hated her, HATED her, and other (jealous) people hated her amazing voice, her beautiful hair, her incredible legs…OK I admit it, I’m a bit lesbianic for her. I’m out and proud.
But seriously, everyone I was obsessed with was painfully, unbelievably talented in genres I actually listen to. I don’t care how indie, or anti-establishment, or hipster you are, you cannot deny the talent of the people above, and if you do, I will likely mail you a package of anthrax.
But I managed to stay composed during last night’s premiere. While I did have a few inexplicable smiles of insanity, explosions of unprovoked laughter, and the salty taste of tears streaming down over my lips in reaction to some inconsequential audition I don’t even remember right now, I’d say I kept it together pretty well. How I will fair the rest of the season, I cannot say.
I think it’s quite obvious that I have an illness. I’m not proud of it, just simply aware that I am not alone! Since I already congratulated the former group of people for their tight grip on sanity, I am going to applaud myself and the other dangerously fanatical people out there. You are NOT alone. I am here! Which you may not find the slightest bit comforting, but let’s face it. You’re obsessed with American Idol…what else do you really have at this point?
The girl who knows it is tacky to plug her own blog, within her blog, but still hopes if you enjoyed the “two sorts of people in the world” theme you will check out her other posts under the Sh*t I Write About section: two sorts of people in the world
I am a woman of few pet peeves. Though I may grow a stomach ulcer whenever anyone uses the word ignorant, ignorantly (boo-ya bitches) and dry heave whenever an adult woman complains that she is cold in 85 degree weather, in general I try to be a pretty laid back gal. But there are some sins of humanity that cannot be ignored. There is one thing this week, that irks me to the point of needing a new word to describe my annoyance (exasperate? aggravate? madden?). I cannot tolerate when people don’t celebrate Mother’s and Father’s Day
Before proceeding I must of course account for those people who have the right to not celebrate. Those who have lost their parents, those who do not know their parents, “The Child Called It”, and others with generally shitty parents.
Aside from that, all others who do not celebrate these holidays need to be dragged into the street and shot. Or something slightly less dramatic and less illegal. Let’s be real. But if you are one of these no class, free-loading leeches, who don’t celebrate these holidays solely because it is a “Hallmark holiday” you might as well go curl up and die.
Do I sound like a bitter mother whose children abandoned her in a nursing home right after her 65th birthday? No, not really. Holy, crow, I’m a 22 year old woman. Read someone else’s blog, a-hole. But if you are still reading and wondering why I feel so strongly about this, then drop those pupils to the next paragraph.
Your parents had sex. I know. Kill me. But they did. Lots of it. Tons of it. They lost their jobs and couldn’t pay their bills cause they were too busy having sex. You had to wear used underwear from the Salvation army, because your parents were too busy having sex. You had to drop out of private school and attend public schools where kids peed in each other’s lockers and ate their napkins for lunch, because your parents were too busy having sex. Ok, you get it.
So as a result they had you, the biggest regret of their lives. Crying all the time, throwing food, taking a dump on everything, and generally being a huge pain in the groin. But with weed and prescription pills, they dealt with that. They dealt with your swamp ass diapers and constant whining. They even burped you, when you were too lazy to do it yourself.
Eventually you decide all of this revolting bathroom humor isn’t enough to really mess with them. So you get a little older, little bigger, and decide to start ruining all their stuff. The stuff they bought with the money they made from the job they had to get once they had you. You spill your Pediasure on their newly paid off couch. Take your Crayola’s to the wall and write slurs about their bathroom habits, “Mommy smells like Poop,” “Daddy farts.” In other words, you become a real asshole.
A few years later, you get a little taller, a little hairier, and a lot bitchier. You start to pretend that you, in your measly thirteen year old mid-pubescent body, with your acne, weird body odors and confusion about the real use of tampons, know more about life than these people. These people who have literally had to wipe your ass with their hand on a camping trip when you wouldn’t stop defecating and went through all of your diapers on the first night. These people who have had to deal with your incessant voice-cracking pestering because you want the same cell phone that your friend Wyatt’s abusive parents bought him in payment for the eternal emotional scars they have left. But do you care? No. All you care about are glitter pens and sexting on your iPhone.
A few years later, you begin to grow out of this. Right when you start to become a tolerable human being, you go off to college, meet someone, move away and only visit on Christmas and Easter. And your parents are left in the dust of all the destructive torture you have put them through during the first two decades of your life.
Then May and June roll around. After calling you for months at a time to no avail, they finally catch you when you’re on your way out the door for a night of hard clubbing. The conversation goes something like this:
Daughter: “Ummm…..hahahah, shut up, Amber…..Hello?……HELLO?????”
Father: “Patricia? Honey? Is that you?”
Daughter: “What? Who is this?”
Father: “Patricia, dear. It’s your Dad.”
Daughter: “Dad? Um, what do you want? I’m leaving….hahahhaa, stop it Kimber!”
Father: “Oh, where are you going?”
Daughter: “Just out, Dad.”
Father: “Oh. Well, I haven’t talked to you for awhile. We wanted to see how you are.”
Daughter: “I’m fine. Busy. Work’s great. I really gotta go.”
Father: “Oh, well I won’t keep you. But I was wondering if you’d be available for-“
Daughter: “Ummmm…probably not. I’m really busy. Chad’s parents are having a Father’s Day picnic and I’m going to visit them.”
Father: “Oh. You’re visiting Chad’s dad for Father’s Day?”
Daughter: “Um, yeah. I mean, Chad really wants to and I love him so……yeah….hahhaa….quiet, Kimmy!”
Father: “Oh. Will I get to see you at all?”
Daughter: “I.D.K., Dad. Look I gotta go. Tell mom, I love you, BYE!!!
Dad is left in the dark, lonely corner of his recently remodeled home that you never bothered to come see. He is nursing a bottle of whiskey, as your mother watches Leno in the other room, wondering where he went wrong and what he did with his life.Wondering why he gave up all the great sex, all the vacations, all of the fun times he could have had with your mom before she got stretch marks and a permanently flabby hoo-ha.
Quite a grim picture, huh?
So this Father’s Day, instead of being a Patricia or being a Chad, do the right thing and be a good son or daughter. Give your dad a call. Buy your dad a card. Make a surprise visit to his house. In other words, don’t be a douchebag.
The girl who is running late to lunch with her dad
People who can accept a break up AND people who can’t and continue to wallow in their own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t
I’m a professional. Or at least I like to think I am. Of what, I am not sure, but I want to believe that there is some sort of code of conduct I will be violating with this blog entry. Because really, it is only satisfying if I am crossing the line, killing the illusion, or breaking the fourth wall.
I say this because there comes a time in every professional’s life, when they must take personal matters into their own frustrated, disgusted hands and rant about it in an online forum. I choose this very blog, (twosortsofpeople.com “like it” on Facebook!), to do just that.
Because, ladies and gentlemen, I discovered something tonight. Yes, yes, I did. Something many of you, formerly heartbroken individuals may already be quite familiar with. There is something called a “break up.” For those of you familiar with the term, you may skip ahead. But for others, who have yet to experience such a travesty, continue reading, my sweet break up virgins. You shall quickly be enlightened. I’ll start from the beginning.
Break up: (n.) A term used to describe the end of a relationship between two people due to one party’s eternal lack of character, respect, and non-asshole behavior.
Straight out of Webster’s, ver-f***ing-batim.
On August 22, 2003, “Swampy”, a fine bloke of prominent upbringing, explained that a break up is “the most probable outcome after your girlfriend finds you playing hide the sausage with her sister.” Nice one, Swampy!
On July 21, 2006, “Babanash,” a well-educated fellow from Newport, Rhode Island, reveals that a break up is “the time when the person who you love the most kicks you hard on your ass and tells you to fuck off.” Poor, Baba.
On August 21, 2003, “EroticusPrime,” a middle-aged white man who sold his daughter’s Barbie collection on Ebay to buy the Full House dvd boxset, preaches that a break up is “when yo ho don’t want you no mo, and/or you don’t want her, you break up.” Werd.
As you can see, there are some consistent themes among the definitions of this term. Yet there still seems to be a disconnect for some people. Because what I learned tonight is that there are two kinds of people in the world:
People who can accept a break up AND people who can’t and wallow in their own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t.
I understand that there are varying levels of intelligence. I get it. I’m not here to judge. Some people are simply not as intellectually gifted as others. Perhaps there are some people who take phrases like “I never want to talk to you again,” and “leave me alone,” and “stop calling me, I hate you,” as invitations for continuous contact, even, I don’t know, twelve months after a break up. Totally normal! Or is it?
After yet another vague and unaccounted for study, conducted by anonymous researchers, it has been found that only 1 in 27 individuals think this is normal behavior. The other 26 think you need to safely and quickly remove head from rectum, check for your ball sack, and deal with the fact that it is over. Yes, over. There shall be no miracle of miracles here that will reunite you with that special someone who wants nothing to do with you. Let it go, and for God’s sake, move on. It’s just getting pathetic.
Now, I may sound like a heartless, scum sucking, ho bag. But I preach a gospel of truth and unquestionable accuracy. There’s an acceptable amount of time you can contact an ex, before throwing in the towel and telling her to go die in a fire. A few weeks, of course. Three months, maybe. But twelve months later is not in that time frame.
SO for those of you who fall in the category of the kind of person who can’t accept a break up and chooses to wallow in your own misery pretending there is still a chance when there isn’t, I provide you with a top five list of ways, to NOT get over someone.
1. Three months after your breakup: Continue to text her several times a day, to no response, to remind her that she is a horrible person, and a whore for leaving you. Repeat this for the next several months, leaving her voicemails and sending her texts reminding her why no one will ever love her. Don’t forget to explain that you hope she is abused in her next relationship!
2. Six months after your breakup: Start a serious relationship with another person, only to continue asking, to no response, for sexual favors and other inappropriate things from your ex. She will continue to reject you, but that just means it’s working!
3. Ten months after your breakup: Impregnate your new girlfriend but pretend it is still your ex’s fault that your relationship didn’t work.
4. Eleven months after your breakup: Show up at your ex’s apartment when she is not home, then leave her a voicemail asking where she is.
5. Twelve months after your breakup: Text your ex, and proposition her for sex. She will most definitely be offended and angry but that’s ok! Just ask again! Explain that she is better than your pregnant girlfriend, because you’re a scumbag who can’t keep it in his pants.
These are five, surefire techniques to ensure you will spend a year staggering through life in a state of eternal self pity, unwilling to take responsibility for your own unhappiness.
This guy’s got the idea:
However, if you want to become the other kind of person, the kind who can accept a break up like a mature, rational, human being, please take the following steps:
1. Stop texting your ex. She has been trying to move on for a long time now. Let it happen. Stop making her more miserable than she has to be.
2. Stop reducing her to a sexual asset you once had, and cease to ask her for anymore sexual favors. She is NOT interested.
3. Focus on your new girlfriend. It is not her fault that you are too much of a jackass to get over someone before starting a new relationship.
4. Pull yourself together. ‘Nuff said.
5. Grow a pair and let it go. It’s been a year.
So there you have. Follow these steps and you will surely live a life of happiness and less regret.
Thank you for reading, supporting my rant, and allowing me the opportunity for some long due vindication.
The girl you want to have a watermelon seed spitting contest with
***Please note. Nothing in this blog was taken from real life or directed at one specific person. Facts and situations were completely fabricated for the sake of the topic, with the only exception being the entire entry.
Tonight I was going to make history. Break barriers. Conceive urban legends. I was planning to compose a literary masterpiece of such insane blogliness that it would knock the metaphoric socks off of yo’ asses (not physically possible) through a saga of witty ramblings about inane bullshit that would turn up in response to some very desperate Google search. (Apparently a lot of people ask Google if it’s strange to crumple their toilet paper. See below, son!)
But no. As I sit in my sister’s overheated non air conditioned second floor apartment, with her 17 pound cat by my side, I am in wonder, absolute God-fearing WONDER at what I have just discovered.
Apparently there is something known as: Microsoft Word 2010.
I was just sitting here, innocent as a virgin lamb, braiding my curly locks and singing When You Wish Upon a Star when I saw it. Right there on the desktop screen of my sister’s archaic piece of machinery she calls a laptop, the icon screamed to me with a banchee’s echoing cries fading in the distance.
Micrsoft (soft, soft, soft, soft)
Word (word, word, word, word)
How is this happening? How did my dear sister get caught in this never ending, high-priced trap of constant updating and upgrading? Did she pay for this hogwash? Illegally pirate this gobbledygook? Did she want it, or was she forced into it by a third party? My dear sweet sister. The thought makes me want to run into a knife.
So in honor of her, victim forever to the Microsoft machine, I dismiss my previous topic (I’m lying, I had no topic planned) and focus solely on what I think is a crisis. A silent killer. An epidemic of astronomical proportions.
The raging jihad between those who upgrade and those who do not.
Ok, I admit. Raging jihad is a small exaggeration. But still! There is most definitely a cultural divide here. While some people teeter on the line between casual iTunes updater and committed Droid user, I find that most lean more loyally in one direction or another. So it is those loyal leaners I will focus on in tonight’s blog.
Because truth be told, I don’t believe my sister intentionally did this. I’m sure when her guard was down, in a moment of weakness, someone forced it upon her. She certainly wasn’t asking for it!
You know how tech junkies can be. All you need is someone to help clear your search history so no one finds out how frequently you search Google Image for pictures of flamingos in tutus, and suddenly they are changing your wallpaper, mouse speed, and upgrading programs you didn’t know existed. You are confused and overwhelmed and they say things like “cookies” and “virus protection” and “who watches amputee porn?” and you can’t help but tell them to just do what they need to do. Get in, get off, get out. Wam Bam, no thank you ma’am. I digress…
Point is, like a Catholic high school valedictorian caught up in a sexting scandal, this was not her idea. My sister fits comfortably, if not entirely in the non-upgrading category. She has two pairs of shoes: sandals and clogs. She uses my mother’s discarded laptop with a crack down the left side of the screen. She mends ripped jeans with patches derived from Salvation Army purchases. She’s a cool, laid back, chick who would not be caught dead with an iPhone and probably thinks a Kindle is a new brand of dog food.
She has nothing in common with the upgrading type.
The upgrading type comes in various forms. The aforementioned tech junkie, busting a nut over every new form of technology introduced to the world. The “I’m lower middle class but want to pretend I’m upper middle class, so let me take this second mortgage to pay for my iPad 2 and my children’s unnecessary private school education” type. And of course the everyday hardworking American who chooses to simply purchase the items he/she has earned the right to own. All very different, the only thing these versions of the upgrading type have in common is the agreement that the program/product in question actually needs upgrading. This is where I run into problems.
I have a hard time understanding, let alone justifying why Apple introduces a new iPhone every 36 hours, or what the difference is between 3G and 4G, or why Word 2010 is necessary when I have yet to even update to 2007. I write a lot. 2003 has yet to let me down.
So why reader? Why do some people find value in upgrading their technology while others do not? Same reason I buy new vinyl and scoff at digital downloading. Some people are just cooler and smarter than others. I am one of those people.I know you don’t need to update your technology to be just as superficial and materialistic as the “woo girl” wearing Uggs and cut off shorts in December. I know that by simply placing too much value on any product of your choosing, you can accomplish the same level of sheep-like product loyalty at a fraction of the cost of new Apple products. Buying things with money you do not have is comforting and fun! But being sucked into the idea that you need to buy something because Steve Jobs makes it available to you is not. Instead of focusing your debt building energies on products you are told you should have, why not pick something more tailored to your individuality? Like ceramic armadillo figurines or dashboard hula girls. Or in my case vinyl records and concert tickets.
Why is it so important to not get sucked into this belief that we need to spend our borrowed money on products we are told to love? I’ll tell you why.
Or maybe I won’t.
It’s 3:59 a.m.
Why am I still awake, updating this blog?
I give up. I’m throwing in the towel. Popping my own cherry. No boy will ever want me with these braces and blackheads. I hate my body! Cry, cry, cry.
Have fun deciphering the hidden meaning of this poorly versed conclusion sentence.
Feedback is encouraged, as well as monetary donations and Auto Zone Coupons. I need wiper blades.
The girl whose commitment to this blog should be ridiculed on an hourly basis
July 30, 2010
It was as hot and sticky as an X-rated theater on the kind of evening when you relinquish your body issues, accept your stretch marks and bacne as character-building tools, and lie naked on the kitchen floor because tiles are surely cooler than Berber carpeting.
I had just moved into a new apartment after the demise of a damaging and over-priced marriage. Still in my ultra feminist, “I don’t need a man and since my underwire broke I might as well burn this bra” stage, I was feeling confident in my abilities to master things I had previously left to the opposite gender. I had changed the batteries in the fire alarms all by myself and supervised my father as he installed a new toilet seat. If it weren’t for my well-endowed form I could have been mistaken for a man.
Having just finished hanging my last Bob Dylan poster, I was rewarding myself with excessive quantities of peanut butter and jelly saltine sandwiches – a perfect excuse to open the fridge and feel the cool gust of the electronically-produced, climactic heaven contained inside. I was settled comfortably on the kitchen floor, shrouded in my nakedness when I saw it.
Gigantic in size. Grotesque in appearance. Rivaling Donald Trump in sheer arrogance. A spider.
A gangly, furry, hemorrhage-inducing spider clinging to the corner
of the ceiling and the wall, its eight limbs, the forceps of evil personified.
A wave of panic coursed through me. A spider? A SPIDER? Really, God? A failed marriage, a radically bloated anatomy, an appalling American Idol finale, and now a spider? What kind bulls*** is this?
I slid up the wall, my bare back sticking uncomfortably to the glossy paint. It wasn’t moving. I tip-toed toward it with the speed of a clay-mation turtle, temporarily paralyzed as I often am when confronted by creatures that disgust me, like neo Nazis or born again Christians. Testing the waters to determine what kind of personality I was dealing with, I tapped a wooden spoon on the wall a few inches beneath the beast.
It remained unscathed.
I backed away from the wall and paced the kitchen. This was a serious situation. A situation that would test not only my faith, but my new found masculinity.
I knew I had to either kill it or scoop it up with a piece of paper and put it outside. But ten minutes passed and I was still being controlled and manipulated by this self-serving prop of Satan. It was getting late and I didn’t want to stay up any longer waiting for my testicles to descend, so I made an executive decision.
“Just let it go, Lena,” I told myself. “This little spider will not hurt you. This little spider will not crawl into your mouth in the middle of the night, and lay eggs on your tonsils. This little spider will realize the error of its ways and leave quietly in the night. No blood shed. No walk of shame. Just a mutually respectful understanding of boundaries.”
So I did just that. I walked away. I got ready for bed, nestled under my sheets, and slept though the occasional sensation that something was crawling on me did disturb my slumber more than once.
A few weeks later I spotted the crumpled, rigor mortise, remains of a faithfully departed spider on the floor of my unused second bedroom. Out of respect and unapologetic laziness I left it there. Now, 10 months later, as dust collects on its vestigial limbs, I realize that most people would have not only taken care of this matter the second they were faced with it, but would not allow this sort of madness to continue for a second summer.
I, evidently, am not most people. Which brings me to the next categorical segregation of this entirely useless blog:
People who kill spiders and people who ignore them and pretend they will go away on their own.
I am confident that I am in the vast minority here. In fact this posting may help me eliminate some unwanted Facebook friends and birthday present recipients. But that’s ok. Because you know what, people? I have no shame. That’s right. NO shame.
I do what I do. I let all kinds of wildlife infest my apartment and I don’t think twice about it. I’m sure there is some sort of psychology behind this behavior, involving the avoidance of unpleasant things and eating your feelings. But I don’t care.
You can judge me as you like, because I judge you too! I judge anyone who could kill a spider and heartlessly crumple its body in a paper towel, or paralyze it with hair spray as a certain family member of mine has started to do.
Why can’t we live in a world where we do not kill and wreak havoc upon these armpit hairs of Mother Nature but instead welcome them into our homes and hearts?
Ponder this, my children. Feedback regarding this topic and my mental health is always appreciated.
Peace be with you.
The girl who wears bleach-stained clothing in public
***In an effort not to offend any female readers, I do realize that most women and men go through life with an equal amount of spider/insect related deaths on their conscious. Referencing my weak femininity was simply a literary tool that I used to salvage my lack of imagination.
As children, myself and my siblings took great pleasure in this gem of film making. I encourage all parents reading to put this on the TV play list for your children the next time you go clubbing.
During a recent conversation with anonymous family members, I was discussing a human being we all know well. The kind of human being we all dislike with varying levels of intensity, and who can only be described as one thing:
The sort of person who folds his toilet paper.
Yes. This is a category, an adjective, a stereotypical description with which I judge people. But let’s look at this more deeply and examine why, oh heaven’s why would someone do this.
When I was a wee child, filled with child-like urine and child-like feces I did not know how to take a child-like dump in the appropriate way. An older woman who briefly served as a babysitter took the time to explain how and why it is important to fold toilet paper as oppose to crumpling it.
Seated on her pink pastel toilet seat in a cramped bathroom that smelled like peanut butter, swinging my legs and staring at her, I couldn’t help but wonder why I would take the time to fold toilet paper when I could just crumple it in my hand and go to town. But I was young. I was impressionable. I had yet to be scorned by love or overly taxed by the government. I wanted and chose to believe that this was the proper and only way to clean one’s behind after a substantial trip to the loo.
After this babysitter was fired, no doubt for indoctrinating me with such inconsequential life lessons, I slowly broke free of this tendency. I can only assume that since I am a marginally normal human being I am not the only person who crumples instead of folds. Still, having the knowledge that there is such a population that does this, I feel equipped to make judgments as to what this habit means.
So when discussing this human being that myself and my anonymous family members all dislike with varying levels of intensity, I had an epiphany. I knew what was wrong with him. It was all clear. He is, after all, the sort of person that folds his toilet paper.
What does this mean? Well scooch back into the center of your seat and I will tell you. The sort of person who folds his/her toilet paper is the sort of person who cross categorizes their allergy medications by season, color, and alphabetical order. They take 42 minutes to vacuum a 9 square foot room. They fancy themselves experts on your career, emotions, and underwear size. They will never be wrong, but never say they are right. They will dust the surface blades of a ceiling fan.
More flattering, they will always know where the keys are and will never forget to check the mail though they will certainly criticize you for receiving junk mail from Kuntz Insurance Group (a real business I plan to become a patron of).
On the flipside, crumplers are not the beautiful specimens of perfection you may imagine. Though we donate more frequently to charitable causes, juggle phallic shaped vegetables with ease, and can correctly identify all of the members of ABBA, crumplers have difficulty paying bills on time and cannot read a newspaper article without asking for the definition of at least one multisyllabic word.
Still I would rather be stupid and a talented juggler than someone who quotes Proust for fun. Is it fair to make such generalizations? One word. Yes. For all of my flaws – my haphazard flossing techniques, Parkinson’s style penmanship, and misguided understanding of months of the year underwear – I would never take myself so seriously as to actually practice such arbitrary habits.
Think of the precious seconds lost, LOST by participating in this madness. In the amount of time it takes to fold toilet paper one could tear open a packet of Splenda for an amputee. End a relationship via text. Steal a library book. Talk about a lack or productivity among this population of humanity!
For this reason I am proud to stand here today (or sit seated in a coffee shop and type) that I am the sort of person that crumples, yes CRUMPLES her toilet paper. Am I glorifying this technique? Of course. But do I wish to alienate the folders of the world? Pshhhh…..maybe I shouldn’t answer that.
Either way, there are certainly several very prominent figures in our society who I would bet the four pennies in my pocket on being folders instead of crumplers. Some of these misguided individuals include:
So I turn this back onto you fair reader(s). Am I the misguided one? Am I an unsanitary dreg of society? Do I deserve to be stripped of my right to vote and wear white after Labor Day?
Tell me your thoughts and I will be forever yours.
The overly judgmental girl you want to smack in the face with a brick