Tagged: hate


Thanks to my sister, I’m pretty much Pinterest’s bitch now. It’s quite possibly the closest thing to a black hole besides, well, a black hole. For all I know I could have just signed away my life savings or had a baby because I don’t know where the last three days hours went.

But besides inexplicable gaps of time for which I can’t account for any goings-on around me, the thing I hate about Pinterest is that it makes me feel boring and not creative. I know I’m boring, okay? I stay in on Friday nights and watch TV with my dog in my pajamas. That’s why I go online; to see dumb people doing dumb things so that I can feel better about myself, not so some stupid Web site can show me I’m lame.

<<< Seriously, wtf? Who do you think you are? You think you’re better than everyone else because we have normal wood cabinets?

Here I was thinking yellow cabinets would be a bold move and then you had to be a dillhole and poop all over my creativity. “Pfft, yellow? Yeah that’s cool… I guess.” Well, suck it; the sixties are over, man, and those acid flashbacks aren’t going to be so cool when you’re baptizing your baby and it turns into a mutant.

Here’s where you can argue that I’m either not creative or not retarded, but I would not think to stack a bunch of tables going up a wall.

Still, purple aside, it’s pretty effing amazing and for that, you weird, anonymous Scandinavian turd, I hate you.

I guess the real problem is that I’m lazy and I hate this DIY craze. I hate it because I see all of this weird stuff I want, but I’m too lazy to make it and I can’t buy it anywhere. And you smug b-holes with your circular saws and can-do gumption are real heels.

If you were true patriots you would mass produce this stuff, in China of course, super cheap so that I and my lazy turd compatriots could buy it.


Today, I Googled “PMS rage” because I hate you. And while it’s not quite representative of the rage, I do feel that this about sums it up:

Having PMS is like watching someone eat your newborn child while kicking you in the guts over and over and then telling you you’re the crazy one. Only the child is a bowl of ice cream that your normal, innocent boyfriend is eating. And it’s not that it’s the last of it, but it has the perfect balance of chocolate and cookie dough chunks and why should he get it because you got better grades in school and made this house into a home and organized all of your DVDs… And yes, you are the crazy one.

Now I’m not going to get into the whole woe-is-me thing because women have babies and we get our periods and whatever because yeah, obviously it sucks, but that’s really small potatoes. What I am going to to do is get you (you=men/boys/those with weens) to try to understand the uncontrollable rage that literally boils the insides of every organ in my body when I come home and see a piece of trash on the floor. Normal me would just pick it up (well, normal me would probably just leave it because I’m lazy), but crazy me insists you left it there on purpose for me to find, underneath the couch, as a way to rub my nose in just how little you care about keeping this house clean. That’s how crazy brain works, y’all, take a note.

In any case, I have one very simple rule and a pretty little picture to help it really sink in.

You are always wrong. If you’re wrong, you’re wrong, and if you’re right… did you just say you’re right and I’m wrong? Because I swear to God I will put laxatives in your pancakes.