Ok, there are two things in the world that just really grate my cheese.
First off, the US of A has in its infinite contrariness decided to not have its 300th birthday until I’m 89 years old. As if we didn’t all know that I would so be the life of that party if I had both of my hips. Or was alive at all, since my soda consumption hasn’t declined in response to any of the building evidence that it’ll probably gently enfold me in the sweet carbonated kiss of death-—or cause me to grow a third eye.
The second plague on my life is the unfortunate truth that the color green has no real inherent poetic qualities in the sound it makes as you speak it. It’s too harsh and Old English. And the majority of objects you could compare green to in order to add some zest and romance to subjects of note (like my eyes, which I personally think are worthy and in fact demanding to have some poetry dedicated to them), are things like grass and moss and mold and various other growths on this planet. Highly unsatisfactory. I don’t want to ever picture--or have others inflicted with the image of--my eye sockets bursting with verdant biological wonders.
I’ve determined something monumental that I think a trained sociologist should gather some data to support, since I can’t be bothered with such mundane detail work. My analysis from my myriad of office jobs is that there is always and without exception one (1) coworker per office who feels some sort of biological imperative to share every detail of their life with anyone and everyone around them. Perhaps they are the modern-day descendants of the ancient storytellers and chroniclers, people who feel the physical pull to pass along the essence of life verbally, continuously, in excruciating detail. I should also mention that a correlating piece of the puzzle is that these people are invariably suffering from some sort of complex and rare disease, hypochondria, or both.
A tangent on this current study is the discovery of how e-mail forwards have adapted to survive over a decade of derision, society-wide cynicism, and next-gen junk mail filters. Forwards have, in their wily wisdom and sense of self-preservation, latched themselves like a symbiotic life form onto the servers of businesses everywhere. They have accurately concluded that office workers would rather have their eyes be crusted over with superglue than continuously apply themselves to their occupation for a full workday. Based on this, the forwards have determined this demographic to be their most likely chance of survival. Because one of the new truths in this century is that Monday through Friday from 8 to 5 drones will continue to read about the girl’s puppy who rode a bicycle to the nearest fire station when she got stuck in a tree with a wildcat in order to avoid work. If only the dodo had had such sophisticated adaptive skills.
Did you know that the woman who originally created and marketed the Barbie doll had to get a mastectomy later in life due to breast cancer? I’m not so much of a monster to say that that was deserved, but you must admit that there’s a certain amount of irony being dished out with a generous hand.