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1:58 pm | 29 September 2004 | IRRITANTS may cause bleeding

I'm marginally-to-moderately annoyed a good 60% of the time, and fully engaged in annoyance about 15% of that. Since I am a person who likes to be really rabidly in touch with my feelings about every topic, isolating my annoyance triggers and either then seeking to avoid them or becoming more sharply annoyed at their inevitability is, thus, a big part of my day. Let's look at a few of them.

. . .

Promotional materials for "fancy" or pricey events that are lame, cheap, or shitty. Mr. Felix Dennis, I am already having trouble with your claims of being "one of Britain's richest men, and now best-selling poet*," and your shitty flyer isn't helping. The drawings are weird and weak, punctuation is intermittent, and it's at like 12 dpi. I ain't going to your show based on that, and this is despite the advertised (or threatened) free wine. Keeping The Claw away from Free! Wine! means you must realllllly look like total crap.

. . .

This scenario: You're in a store, say Togo's, probably getting a sandwich, say a medium vegetarian toasted with extra peperoncini, and you go to pay with your credit or debit card, and the cashier, say a violently-browed Lebanese man of 50 or so, takes your card and swipes it violently through the reader as though the speed of swipage determined the validity of purchase or, like, he was gonna get 12 extra by swiping through the sound barrier or something. WHAT THE HELL. It says "swipe rapidly" so you don't just stick the card in the slot and wait (unlike INSERT PERSONAL ANALOGY HERE), but you don't have to rip the plastic past the reader at Mach 17, you fuckneck dipwad. This also applies to situations where you are William Yang at the Broadway/Alamitos Shell Station.

. . .

Cops who follow you without actually pulling you over, like the kid I blew past last night doing 70 on the Vincent Thomas bridge (limit: 45) who then proceeded to shark behind me for like THREE MILES into San Pedro without actually doing anything. Like, ticket me or fuck off, dude. I was in the wrong but you are being a harassing terrorizer and I don't 'preciate it.

. . .

Lady across the courtyard from my apartment: fuckin' I HATE YOU. At all hours, one of three things is happening:

1. Your baby, who is six weeks or so old, is screaming.
2. You are yelling at someone, in person or on the phone.
3. You are getting loudly, R&Bingly laid.
Scenario one: Why do you have a baby in my studio-apartment building? My building is for transient scumbags such as myself who are constantly on the lookout for a larger, cheaper, less-Naziedly-landladied apartments with sinks that drain and less crappy revolting carpet. When you have a FUCKING BABY you are supposed to be moving on up. Fucking seriously. Also, your baby is small. At that age, if they are screaming, something is WRONG. FEED or CLEAN your baby, you stupid ho. It's scientifically proven that a baby's cries are the MOST annoying sound to the human ear, and my ear is unexceptional in this. Scenario two: Why are you so mad at everyone? Do you think it's good for the baby--who, mind you, is OF COURSE in the same room as you, hello, it's a 400 sq. ft. studio apartment--to constantly be overhearing "Naw! Hell naw! Fuck you, motherfucker! Naw FUCK you! I ain't tryin to-- You ain't even HEERD me! Y'all ain't RESPECTIN me! Fuck y'all!" No, no. The baby doesn't like it. NEITHER DO I. Scenario three: Why are so many weird dudes around all the time? Why are you such a goddamned piece-of-shit hooker? How did you even prove your employment to get into the building in the first place? Did your stupid johns write letters of rec? "Danisha is a mouthy ho, but she bring in the dollas. She pregnant, but it ain't mine. Peace!" I hate you all. I'll have to get Pants to make me custom earmuffs, to match my new sleep mask. clm.


did you miss the previous entry's gun-range pictures?


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