Grateful

Yesterday I was mad because a girl I used to call my friend randomly shrieked her guts out at me in a very callous and unpleasant matter. Surprised? You bet. And let’s not leave alone the fact that it wasn’t a very attractive site, seeing as her eyes rolled up, making her look border-line comatose and her scowl was so that it likened her to a sorry excuse of a manatee.

            Bitter, I am not.

            The day before that, my worries consisted of having my guitar strings cramp up into inefficiency (oh, the pain) and having too much homework to be able to bask in the shameful glory of what is Vampire Diaries reruns. Don’t judge me.

            The point is, if I could make a graph of my daily worries in terms of actually being critical or mainly overly-dramatized silliness by yours truly, I think the latter would top the charts.

            Just last week I saw two guys my age digging up a trashcan and placing any valuables (whatever types of valuables you can retrieve in second-hand garbage, that is) and packing them into their bags, I’m guessing, to take home.

            You worry about getting dumped by your girlfriend, being on a diet because of some miniscule extra pounds of flesh, becoming extremely stressed because your homework overload exceeds one hour of your time, and getting upset because your new Mac wasn’t the color that you wanted.

            We humans (the lucky ones that are fortunate enough to have what we do), are not designed to feel grateful or uneasy about our repulsive, trivial, shallow ways.

            We just aren't.

            And that is just sad.

Warning Labels

I abhor people coming to my house.

The plan was to make sushi together. The idea was to eat it and then, no joke, clean up after ourselves. Gasp.  

            The last part sounds dreadful. I know. And in a place where you have a maid  clean up all the dirty specks of your life and where making your bed or taking the physical exertion to rinse a plate and stick it into a dishwasher is a foreign concept, that does sound truly appalling.

            But you know what?

            You take whatever bit of decency and conscience left in your spoiled heart, and you do it.

             Simple as that.

            But my friends were too busy in the terrace inhaling smoke and releasing words relating to the usual teenage girl “life-changing-problem” crap, and overall making themselves useless.

            Of course, when it came to actually consuming anything resembling food, they were all but helpful. If only eating was considered a chore, boy, would they earn a good living.

            Too bad it’s not.

            But cleaning is. People live off of that.

            These people would die.

            I’ve decided catering to events in your humble abode should come with a warning:

CAUTION:

Hostessing has been known to bring you in contact with ostentatious human beings and side-effects include hard labor, bitterness, swelling, the urge to rip your hair out, and unusual homicidal thoughts.

BEWARE.

           

            You can’t say I didn’t warn you.

Simple

It’s not that hard.

I can’t stand you. Fuck off.

You’d rather pierce your flesh repeatedly with freshly sharpened shark needles than endure another monotonous conversation with a human being?

There’s no degree on how to subtly tell someone to relieve you of his or her presence.

There’s no indirect path ingrained with decorum that accomplishes indicating that you’d rather suffocate on the lovely smell of rotting fish.

You just have to forgo manners for that insignificant second.

It’s that simple.

And yet.

It’s not.