Things That Make Me Want to Punch a Baby, Volume II

You know what I’ve been meaning to do? Write a list of more things I hate! Obviously, Volume I of Thing That Make Me Want to Punch a Baby was just the tip of the rage-filled iceberg, and thus, I present you with Volume II. You’re welcome.

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  • Dog hair. Just…all of it…everywhere.
  • Everyone’s aspirations on Pinterest. Spoiler alert: your life will never be that awesome. Ever. Your kids won’t ever fingerpaint your portrait in your super organized and expertly labeled kitchen while you bake organic free-range vegan chicken nuggets out of homemade hemp seeds and your husband chops wood in the backyard to carve into floor to ceiling bookcases lined with black-and-white family portraits you took yourself. I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.
This is not your pantry. THIS WILL NEVER BE YOUR PANTRY. And don't even act like you would bake a cake and then shove it in that drawer. You would not.

This is not your pantry. THIS WILL NEVER BE YOUR PANTRY. And don’t even act like you would bake a cake and then shove it in that drawer. You most certainly would not.

  • People who try to make you prove that you know things. For example, I went to Florida State University. Whenever I say, ‘I love FSU!’ or even so much as root for the teams, there’s always that one guy who’s like, ‘I bet you can’t name the running back on the 1994 football team.’ Um, you’re right, I can’t. Do you know what I can do? Smash this beer bottle over your head and then shank you with it. I’ll let you live if you can spell the name of the sixteenth president’s dog walker. Dick.
  • Weather forecasts. Why is that even a thing? Many a day I’ve stood under a plexiglass train station awning, unsuccessfully trying to shield myself from a torrential Sharknado-style downpour, only to have my iPhone weather app look like this:
You're a fucking liar, iPhone weather app.

You’re a fucking liar, iPhone weather app.

  • Pickles, because I don’t understand them and I think they taste like everything that’s evil. We might not agree on this.
  • College tuition. Like, what exactly am I paying for? I mean, after you pay the professor and, like, heat the classroom, where else is that money going? It’s not funding my textbooks, or my laptop, or, like, getting me a job, so I guess that’s where I’m confused. Do you guys really need $80,000 from me and all my friends? I feel like this is some sort of Ponzi scheme, and at some point I’m going to show up to class only to find the doors boarded up and the word ‘Suckers!’ scrawled across the front.
  • Mondays. They’re the worst. Actually any day that involves work is sort of the worst. Weekends should be 78 days long, and then we should all put in a hard day’s work before the next 78 days of BBQing and sleeping in.
  • People who write TO their babies or pets on Facebook, a la: ‘To my kitty cat, Martin: You’re the best cat ever, and mommy loves you so much! Happy birthday, xoxo.’       Um, if your cat or dog or baby can read your Facebook, you need to send them to work and be making some money off that shit.
  • The fact that there’s an episode of Mtv’s True Life called, “My Boyfriend’s Fed Up With My Weight.” This pretty much sums up my feelings about that:

can't even

  • People who don’t wave at you when you let them in front of you in traffic. Maybe this is a Southern thing, but if I let your ass in, I expect a wave of acknowledgement, a wave that says, “Thank you for this. I can never repay you, but I will never forget you.” And then I will smile and feel pleased with myself for doing such an extraordinarily good deed. (But not before some other asshole tries to jump on the bandwagon and also pull in front of me, as if my generosity of spirit is a free-for-all. Not today, buddy. Back of the line for you!)
  • Stubbing your toe SO HARD that you’re afraid to look down because you’re sure that half your foot is missing and is now a mangled stump in a pool of foot-blood. (And then, like, two seconds later you’re completely fine. Wtf.)
  • When people randomly talk out loud in your vicinity because they clearly want you to comment. For example: you’ll be sitting at work or in class or on the subway and someone is reading the newspaper next to you, let’s say. And you’re both minding your own business, but then that someone says something like, “Wow, that is unbelievable.” Not directly to you – that would be too obvious. No, this is more of a sneak attack, a not-so-subtle subtle plea for acknowledgement. And then you keep not commenting so they become more aggressive and say, ‘I just can’t believe it!’ while giving you the side-eye of desperation. They might add a, “What an interesting story,” or “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” all the while expecting you to finally leap from your seat and shout, “WHAT IS IT?! WHAT?! TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW BECAUSE I AM SO CURIOUS BECAUSE I HAPPENED TO OVERHEAR YOUR EXCITED EXCLAMATIONS!”                                                                                                                                                                                                             Well I just won’t do it. I see right through your little game and I refuse to participate.
  • Competition shows. If we follow reality tv to its logical conclusion, the only possible outcome is The Hunger Games: Sing For Your Life.
  • Romantic comedies. They’re, like, awful. Also, I don’t care what romantic comedy you’re going to see – I can tell you how it goes. Dude and chick meet. They don’t like each other at first and just can’t see eye to eye! (Oh, the shenanigans and misunderstandings that ensue.) Eventually they realize they’re madly in love and come so close to living happily ever after, but then one of them (the dude) does something stupid or wrong or awful (but not so awful that we stop liking him!) and someone else (the chick) finds out about it and boy is she mad! And she cries and then they’re apart but – wait! – the guy returns with a grand romantic gesture (think flash mob, heartstopping proposal-even-though-they’ve-been-broken-up-this-whole-time, or something to do with a dog) and everything’s cool! I just saved you $11.50.

Facebook: Late Night Hate-Reading Since 2004

I’m pretty sure when Mark Zuckerberg came up with Facebook (and by “came up with” I mean apparently stole from these two guys who look like one guy), all he really wanted was a way to discreetly look up ex-girlfriends and judge their choices from the comfort of his own dormroom. The whole point of Facebook, clearly, is to stare at pictures of people you hate and get re-pissed-off at them for whatever made you hate them in the first place.

At least, that’s how I use it.

What is it about Facebook that makes us so desperate to know everything there is to know about everyone we hate?

face

Seriously, this can’t be just me, right? I can’t be the only loser who stays up until two in the morning typing the names of my sworn enemies into the search bar, only to see faces that I’m aching to punch. With my car.

It’s like self-inflicted torture, and I don’t know why I do it. I can’t help myself. I probably spend more time on Facebook looking at people I don’t like than people I actually do.

Is this weird?

Probably.

But the thing is, some of the people I hate on Facebook are people that I can’t actually hate in real life. At least, not to their faces, because social convention prohibits it. Like, if you were really mean to me in high school and called me “Ugly Bitch” every.single.time I walked into physics class, but now you’re a husband and father of three and devout Mormon, it would be remiss for me to still hate you for something so petty which happened so long ago. I mean, what am I gonna do, prank call you? Nonsense. We’re all adults now, we all made mistakes, and congratulations on your lovely family!

Just kidding. I still hate you, I hate your whole family, and I’m pretty much hate-reading your Facebook statuses about finger-painting and Jesus.

I think the reason we do the Facebook Hate Read is to confirm our suspicions about enemies from our pasts. Like, if I hate you, I would like validation that you’re a terrible person and I was right about you all this time. Also, I would like to know if you’re fat now.

Did we go on a terrible date six years ago, only to have you tell me three hours in that you think you’re gay? I’m looking your ass up, my friend. Did you make out with my high school boyfriend like five minutes after we broke up? My wine and I will be searching you this evening. Are you an ex-boyfriend, ex-bestie, inexplicably dirty former roommate, or old shitty college hookup? I MUST KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU.

Also, if you could put up some horribly unflattering pictures of yourself, I would really appreciate it.

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby, Volume 1

The other day, a good friend asked me, “Do you ever write anything positive on your blog?”

I mused that over, and realized that I do, in fact, seem to have a penchant for bitter ranting and raving.

Therefor, I decided that now is as good a time as ever to put together a post that’s as cheerful and optimistic as kittens dancing in a bucket of Jell-O. Without further ado, I bring you what’s bound to be the first of many:

Things That Make Me Want to Punch A Baby
Volume 1
babypunch
  • People who don’t tip at restaurants. If you can afford an inexpensive meal, you can afford an inexpensive tip. If you can afford an extravagant meal, you can afford an extravagant tip. It’s simple math, really. There’s a special place in hell for people who don’t tip their waitstaff, and every meal’s a sneezer. (snEEz-er: noun. Food that was sprinkled with bodily fluids because you’re an asshole.)
  • In general, anyone who is rude to waiters, hostesses, dry cleaners, delivery guys – you’re not a nice person if you’re not nice to your waiter, and no amount of bullshitting will make up for that. (Note to my single friends: if you’re on a first date and the dude is a dick to the waiter, he’s pretty much waving that Red Flag right in your face. Act accordingly.)
  • People who stuff their sweatshirts and suitjackets into the overhead compartments on airplanes. Really? Oh okay, I’ll just shove my rolling suitcase under my ass and prop my feet up on it in this fourteen square inches of space so that your sweater can be comfortable. Does your sweater need anything else? Can I get it a drink? (I’m assuming these aforementioned people are also the non-tippers. They just take their beloved sportsjackets out to dinner and the two are so giddy with lust that no one remembers to tip.)
  • Books with movie covers. This is just in case you were thinking about picking up a book, you see Tom Cruise on the cover and think, “Oh, right, I can just watch this book on my television! Silly me, I can’t believe I almost read. Gross.”
  • The Friends episode I was watching earlier in which Joey announced to his new agent, “I’m 25.” It’s a weird phenomenon to grow older than people who were grownups when you were nine.
  • Also, people who are 25 and are actually making a living at a fulfilling job rather than working six part-times/living with their parents/putting themselves through school/day-drinking and crying round the clock. No one likes a showoff – grab a beer a make some self-sabotaging choices like the rest of us did at your age.
  • People that drive the speed limit in the fast lane. If you do this, no one loves you, and you’re going to die alone. If you drive under the speed limit in the fast lane, you’re clearly some sort of sociopathic terrorist sent here to destroy America.
  • Mornings. Every morning. Without fail. Just once I’d like to have my eyes snap open, a smile already on my lips, my feet poised to bound out of bed like people in orange juice commercials. Instead, I literally make a deal with the devil every single time my alarm clock goes off to let me press snooze just one. more. time. I’m not going to tell you the terms, but let’s just say at some point he’s going to collect and A LOT OF SHIT is gonna go down.
  • People who start sentences with “No offense, but…” Say no more. I already hate you.
  • Girls that wear a full face of makeup at the gym. It’s one thing if you’re coming from work and you’re still sporting some eyeliner; it’s quite another when you clearly put on false lashes and cream blush just before your trip to the elliptical. Working out is awful enough without having your perfect ponytail and painted brows bouncing next to me in the mirror while I’m looking like a sweaty monkey wearing the mask from Scream.
  • Duvet covers. There is absolutely no feasible way to actually fill a duvet cover from end to end and corner to corner with your comforter. It’s physically impossible, because science.
  • Facebook. Okay, don’t get me wrong, I have a facebook because I live on earth but here’s the issue: You know how, sometimes, you’re walking around thinking, “Why, my life is pretty okay!” Maybe you have a job, maybe you’re in a fulfilling relationship or you’re happily single, maybe you just mastered a level of Candy Crush that’s been torturing you for weeks. You take a look in the mirror and say, “I. Am. Awesome.”

Wrong. Facebook is here to remind you that literally every single person you have ever known is doing much better than you are. Haven’t made it to Italy? Everyone you know is studying abroad! Feeling okay about waiting a few years before you walk down the aisle? Sorry, loser, but all your friends have four kids already and they’re loving it. Wondering whether you should have leftover pizza and fistfuls of peanut butter for lunch? All the girls you went to school with are busy shucking their own pesticide-free organic corn to make homemade fiber bars for the homeless. Loving the way you look in that new bathing suit? Come on, fatty, everyone else is doing crossfit and living on chia seeds alone.

Facebook is like the world’s snooty, suck-up coworker who exists to prove that you actually suck way more than you thought you did, and that all of your accomplishments are like seven years later than everyone else’s. Nice try, failure.

If You Can’t Say Something Nice, Maybe You’re An Asshole

So here’s something I really don’t understand about the internet: When did it become so socially acceptable to be a complete assface online while pretending to be a human in real life?

One of the (many) things that made me hesitant to start a blog is the sheer volume of venom that spews through the giant invisible wires of the World Wide Web. (It’s powered by giant invisible wires, right?)

I mean, by now we’ve all learned that people who lurk in the comments section of literally anything on the internet are a collection of evildoers so foul that even their mothers don’t love them, but that doesn’t prevent their ignorant/racist/sexist/ageist/hateful/prejudiced/cowardly/petty/dumbass opinions from being hurtful. Before I started this blog, I read many other blogs, and often I would read the vitriol in the comments section and think, “Seriously, I just can’t do it.”

Here’s why: I know that I am not thick-skinned. In fact, I am quite thin-skinned, like a delicate, sweet-smelling tomato. And I have no doubt that the moment someone writes something on my blog like, “Omg you suck you should go die,” I will, in fact, go die. My supple tomato-skin will be unable to protect me.

If you think I’m overreacting, go open literally anything written by anyone on the internet. Read the article, smile or frown or laugh or think along with the words and facts and opinions put forth there, and then scroll on down past the ads for hemorrhoid cream and take a gander at the comments section.

An example:

Let’s say you have a blog about fashion. It’s gotten kind of popular, and it’s been featured on some other fashiony website, and your life is pretty great. And let’s say one day you write a little post about the various ways to tie scarves. And you’re feeling pretty good about yourself because you’ve come up with scarf-knots suitable for every occasion, from work to day-drinking to the walk of shame. When it comes to tying scarves, you are professor and chair.

Now, for a day or two, your comment section will consist of a handful of regulars applauding your efforts and thanking you for your scarf-tying proficiency. You will pat yourself on the back and bask in your own scarf-knotting glory.

And then, as suddenly as a refreshing drink of water that goes down the wrong pipe and momentarily convinces you that you’re drowning, a strange thing will happen. (This is assuming that your blog, unlike mine, is read by more than six people.)

Someone, somewhere, will write some form of the following:

Evildoer 1: “so i love ur blog but this is a miss! that scarf looks sso gross lol”

Okay, well, that’s alright. You’re a brilliant writer and fashionista and obviously not everyone is going to share your style and anyway a lot of people like it and also she wrote “lol” so it’s totally just friendly criticism! You’re super secure, lol.

Inevitably, someone who likes you will follow that first comment with:

Friendly Participant: “That’s so mean! This blog is amazing and your scarves all look AWESOME – don’t worry about the haters!”

And this will feel good. This will act as a salve healing the burn of the first comment, and the sting will disappear. And you’ll think to yourself, “I have many supporters and I am well loved.”

However, just as you’re congratulating yourself on reacting so maturely to adversity, something unexpected will happen. That supportive comment will, confusingly, rile up Evildoer 1 and a million of her internet-lurking friends.

Evildoer 1: “wow lol its not mean its a opinion! ew ur like in luv with scarfs ur like the scarf police lol”

Evildoer 2: “LOL sCaRF pOLicE tHatS sO tRUe!!”

Evildoer 3: “Seriously, this blog used to be a place where different people could share their opinions openly, but now people get shut down just for not agreeing with your scarf-tying? Way to alienate your fans. You’ve definitely lost a reader.”

Evildoer 4: “yeh u suck so bad now, also ur ugly ttyl bye”

Evildoer 5: “STOP PUSHING YOUR POLITICAL AGENDA DOWN OUR THROATS!!! I SERIOUSLY DONT HAVE A PROBLEM WITH SCARVES BUT CANT YOU JUST TIE THEM IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN HOME AND LEAVE THE REST OF US OUT OF IT!!! MY KIDS COULD SEE THIS!!!”

Evildoer 6: “No one cares about your scarves. You should kill yourself.”

Evildoer 7: “This post is the most elitist garbage I’ve ever seen. Some people don’t even have scarves. Think about that while you’re walking around with all your scarves. Our society’s obsession with consumerism makes me sick to my stomach.”

Evildoer 8: “that blue scarf make u look like a slut”

Evildoer 9: “Hi! I’ve never commented but I’m a longtime reader, and I just felt really compelled to speak up about this – aren’t you a mother? It just seems to me that your time would really be better spent building an environmentally friendly whole fruit and herb garden with your kids rather than worrying about trivial things like fashion. I’m not saying you’re a bad mom and I’m totally not judging you, I promise! I just feel really bad for your children.”

Evildoer 10: “Yeah what is this teaching your daughter, like oh you have to wear scarves so men will like you, seriously why dont you just buy her a stripper pole”

Evildoer 11: “u just wear scarves cuzz u have a fat neck, u need to werkout! im soso sick of lazy peeple, its called BEING HEALTHHY”

Evildoer 12: “fake”

Evildoer 13: “Those scarves are really fucking racist.”

You probably won’t even get to Evildoer 13, though, because by that point you’re too busy crafting a noose out of the scarves you once loved.

Basically, the moral of the story is this: If you wouldn’t say it to someone’s face, don’t say it on the internet. And if you would say it to someone’s face, there’s a pretty strong possibility that you’re just a terrible person.

But I’m totally not judging you. I promise.