Tuesday, June 29, 2004

It's either this or a water tower and a long gun.

There are some things I hate. Truly. I know that hate is a strong word, so I am careful not to throw it around very often. But, once in awhile I am just so overcome with negative feelings, there is only one word that will sufice.


I hate Ben & Jerry's for creating Chunky Monkey and then being so cruel as to put "four servings" on the side of the tiny carton. Four servings? Who are they kidding? It takes me exactly one hour to devour that single serving carton of the best ice cream in the universe. I can't imagine that there are actually people in this world that can put it back in the freezer four times! That's unnatural. That's the mark of the beast is what that is.

I hate people that really do make four servings out of a carton of Chunky Monkey.

I hate rejection letters. I hate the letters, the people that write them and the postal carriers that deliver them. Nothing rips my self confidence to shreds like one of these.

Dear Ms. Crazy On Your Face,
While we appreciate your taking the time to submit your article to Monthly Cramps, we regret to inform you we cannot use it. It is no reflection on your work. We just feel you are a talentless, elementary school drop out that would be better suited to pumping gas.
Mr. I Am Better Than You

Dear Ms. Crazy On Your Face,
Thank you for your article titled, "Top Ten Decorating Tips For Old Chewing Gum". While we think it is the worst thing we have ever read in our combined 200 years of reading, we appreciate your sending it. The trained albino monkeys we have hired to fold these rejection letters are paid in bananas and they were starting to get hungry.
Mrs. Why Don't You Just Give Up

I hate women who don't have to wear make-up. They are the worst. Not only do they roll out of bed looking naturally beautiful, they make life for the rest of us make-up wearing chicks unbearable. I am a firm believer that a little paint never hurt any old barn.

I hate the cop I used to work with that told me I should consider myself lucky that my friend was willing to set me up with a guy ten years older than me and two inches shorter than me who wore a toupee made from pickled possum pelts. He said at my age (thirty-five at the time), I couldn't afford to be picky. I checked out a book from the library called "Gypsy Curses and You" and after stealing a lock of his hair and spitting between my index and middle fingers, cast a spell that will cause him to own a Geo Metro for the rest of his natural life.

I hate it when Mr. Man takes off his socks so that they are rolled up in an inside out ball. Even though I throw a little hissy from time to time, he knows that living with a woman with OCD works to his advantage. It would make me crazy to wash those socks in that little ball. Even if it means I have to wear long, black, rubber scientist gloves to do it, I will undo the ball before I wash them. Someday I'm going to take an extra St. John's Wort though and every sock in his drawer will be a rolled up ball of wet yuckiness. That'll learn him.

Who am I kidding? He's a man. He'd just wear them to work wet.

I hate it when I've written something and I get to the end and I have no idea how to end it. It's awful. Everything else flows out of my brain like water from a hose, but when it's time to close, I start shaking the computer screen like it's a Magic 8 Ball that refuses to give me an answer. It's awful. I'm really afraid that's how it'll be when I die. There will be a big, long, tearful good-bye speech and then I'll be forced to end it with, "Well, I'll see you around" just as the last breath leaves my body.

I'm feeling much better now. This is way cheaper than a psychiatrist.

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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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