Monthly Archives: September 2015

How Respect Can Change Your Life

(Warning: extremely vulgar language to follow. If you can’t handle it, the back button is sufficient escape. Dear father, I’m still your little girl but, yes, those words seemed necessary.)

A PSA from yours truly (because it’s a bit of fun):

Alright boys and girls. Today, we are going to talk about respect because if it’s good enough for Aretha Franklin to demand it then it sure as hell is good enough for the rest of us, right? Re-spect. That’s r-e-s-p-e-c-t. Does anyone know what that means? No? Well, that just fucking figures, doesn’t it? Those lazy, good-for-nothing parents of yours have failed you in your early life but that’s okay. I’m here to help. Now, preschool seemed like a good time to explain this to you because, let’s face it, you’re surrounded by strange and ignorant little shits that will grow up to be a smoldering pain in my ass if I don’t so, here goes.

Class, what do you think happens if a grown up tells you to “be quiet” and “pay attention?” What’s that, Timmy? It means to run around in circles while screaming obscenities and offering animal sacrifices to your demonic lord? Well, that’s not the case, Timmy. It means to sit down and shut your fucking mouth before that grown up makes your life a living hell. That’s another, secondary, lesson for you today, kids because us grown ups really can make your life a living hell and, as a collective, we are becoming increasingly impatient with the group of kids that are a little older than you are right now. So, if I were you, I’d get the motherfucking hint because your leash is quite a bit shorter than theirs. Now, one of the most important things you need to remember about this portion of our lesson is that if you don’t stop and listen every once in a while then someone will end up going medieval on your ass and, no matter how much you think you know, you’re still just a bunch of whining, ignorant pussies that don’t know the difference between an actual boyfriend or girlfriend and your left hand.

The second part of our lesson has to do with something called boundaries. Little Suzie over there knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you, Suzie? Stop trying to lick Allison’s face now and fucking listen, you little cunt! See, when Maggie’s mom decides to ask me who I’ve been deep-throating lately I can tell her to get the fuck off my shit and shut her fucking mouth because boun-da-ries should tell her that it’s none of her god damn business. Is it, kids? This, also, doesn’t give you any fucking right to stand unnecessarily close to anyone in any situation and deposit your shit-stained breathe on the back of their neck. Boundaries means to back the hell up, stop asking shit that you need to know nothing about, and removing your pathetic ass from my life if I have asked you, repeatedly, to do so. I’ll say it again, it’s called boun-da-ries.

Alex! Get your finger out of your ass and pay fucking attention! I don’t care if you’re five years old and have two hundred friends on Facebook! It doesn’t mean that any of those people give any fucks about what your asshole feels like or that you had waffles for breakfast!

Lastly, kids, there’s this little problem you seem to be having with other people’s possessions. This is a little bit like boundaries but I feel that it needs it’s own emphasis because all you little shitheads seem to think that everything belongs to you. Let me tell you a secret, children; absolutely nothing belongs to you unless you fucking earn it. If you work your ass off, you can receive damn near anything you want. Valuables and a positive reputation do not come from underneath your couch cushions. However, there are some things that will never belong to you because, simply put, IT IS SOMEONE ELSE’S PROPERTY! Get off your ass and get your own shit. If you borrow something from someone else then you should, not only, return it in pristine condition but, also, put it back in it’s proper place.

If you live a life that hands out respect with every exhale then you will inhale an equal amount. If you don’t shut the fuck up and listen, back the fuck off when necessary, and work your fucking hardest to earn your own possessions and your own way then you will live in a miserable shit storm of endless mockery, paper cuts, and Sriracha-lime juice enemas because fuck you. Life does not reward the fool. No matter who the person is right next to you or what they represent, remember that there is not a single bone in your body that warrants a self righteous, cocksucker attitude. Be it a teacher, parent, police officer, firefighter, or little Timmy who’s picking his nose again, you need to learn right now how living with a high level of respect can change your fucking miserable little existence, children.

Now, go the fuck home. Ms. Atina needs a whiskey-induced nap.


The Torturous Smells of an Apartment Complex

Imagine this:

 

You’ve been living with your parent(s) for… well… damn near your whole life, give or take a year when you thought you were ready even though you had no idea which way was up or why that little bundle of something next to you makes the most adorable cooing sounds followed by blood-curdling screams.

 

Anyway…

 

You move out. That little bundle is now seven years old and you surprise her with a “new” apartment. I use the quotations because the outdated kitchen cabinets and the mediocre temperature capacity of the water heater would suggest otherwise. It’s new to you and that’s all you care about.

 

At least, until you notice a distinct smell. The old kind of smell that tells you that the people before you may have left in a hurry and forgot what the word “clean” actually means. You start to smell the dust and grime left behind to consume every surface area. It’s okay though. You can make this better because you’re borderline obsessive when it comes to clean. After you slave over a couple of days and knock off a few years of your lung capacity, it starts to feel like home here. You breathe as deep as your chemical-ridden lungs will allow and relax. This is your space. Now, sit back on your invisible furniture and bask in the silence.

 

Oh hey, there’s that bundle again… and her abuse of all vocal functionality. (Yes, dad. That word is for you.)

 

A few days pass and you notice your nostrils twitching again. Wait, a smell? You thought you eradicated all bad smells from existence when you moved in. Oh no. There’s one thing you forgot about; you have neighbors. There are people in close proximity behind fragile, deteriorating walls. You can hear everything that they do. Why would you ever think that you wouldn’t smell them?!

 

Thank you, under-maintained apartment complex, for reminding me exactly how “new” you really are.

 

At first, the smell isn’t so bad. The neighbors are frying something it seems. This is fine. You enjoy a little bit of greasy deliciousness yourself. You’re okay with this…until… What the hell is that?! It smelled like chicken at first but now it reeks of the garbage left in the dirt under the hot sun for days before the chicken shit all over it. It assaults every sense you have. Your nostrils close up, causing you to become a mouth breather. Your eyes start watering uncontrollably, everything you touch feels like ten-year-old fryer oil, and the only thing you can hear is your own sobbing. This must be what limbo is like. It teases you with the smell of beautifully fried chicken but ends up reminding you of a time when you threw up in the backseat of your parents’ car on a hot summer day and then couldn’t get all of it out of the creases for weeks. The worst part of this moment is that it lingers for the rest of the night as if the smell has seeped into the walls somehow and exhales itself in short periodic bursts.

 

However, by morning, it seems to have diminished. Alright, that wasn’t too awful. Maybe they just had an off night.

 

But you were wrong, so very wrong. It continues the next night and every night thereafter. It’s like this cruel cycle of making you want to throw up your dinner at the very smell of what your neighbor is cooking. Why would they do such a thing to that poor food?! WHY?!

 

But wait, what’s this? It stops. The horrible smell seems to dissipate. It’s gone for a long time. All of the sudden, the nightmares stop and you sleep peacefully knowing that they quit murdering the culinary lifestyle.

 

This is what the paradise side of limbo feels like.

 

Then, one night, you start to smell something else. This time, it’s not so horrible. Your nostrils stay open and, maybe, even a little wider than they should. You remember that smell. It’s that sweet, delicate, seductive smell of chocolate in fudgy-cake form.

 

BROWNIES!

 

It’s such a beautiful smell. Everything inside of you goes weak and you consider forgetting the last eight months of horror just so you can ask for a piece. Just one delicious piece of perfectly cooked chocolate pillows is all you need…

 

Then…

 

It dawns on you that five days ago you started that doctor recommended gluten-free diet. Why else would your neighbors suddenly figure out that not everything has to be fried in murky oil to taste good? Of course they would pick this exact point in time to produce the most INTOXICATINGLY DELICIOUS SMELL KNOWN TO MAN. You can almost hear the maniacal laughing on the other side of the wall. This feels purposeful.

 

At some point the uncontrollable sobbing will stop.

 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself while you search the vast reaches of the internet for an apartment with thicker walls.