My friends, it’s time for a deep, dark confession.
Many of you, here and on other blogs, have remarked on my kindness. And I appreciate that very much.
I’ve looked at some of my recent posts to see how I might come across to someone reading them. I suppose I do seem kind of kind. And I am. Sometimes.
But then there’s this post. As well as this post. And this one and this one. Also this.
You see, dear readers, I’m really not all that nice. I am not a people person. I get ticked off extremely easily. I’m one of the most impatient people I’ve ever met. I have a temper that goes from 0 to 60 in 2.5 seconds. I get road rage as a pedestrian. So I think I’ve done the world a great service by choosing not to have a driver’s license.
The message on my cross-stitch pattern is not strictly tongue-in-cheek.
I have no qualms about ripping someone a new one. There are few things more satisfying to me than taking an arrogant asshat down a few pegs or dressing down an incompetent co-worker. I enjoy it a lot more than I should.
And then there are my interactions with tourists. I’ve given plenty of them something to tell their friends back in East Buttfuck: “Hey, I was cursed out by a New Yorker on the E train!” If you congregate in front of an escalator or subway door, or if you walk aimlessly while staring at your giant maps, I’m going to make sure you get the hell out of my way. I’ll start by being polite, but after that all bets are off.
Just the other day someone told me it’s not healthy to be so type A and that I should really slow down and chill out. But that’s the thing—slowing down and chilling out is what annoys me. I don’t want to slow down. I want everything else to speed up. I feel most Zen when I can go at the speed I want. Richard Belzer did a great stand-up bit many, many years ago, about how someone said he talked too fast—to which Belzer replied, “No, Sparky, you just listen too slow.” I understand this completely.
But I digress.
I wanted to share all of this with you because I actually like you guys and want you to know more about who you’re reading here. So yeah. I’m not Mary Sunshine. Unless Mary Sunshine is a bitchy 40-something who can be recreationally confrontational and gives basilisk stares to people who piss her off.
Now who wants cookies?
Fear No Weebles 