At the time of writing, I was slightly pissed. Actually, I was quite pissed. After I just accidentally deleted a blog that I had worked on for quite some time, I got a lovingly lovely email from none other than some womanizing pretentious doughy manipulative abusive cult-loving lying cheating asshole guru named John, warmly inviting me to study with him again. I so wish I could walk into a Mikasa store and just smash and break every overpriced plate and bowl with no consequence. In reality there wasn't much I could do other than screaming uncontrollably. But of course I didn't. I have manner, ya know. Instead I went to the elevator and let one rip. It most certainly didn't help the situation, but the thought of someone unknowingly walking into the pungent product of my angry tush somehow eased the pain a little... how insensitive of me.
Right when I was blowing off some stinky steam, I had an epiphany: I want to start a revolution. I think we should reclaim the word "sensitive" and not misuse it the way Lindsay Lohan with vodka.
One of my closest friends Pinky Bombmaker met this dude whom I lovingly name Anal Douche. If you've been reading my blog, you'll have a pretty good idea how much stress I was under in October because of my mother's surgery. You can read all about it here. So right before my epic journey back to my parents' to care for my mother, Princess Madgelover and I went for dinner. Pinky Bombmaker joined us later and he brought Anal Douche with him. Totally understandable. Pink Bombmaker wanted his two favourite bitches to meet his potential husband, kinda like the final interview.
Here's the situation: on the cusp of my epic journey, I spent a whole afternoon at a landfill because of my real job and I barely made it home for the time when Princess Madgelover came to pick me up. I did manage to change clothes and cover my mad hair with a bandana. After the intro, the first thing Anal Douche said to me was "I didn't know you were a maid", referring to my bandana and my fashionably homely look. The hello kitty jokes came immediately after. You see, obviously I can take a joke. It's only fair to take one when you dish one. But it's a RIGHT that you earn when you engage in any kind of interaction with Sarcastic Yogi. I ain't picky, but I do have boundaries. It suffices to say hello kitty jokes are off-limit the first time you meet Sarcastic Yogi, unless you are Joan Rivers or Betty White.
So the night went on with more Anal Douche's neverending stories and opinions on just about anything, and it ended with his recommendation of my Halloween costume as a "slutty hello kitty maid", and that he loved "West Side Story"... in short, Anal Douche is the type of person I loathe: a self-absorbed narcissist.
As you can imagine, I lost almost a quart of blood from biting my tongue so hard. That was the only sensible thing to do.