I Wear Bitter Like a Little Black Dress

I’m bored. I’m pissed. I’m overlooked. And I’m occasionally blue. It's true.

My credit limit is greater than a high-end department store clerk’s yearly income. Still am treated like a cockroach to be spotted and sneered at if not menaced away. I just wanted to buy a liquid eyeliner in plum with matching kohl pencil.

“Uh, hello? Yeah, hi. Uhm, I was wondering… Oh, huh? Okay, great. Yeah, will you show me…. Wah?.... Fuck it.” And so I buy online where I can look at all the eyeliner I want without having been snubbed for anyone less, well for anyone.

I can insult myself good and plenty without a community college dropout adding to the litany of the things I could do for personal improvement. That list I got. It’s the eyeliner I want.

I have too little time and too much intelligence to tolerate, much less process, the eternal snippets of infotainment constantly streaming into visual range from collage-like magazines, cable news segments, perky morning shows, and lonely joke spammers. And that’s just when my coffee is cooling off!

Never mind the drive-by cube chatters of Groundhog Day pointless conversations. Those random Tourette ’s syndrome middle-of-a-great-story interrupters of funnier-than-thou coworkers. The cryptic emails from peeved many masters in Rubics Cube middle management. How about occasional missives from V and C class executives cluing me in to being outsourced at work.

I want to read one fascinating, thorough, relate-able, and well researched article on a topic I am interested in to point me to everything related to that topic for more information. And I want it without having to pay for it with more time that I don’t already have enough of.

And I want to read this great stuff while at work, because that’s where I am for 10 hours of every day whether I’m busy or not. And mostly I’m not but have to look it or will get canned, which will already happen if I interpreted IT Communication correctly in that I’ll be writing my job duties in Sanskrit so it will be easier for someone else to do and pretend they are busy for 10 hours a day also.

I’m sick of getting diet tips from fat chicks. I don’t want beauty advice from wallflowers. I can’t buy into the virtues of 100% raw food from a hairy armpit extreme vegan. The smug comfortable-shoe-wearer who believes high heels are a part of the oppressive patriarchy has no fashion advice for me. And if another drapey, crepey wrinkled eyelids and tufted pillow under eye bags woman preaches to me about the evil that is Botox, I’m going to go Rambo on that Bambi and use her blood for hair conditioner.