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Medley of Mixed Seasonal Complaints

September 22, 2009

1. Body, you need to make a decision. For the past week and a half you’ve been acting kind of like you’re planning to get a cold. Ever so slightly feverish, intimations of congestion, implacable fatigue partnered with its equal and opposite reaction, a maddening and anxiety-heightening adrenalin overload. I can totally see where you’re coming from on this. The weather is becoming frostier, and I’ve just spent a month interacting with hundreds of people every day, many of whom are manifestly unwell. Surely it would be natural and simple for you to help yourself to the germs of one of these people. I wouldn’t complain. You haven’t had a cold in almost two years. My policy of not touching railings and washing my hands with obsessive-compulsive frequency and being such poor company that most of the time even my friends would way rather spend time with their other friends has really paid off. But I’m getting impatient. If we’re going to do this thing, let’s do it. Let’s git ‘er done. This week would be perfect. Putting it off is a bad idea, because in two months I won’t be able to afford DayQuil, and I’m not going to buy any until I know I need it, because that would be like surrendering, which the combination of adrenalin and my natural stubborn relentlessness won’t let me do. So, body, it’s all you here. If I’m not either well or incapacitated by sundown tomorrow, I’m going to be extremely fucking pissed off.

2. Landlord, I don’t like you anymore. You exterminated my wasp colony. I asked you to do it forever ago and you ignored me, so I made friends with the wasps and got satisfaction from watching them take over the wall. Yesterday, when I approached the staircase, I could tell right away that something was wrong. There were no wasps in the air, no wasps emerging from the hole in the wall, no wasps buzzing about my private parts. It was a terrible feeling. And when I came closer I could see the pile of corpses stacked at the colony’s entrance. Horrible. I’m still distraught. You will not be forgotten, my brave little neighbour-harassing comrades.

3. On the other hand: big nasty spiders, you all can go fuck yourselves. Or if for whatever reason you aren’t onanistic despite having all those legs and quite a bit of leisure time where you’re just hanging out waiting for something to get stuck in your webs, then fine, you can go fuck each other. Devour each other’s heads at the end, too, if that’s how you roll. But stay out of my bathroom, Charlotte and friends. Do you think your ability to spin webs will stop me from gassing you with Raid? The last thing I want to discover after putting in my contact lenses is that there’s been a g.d. huge spider hanging out right beside my toilet for at least as long as I’ve been awake and in the bathroom. Eugh, there I was patriotically taking a Canadian pee and you were like three inches from the toilet paper roll the whole time. (One more argument in favour of Brazilian showers, as if they needed any more support than they received yesterday.) It’s not entomology I’m into, it’s etymology, you gross arachnobitches. You think you’re hot shit, taking advantage of a single woman whose one source of major discomfort is huge motherfucking spiders in her apartment and whose cat won’t go anywhere near them either or else it wouldn’t even be a problem and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Crawl on, ladies. I’ve got plenty of Raid for everyone. Crawl on.

4. Students taking courses at my workplace: get your shit together. What is wrong with you? Oh, you don’t have half a clue what classes you’re taking, but “[you] know one of them is an English class and the textbook is yellow”? Thanks for narrowing it down! The yellow English textbook is right this way, ma’am! And here comes your friend. He doesn’t know what section he’s in, but “it’s the one in EA 1040 on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” That’s perfect, because I have a list of all the classes being taught this semester, sorted in order of what classroom each of them is held in, so I can totally just whip that out and help him and there won’t be any need for him to suffer the inconvenience of having to walk across the hall to the library and look up what classes he’s taking so that he will have some clue what he needs upon arriving at the bookstore. And yeah, I can definitely also “enter [your] student number somewhere,” access your student records, and answer all your questions about what prerequisites you have yet to obtain, whether you’re eligible for a tuition payment plan, why the government hasn’t mailed your student loan cheque yet, and/or what bus you should take from the university if you’re trying to get to Signal Hill. Oh, and Cont. Ed. Guy, you’re my special favourite! You douche up all my evenings! You roll in in your business costume, mistake me for an uneducated 16-year-old, and treat me like shit because you feel that you’ve somehow earned that prerogative due to your super important middle-management position at the ass hat factory where they make you wear a tie! As if I couldn’t rock that very tie in ways you never dreamed possible. Sorry, what was that? Are you actually seriously commanding me to look up what room your class is being held in tonight? You’re registered for an advanced project management course and you can’t manage the project of bringing your registration papers or writing down the classroom listed at the top of them before leaving your mansion in the a.m.? And when I tell you there’s no way I can access that information you’re going to get all sarcastic and condescending (“I guess if I can’t find it I’ll just go golfing heh heh”) because it’s my fault you “just assumed” that the bookstore staff have access to every piece of information related to the university? Get a grip on reality please.

5.  I can’t even talk about this one in a blog even though ironically the fifth thing is bothering me way more than any of the other things. As far as I can see there’s no way to fix it short of a complete overhaul of human morality followed by an accelerated deguiltification of those who have been affected by the current form thereof. Oh well. Since I’m here, I’ll tell this thing to go fuck itself anyway. Go fuck yourself, blog-inappropriate fifth thing. And fuck you too, inadequacy of humour to defuse every situation. This post was hilarious until you drew attention to yourself.

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