I lost my internet connection in the middle of today’s yoga session, so today I meditated on how much Comcast sucks.

Really though, isn’t it sort of insane that, in this country, there are so many monopolies? Of course they’re not literal monopolies, not legally defined as monopolies, but there are so many massive conglomerates that there is very little to no competition for everything from ISPs to potato chips to electronics. Americans say that love capitalism and opportunity and bootstraps, but they don’t really know anything other than corporatism. And they say they hate socialism, but these massive corporations that run everything know that they’re “too big to fail” so they’re backed by the federal government already without actually being regulated so that they don’t fail or even worrying about paying any consequences if they do something illegal.

I swear I’m not trying to be a huge downer, it’s just that I am a huge downer today. I got my period this morning and I am bloated and cranky and everything hurts and sucks. There’s really no bright side to this, so it just is what it is. I also don’t have any tampons because I ran out on vacation and forgot to get more and the kind I need aren’t sold in the stores I normally go to and I thought I’d just order what I want on Amazon but then I need to order them in bulk and I’d really like to not need HUNDREDS OF TAMPONS sitting in my already cramped overflow closet, so it’s all big floppy pads for now, and oh, I’m still sick and I spilled cough syrup all over my laptop and my fuzzy blankey and my leggings and I’m cold and grumpy and I didn’t get ten thousand steps today and I straightened my hair and I meant to color it but I forgot to start early enough and I have so many grey hairs but not all in the same place, so I’m never going to have that awesome thick grey streak that all old witches get. So today just blows, okay?

But I did wear my leopard leggings and I had a good idea for my book, so all is not lost. Basically I’m adding dragons to SAT and NO ONE CAN STOP ME. CAW CAW, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Things I Just Don’t Fucking Understand: Mom’s Memes

My mom has a folder of memes saved on her computer.

If you noticed my absence the last week or two and happened to see my last post, Eulogy, you can probably put two together and figure out my grandma passed away recently. I traveled to New Hampshire for her funeral and to visit with my family. While there’s plenty to ruminate on there, I’d rather focus on something more lighthearted for now. And that brings me to my mom’s laptop and her folder of memes.

It’s here I should clarify a couple things for you, Dear Reader. One is that I am not an enemy of fun. I want people to have a good time and unabashedly love the things they love. As long as you’re not hurting anyone else, you do you. And two, I pronounce it “mem” like in re-mem-ber, not “meem.” It appears I’m wrong, but I wanted to throw that out there to see if anyone else might do this too.

I’m not entirely sure when the concept of the meme changed from a template image, captioned with slightly altered but relatable and reproducible text to basically any picture with writing on it, but it has, and that’s fine, but this expansion mixed with the boom in older adults utilizing more and more social media has produced a plethora of images that I, personally, do not find humorous. But my mom does. By gods, Dear Reader, does she ever.

While I was visiting her, I paid for my room and board with technology lessons. After answering questions that I didn’t really have the answer to, she opened My Photos. Here, you can see a preview of each of the sub folders. Mostly mountains and snow, but there was one folder, quite dissimilar to the others. The image was clearly compressed and not a photo so much as a solid white background, some text in a near illegible font, and a yellow, amorphous blob. Something in my brain seized at that, but she quickly opened a different folder from a hike she did two years ago and lulled me into a false sense of security. Dear Reader, I’ve seen 90% of her photos before. In fact, I’m in at least half of them, but viewing them with her is just another form of currency, and I’m glad to pay it. But then she confirmed my fear and opened it. The meme folder.

So I got up and started making nachos, because that’s the only thing a sane person can do in that situation. She would chuckle in the background. Increasingly loud chuckles. She was baiting me. “Got some memes there, do ya?” I asked, sprinkling Mexican Four Cheese onto a single layer of tortilla chips because that’s how you do it, Dear Reader: single layer of chips, cheese, another single layer of chips, cheese. Fight me.

“This one’s so funny!” she insisted, and then she read it to me.

Dear Reader, under threat of slow and painful death at the yellow-nailed and pigs-blood-covered hands of an inbred, cannibalistic, radiation-blasted family of the undead, I could not recall what the meme was because when I saw it, my brain shut down.

It’s this thing that happens when faced with something that I don’t agree with on a fundamental level, and I can’t muster the fraudulent expression needed to continue the conversation. I just kind of turn off. It’s basically what happens whenever I see one of these fuckos:

Then I am filled with a BLINDING RAGE and cannot be held accountable for my actions.

But I decided instead to try and make something of this. Why did I have such a reaction, and why was it so in contrast to her own? I avoid these things like the plague, she she, my own mother, the loins from which I was born, seeks them out and saves them as if they won’t be eternalized in the infinite cloud that is the Internet. And for her, someone who has tremendous difficulty on a computer, saving an image from the internet is not an easy task. But this, she learned all on her own! I had to teach her how to set up her bank account alone, but this was more meaningful to her! So I asked: What makes a meme worth saving?

She was quiet, the remnants of a good laugh still plastered in a smile on her face as she stared wistfully at the screen. Then came the reply, “I dunno! They’re funny!”

I know. Take a breath.

I tried to dive deeper into this: Was it that she liked the sentiment of the meme? Were they all similar in some way? Or perhaps she cared for the person who sent or posted them, or even the specific situation that person had referenced with the meme? Every time you see that one-eyed, yellow, banana-loving bastard, do you remember a very specific hike into the snowy mountains of New Hampshire?

“Yeah, I guess.”

She guesses, Dear Reader. And that’s a good enough answer, I guess, because really, no one has to justify their actions to anyone else, especially ones so incredibly insignificant, and especially in response to someone who isn’t doing real science, but I still felt perturbed not getting to the heart of the matter. Her inability to enthusiastically or even completely commit to that answer told me it wasn’t true.

So why does she think they’re funny, but I don’t? Why does she insist on showing them to me even when I say they’re not funny? It’s as if I’ve said nothing or, worse, as if I actually laughed, as she keeps offering another to me. “But this one has Garfield in it!” she tells me despite that the words attached to the image have nothing to do with lasagna or Mondays which just further boggles my mind: these memes are almost completely devoid of meaning beyond the images themselves. In no other context (or really even their own context) would they make sense which I thought was the core concept of a meme–that the image was recognizable and offered additional commentary on the text.

I don’t have an answer for these questions, just like I don’t know what that notification is that keeps popping up on your phone but it’s not there right now, so you can’t show me, but it pops up like five times a day and you can’t get it to go away except it’s not there right now. I can come to some conclusions about why I hate these things, and even some hypotheses as to why she loves them, but I fear we’ll never come to an agreement on them. I’ll forever be making nachos and she’ll forever be giggling at Snoopy drinking wine despite that he’s a dog from a children’s show.


Blogmas: Zoomas

It’s December 3rd, and it’s 80 degrees here in Hell, I mean, Florida. But that’s actually kind of cool for the state average, if a bit warm for winter, so we went to the zoo today. It’s adorable there and while I didn’t get any good picture of the animals (I prefer to just enjoy them), I snapped some of the holiday decor for the blog because it’s goddamned blogmas!

Google Assistant is great.

But I knew I’d find a way to rant during blogmas, and boy howdy, do I have some complaints for you.

They do bag checks and a metal wand detector sweep when you enter, which I’m all for, and it barely slows anything down. But the guy in front of me was not having it. It says very clearly before you even get to the entry line that certain things are not allowed inside, including weapons, but this mother fucker was carrying a fixed-blade hunting knife on his belt and said it was “crazy” he couldn’t bring it in. That is what this man thinks is crazy. That he’s not allowed to bring the knife he probably uses to slice open animals into a park filled with more animals. Also lots of people who expect to have a safe day at the zoo. Idiot.

Besides that guy, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of other crying babies at the zoo. When I say baby, I don’t mean toddler throwing a tantrum, I mean like, tiny thing that cannot communicate with you what is wrong with it and probably doesn’t have the shots it needs to be allowed around this many strangers. Now, I get it, babies gonna cry. It’s one of about three things they do, and that’s fine, but there was no where to go to escape it today. Especially when we got stuck on a tram with one.

Instead of hearing anything the driver said as he told ridiculously corny puns WHICH I LOVE, a way-too-little baby wet-throat-cried (admittedly better than high-pitched shrieking) for the full ten minutes of the ride while its grandma tried to distract it by pointing out the animals by incorrect name (none of them are deer, grandma, and you would know that if you could hear the goddamned driver!)

The tram ride also delivered unto us another hell: skinny person hell. The tram is made to fit four across which means Husband and I were to be sat with strangers–again, fine–but the zoo employee directed us to sit in a row with two women who really needed the whole row to themselves. Husband and I together ended up occupying a little less than a third of the seat, and to add insult to literal injury (being squished and sitting on something that isn’t made to be a seat is not fun) the woman, when realizing she needed to squash up a bit, looked at me, rolled her eyes, and grumbled about having to share “her” seat. Girl, you were in MY seat! I blame the zoo employee for not having the foresight to assign a parent and their small child to the row, but also American consumerism and a healthcare system that doesn’t recognize binge eating as the mental problem that it is (spoken from a recovery standpoint).

But you know what? All the annoying bits of the day just highlighted the positives going on in our lives: our family is exactly how we want it right now, we’re mentally and physically healthy, and there’s very little that can go so wrong in our lives that our day could really be spoiled. The day was actually great, it’s just that the awesome parts are boring for Dear Readers. I also had a super successful shopping trip to Target this morning to get the additional lights I needed, and I cooked our favorite veggie burgers for dinner, and our cats hardly fought at ALL today. Awesome, but boring!

Now, please enjoy the slightly-less-alternative, but always appropriate sounds of the dearly departed Tom Petty, a Floridian, and my imaginary dad (someday I’ll blog about that) who knew not to mention snow or the cold in his Christmas song:

Also I Hate The Word “Fleek”

Some people have really strong feelings about things that they really shouldn’t. Like, some people HATE pumpkin spice as if pumpkin spice personally hurt them. Like pumpkin spice broke up with them via text message. Like pumpkin spice punched their mom in the face. Like pumpkin spice used the key they gave it “for emergencies only” while they were on vacation and had a gang bang with strawberry acai and white chocolate mocha in their marital bed. But the truth is, pumpkin spice never did anything to anybody, and while the kind of hate pumpkin spice (or any “basic bitch” bullshit) gets is way too complicated for this blog post, it’s a great example of something that doesn’t deserve the treatment it gets, and I need you to know this post is self aware. I’m about to say something, and you’re going to think I’m a huge hypocrite, but bear with me, I’ll explain.

I. Hate. Eyebrows.

I hate those thick fucking, fake-ass, perfectly square, stamped-on-looking, woolly bear bitches the most–if you’ve been on the internet, you know the ones: Instagram brows. Now, like I said, this post is self aware. I should NOT hate eyebrows, and even more so I shouldn’t hate painstakingly cultivated ones. Eyebrows didn’t kill my father. They didn’t kick my cat. Eyebrows didn’t vote for Donald Trump. Eyebrows are honestly one of the least possibly offensive things. And yet…

Eyebrows, or rather, what they have become, offend me to my very core, and it’s mostly for this simple fact: the same people who made fun of a naturally thick-browed, ten year old me are the ones instagramming and praising these mile-high, drawn-on abominations.


Here’s the thing: I don’t give a shit what people do with their own bodies. Yes, I would encourage you to be healthy, but if you choose to fill yourself with crap then so be it. If you choose to tattoo a portrait of Dolly Parton on your left temple then by god, you do you–you could honestly have chosen much worse. Pierce your butthole closed for all I care. What I hate about the current brow trend is not really that it exists, but that it’s so insincere.

And not in the way that most fashion is insincere. Sure, people follow trends because they’re cool, but I’d reckon there are more than a handful of people who actually like how certain trends look, or at least grow to like them. My mom fondly looks back at her Farrah Fawcett feathered hair and would most definitely still have it if she hadn’t succumbed to peer pressure a mere four years ago. But the thing with this eyebrow debacle (debrowcle) is that no one really likes thick brows, they just like painting really wide, tapered, arching lines on their foreheads.

Yes, I am salty. Salty AF, some might say, because this girl has gone through hell and back to minimize her own brows at the behest of society. I have shaved, waxed, plucked, and threaded these little furry assholes into shape for years because I am weak and care way too much what people think of me. And you’re telling me I just could have waited it out til 2015? No, I couldn’t have, because what I got going on, which are actual, real life, thick brows, are not at all what’s being touted all over Youtube as a “natural brow look.”

I blew up at one of my best friends back when I was 20 or so. She had these gorgeous, delicate, wonderfully shaped brows that were so effortless. At least, that’s how I saw them; I am sure she, like most people, has a very different view of her own body. Regardless, if I could have replaced my own brows with replicas of hers, I would have done so in an instant and never touched them again. She texted me one day, very excited, to say she’d had her brows waxed. I should have been excited for her, supportive, asked questions about the process, anything but what I did which was basically berate her. If her brows weren’t good enough, then mine would never be. Besides a whole boatload of other shit I was going through at the time that no doubt contributed to my fuckery, I was too filled with self loathing to support my friend, and told her that her decision was dumb. Eyebrows made me selfish, and that’s one of the worst things you can be.

And this was before the big box brow trend even started!

So yes, I’m salty about the whole thing and I’ve grown to just loathe eyebrows. I hate the effort that has to be put into them, I hate that that effort is so incredibly painful, and I hate how shitty they make me feel about myself.

But I shouldn’t hate eyebrows. They serve a purpose. I was going to make this a Thing I Don’t Fucking Understand, but I actually do understand them. I get the totally fucked up desire to want to be pretty and doing the dumbest possible things to get that way, but I’m never going to stop hating eyebrows. Maybe someday I’ll shave them off completely. That might even be a trend on the horizon. And I’ll probably be salty about that.

But for now all I can saw is this, all of this nonsense, is browdiculous!

This Thing Keeps Happening

People keep inciting aggression against me when they’re the ones who have done something objectively wrong.

It’s probably a larger statement on humanity: people are entitled dickbags. They took my advice to stop giving a shit about one another long before I gave it, apparently. They really believe they’re infallible, and if you so much as pull a face they will COME AT YOU. People don’t even appear to think they’re not in the wrong, they’ll fully admit that shit, then double down. It’s clinical narcissism in action.

The most recent time this happened, I was walking in my neighborhood in the evening with Husband. We live near a river and there’s a sidewalk that runs between the water and the road. The opposing side of the street is lined with houses, there are two very small public parks, and the speed limit is 25 as is the norm in residential areas. The road is frequently used as a cut through to avoid a pretty long stoplight on a highway and therein lies the issue: People drive down this road like it’s also the highway.

Someone drove by us the other evening in a yellow sports car. It appeared to be going too fast. Frequently when people are going too fast, I wave my arms and shout at them because that’s the person I’ve become, but because this usually incites them to drive faster and on this particular day I’d already done a lot of working out, I simply made this face:


That’s all I did. I made that face. As a car drove past me on a public road. And I didn’t even really look at it.

We glanced over our shoulders to watch it continue on, expecting it to turn up one of the other roads to avoid the light, but were very surprised when it, in fact, did not do this, but instead BACKS THE FUCK UP.

It was driving significantly slower this time, in reverse, so my husband stops, uncomfortable with the situation, but I continued on and ended up a couple yards ahead of him.

“Excuse me, ma’am!”

She had passed my husband and rolls up next to me, her passenger window down. I lean over to peer into her speedster to see a woman, maybe mid fifties, with that “I need to speak with a manager,” choppy-bleached haircut, and a serious case of stank face. She proceeds:

“I just want you to know I’ve lived in this neighborhood for 30 years, and I know the speed limit is 25.”

I just kind of stared at her, maybe squinted a little, thinking really hard. What did any of that mean? Her notation of the speed suggested that she knew I was annoyed with how fast she was going, so obviously it was too fast, but her words suggested she thought she wasn’t speeding and was in the right. Additionally, the amount of time she had lived in the neighborhood was ABSOLUTELY IRRELEVANT. But that’s a big part of people’s problems. They think they’re entitled to shit, especially if they’ve been around. So she’s lived on this block for as long as I’ve been alive. Shockingly there’s still local fauna left. She goes on:

“And I was just going 29.”

Ya know what? Maybe she was. I really don’t think that’s true, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. She was going 29 in a 25. So she just admitted she was going over the speed limit.

I’m looking at her like WTF and before she can go on, Husband steps up and says, “That doesn’t matter to the animals out here.” O shit, he done did it.

She briefly looks at him before setting her icy glare back on me and says, “Oh I know, I have three boxers.”


“So you know?” I say to her, emboldened by Husband, “You know people walk out here with their pets and there are wild animals running around, and so you know you should be driving more slowly, but you’re not?”

“I just want you to know,” she tells me in a way that bitchy cannot even begin to describe, “I was only going 29.”

I’m fucking flabbergasted, I don’t know what to say. Is she fucking with me? She doesn’t seem smart enough to fuck with me this way. This just seemed like insanity. You’re admitting to me you’re going over the speed limit, I didn’t even say anything to you, and you decided you had to drive back to me, ME SPECIFICALLY, and tell me off for MAKING A FACE THAT YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WAS TO YOU.

I was so thrown off I could barely spit out some swears at her as she careened away, tires squealing and all.

So what made her so bold as to do this? And why didn’t she just lie and say she was going the actual speed limit? How is it the state of things that this is the kind of conclusion people come to?

Yes I was being shitty but how dare you judge me.

This was not, of course, the first time this happened to me and Husband. Some brodude almost hit us when we were driving in a Publix parking lot a few years ago. He was cutting between the spaces, we were going down the aisle. The guy drove around and parked. Once we also parked and started toward the store, the driver emerged from a row of cars to verbally attack us for…almost getting hit, I guess? He literally yelled, “Why are you so mad? Did you die?” Like, I thought it was a joke, but this dude was for real. His friend was even put off by it, trying to calm him down. We said nothing since he was gigantic, and I thought at the time it was a possible Roid Rage moment, but since similar things keep happening, mostly to do with cars, and it’s just mind boggling. Perhaps being behind the wheel of what they could very easily turn into a weapon emboldens people.

Husband honked at someone who cut him off and the guy stopped, blocking Husband’s car, and ran up to Husband’s window. He drove away in a panic, thank god. Two hillbillies almost ran Husband and I over in a Home Depot parking lot. After jumping out of the way, we continued to our car, and a shirtless, three-toothed product of inbreeding followed after us calling me a fatass for getting in the way. A piece of shit 20-something cat called me from his truck and when I mumbled under my breath that he was disgusting as he drove off, he instead slammed on his breaks and drove at my walking pace for a good five minutes berating me while I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. Lovely tinges of misogyny sprinkled in there, but overall humans are just going bonkers.

I guess I could go out of my way to smile at these idiots, kill them with kindness as it were, but I wonder if it would even matter. People seem to just be, I don’t know, rotting from the inside. It’s like we can shine up their shells all we want, but their going bad from the core. Or they’re just broken.

I don’t really yell at speeders on my road anymore because I’m afraid the next person will have a gun, to be honest. So I guess the psychos win, in the end. But that’s par for the course in 2017, hu?

Or maybe the issue is really with me? I’ve probably come off super negative in these last few posts, but I do try to focus on the positive irl, I’m incredibly happy, have so many wonderful things in my life, and I know there’s a lot of good out there, but maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m calling it to me. If only it would stop manifesting like this and I could harness the dark energy.

But I’d probably just go find that lady and give her four flat tires.

Things I Don’t Fucking Understand: Lysol Aerosol Spray

Most of us have probably used it at some point in our lives with varying degrees of satisfaction. Personally, I feel like a spritz or two of any scented Lysol on shoes or bedsheets is quite enough. It has come to my attention, however, this feeling isn’t universal.

Some people appear to love Lysol Aerosol Spray in Crisp Linen scent with an intensity I have never experienced for, frankly, anything. They love it so much they want not just to bathe in it themselves, but they want to overzealously coat the world in its miasma. They love it so much they want to build it its own shelf. Don’t worry, I’ll elaborate.

There are two things I thought I knew about life: 1) The older you get, the worse your olfactory sense gets, and 2) Women don’t shit at work.

Only one of those turned out to be true. Guess which.

I work in a regular building for a regular company that does regular things. I actually love my job, but the specifics aren’t important here. What is important is that we have a pretty high ratio of women to men. Like probably two or even three to one. But we have an equal number of restrooms, which isn’t ideal, but this is how buildings are built. I rarely have to wait for the restroom though, the issue actually revolves around the fact that these people seem to wait until they get to work to take their twice-daily dumps. Too few toilets swallowing too many turds. The plumbing is legit a mess.

Maybe this is normal behavior? I have a pretty good diet, and I can shit twice a day (Blog Idea: Facts About Me No One Needs To Know). I, however, do not know many people who can say they dependably take one whole shit every single day. The Standard American Diet is just not fibrous enough. But despite knowing otherwise (I see the lunches), you’d think I work at a vegan co-op based on the frequency with which the people in this building shit.

Shit-shaming aside, the people I work with have a second problem: they love Lysol. And these Lysol-lovers are menaces. Another fact you should know about me is that I drink a LOT of water, upwards of 80 to 100 ounces a day, so I take an hourly, but incredibly fast, trip to the bathroom. I am intimately acquainted with bathroom issues like the sink that constantly leaks or the toilet that’s attached to the men’s room that we all refer to as a “ride” to use. But the Lysol use takes the cake. Let me describe to you the Worst Case Scenario:

You’ve just entered the stall and seated yourself (because in this scenario you are a woman and you sit to pee–deal with it). Someone enters the stall beside you. Fine, there are only two anyway. But then you hear it. That familiar sound of can scraping ever so delicately against metal. Your bathroom partner hasn’t even undone their pants yet and they’re ALREADY PREPARED TO SPRAY. You panic. A quick exit is your only hope to survive the coming onslaught, but there’s no way you’ll make it. Your fate was sealed before your cheeks ever hit the waxy, blotting paper cover.

Your panic has stopped you up momentarily. Your urethra has dammed and so are you. You take a deep breath, your last for your bathroom duration, then break free. The force with which you evacuate your bladder would alert your stall-mate to call for medical attention if they could hear the fire-hose-like stream assailing the bowl. But they can’t hear it. Because they’re spraying. And spraying. AND SPRAYING. Dear god they’ve been spraying for a full 30 seconds. And you’re still peeing so hard you’re practically levitating, but it’s no use. Crisp Linen scent has already reached you, enveloping you in its disinfectant haze. Everything goes fuzzy and you nearly pass out trying to hold your breath against it as you fumble for the toilet paper, aim for your nethers, then realize it doesn’t matter if you get a UTI if you’re already dead from asphyxiation, and burst forth from the stall like a pig escaping slaughter.

People do this, I presume, because they are under the impression there’s all kinds of ass bacteria already on the seat that they’re magically spraying away before they sit, or they know they’re going to unleash liquid hell from their bowels and are pregaming the bowl for what is to come. Either way, the only thing it succeeds in doing is shortening everyone within 50 feet’s lifespan via aerosol-induced lung cancer. And there are NO EXCUSES for this behavior. Alas, my coworkers are some of the worst offenders.

Every damn stall in our building has its own can of Lysol which in and of itself is ridiculous, plus an extra two cans on the sink counters, and the frequency of use of the spray is criminal at best, but this–ALL OF THIS–is not even what pisses me off the most. It’s the Lysol Shelf™.

No, there isn’t an actual shelf built for Lysol–that, at this point, I would support. No. There is actually a tiny metal garbage can attached to the wall for the disposal of feminine hygiene products with a little lid that happens to be the perfect width on which to place a can of Lysol. If you’re not familiar with pads and tampons, they’re typically removed inside the stall and need to be disposed of inside the stall but cannot be flushed. Most women’s restrooms have lovely condescending signs reminding you of this fact, very frequently on little metal plaques with quotation marks around the wording as if it’s some sort of incredibly deep historical quote. Someday I’ll have enough forethought to print out labels so I can stick “ – Eleanor Roosevelt” to one of them.

Why the fuck is it in quotes?

So thankfully there are these little receptacles in the stalls of women’s restrooms for just this sort of thing, and they’re typically located right at toilet paper height, and, without a hitch, in my workplace they are used for storing the Lysol. No matter how many fucking times I remove the can to place it anywhere else in the stall, it always magically ends up right back in exactly the place where it doesn’t belong: holding down a lid that only needs to be lifted when the user has exactly no hands to remove the can because they’re holding onto A BLOODY FUCKING TAMPON. And no, that’s not fake-Brit speak. We are talking about actual blood. From the vagina.

There’s no way to non-passively-aggressively address this issue. The only response I can think of is to write a note and tape it to the lid that reads:

“This is not the place for Lysol, but if you insist on putting it back here, please know that we’re both touching the same can, but I’m doing so with bloody hands.”

The bane of my existence.

I could get more aggressive and remind them that just because some of their periods stopped with the end of the Bush era doesn’t mean the rest of us ceased menstruating as well, but truly I don’t know what age demographic is doing this. It could be inconsiderate Millennials, but we’re pretty obsessed with periods, so I doubt it.

The point is, I don’t understand why there are so many cans of Lysol in the bathroom at all, I don’t understand the need to saturate the very air so thickly that you’d kill a whole flock of canaries were they with you, and I don’t understand the obsession with Lysol Aerosol Spray in Crisp Linen scent’s own person shelf that is not a shelf at all.

I just don’t fucking understand.