cranky girl is cranky

Today, awash in profound hatred for my job, I stalked off to the bathroom to pee. The first stall I entered had the longest pubic hair I’ve ever seen on the seat.

…okay, what the fuck? I’m not going to call someone out for having pubes (personally, I’ll start getting Brazilians when they start doing them under general anesthesia), but could you maybe, oh, I don’t know…wipe it off the SEAT?

The next stall I went into had a disposable lighter sitting on top of the sanitary napkin disposal box.

Don’t tempt me, people.

Cranky! I’m just cranky. Part of it is the heat, part of it is the aforementioned hatred of my job, part of it is just fairly minor things here and there.

For example: I walked over to the grocery store on my lunch break to buy a trashy magazine. I have a chore I’ve been putting off, and this trashy magazine is my bribe to myself. Once I knock this chore off my to-do list, where it’s been living for literally months, then I can enjoy wallowing in pure sloth and mindrotting celebrity gossip.

Anyway, when I got to the store, I plucked the magazine from the shelf and went to the self-checkout stand to pay. As I was feeding my money into the machine, a man walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, what’s that?” he asked, pointing to my hip pocket with his other hand.

Um, excuse me. If I don’t know you, DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME. There are obvious exceptions to this rule, of course. If I’m standing on a subway platform and lose my balance, and I’m about to hurtle to my death on the tracks below, not only may you grab my arm, but I insist on it. (And if you’re Jason Statham, I strongly encourage you to not only touch me, but grab a meaty handful of my ass. It’s squishy! You’ll enjoy it, Jason.) But lifesaving maneuvers or hunky celebrity grabass aside, if I don’t know you, seriously, don’t fucking touch me.

“It’s a pedometer,” I said, rolling my shoulder in an effort to dislodge his hand.

“Oh,” he said, thus ending the most intellectually stimulating discourse since the Renaissance.

As I was walking out of the store, a man came in holding a dog. When the hell did it become de rigeur to bring your fucking dog everywhere? Petsmart or a vet’s or groomer’s office, obviously. But why do you need to bring your goddamn dog to the grocery store or the mall? I was sitting at Borders the other day, and a beagle wandered up to me and began enthusiastically sniffing my leg. I don’t go to Borders to be sniffed by a dog! I go there to read magazines that I have no intention of purchasing!

This could, of course, be prejudice on my part. I don’t hate dogs (although I am afraid of German shepherds, which is understandable since one took an Albert Fish-sized chunk out of my ass when I was a kid), but if someone walked into Borders holding, say, this:





I’d pretty much lose my shit and basically glue myself to the person’s side, begging to hold the tiny fluffy morsel.

And since I’ve gotten back to the office, my coworkers have been talking at unbearably loud volumes about inane bullshit like clipping coupons, and I’m watching the work pile up and the vein in my temple is throbbing like a teenage boy’s wang upon his first viewing of Penthouse.

I wonder if that lighter is still in the bathroom?