Ladyfingers: My hatchet list

I wake-up (1) after pressing snooze on my fourth alarm for the fifth time in one hour (2). My alarm (3) goes off every .306 seconds and yet my body still manages to return to a deep sleep. Once I have gotten out of my bed (4) and untangled my feet (5) from the cord (6) attached to my vibrator, I contemplate a quick dial on the rotary phone (7).

I spend the walk to my bathroom wondering how the fuck my cat has managed to set up such an intricate obstacle course (8) during those few hours (9) I was sleeping. I dry-heave over my bathroom sink 10 for about (10) minutes while simultaneously taking the acid-reflux (11) medication my doctor (12) prescribed years ago.

This whole “adult” (13) thing happening to my body (14) is bullshit. Why is it that now the sight of a tomato-based entree (15) makes my backdoor a lava faucet?! Not to mention, I’ve recently developed an allergy to pollen (16). I’m pretty sure I’m starting to go bald (17), which is an even bigger piece of bologna (18) considering my Latina mustache (19) is still as thick as it was in the eighth grade (20).

I make my way to my cat’s food dish and ask her out loud (21), “Why the fuck did you parkour (22) off my face at 4:30 this morning?” I talk to my cat way too much (23). There’s nothing that cancels out the smell of fresh coffee faster than stench brought on by cat shit (24). It got to the point where I had no other choice but to research (25) cat litter via Amazon reviews (26). I now have a monthly Amazon “subscription” for a very expensive (27) bag of shiny dirt.

I sit down on my porch, and for the third time this week, I am unaware that my right tit is hanging out of my sleeveless T-shirt (28) . I slowly poison my lungs with tar (29) and carcinogens (30) and gaze upon the morning joggers (31) as they complete their path to a “runner’s high” (32). If the person who came up with that term (33) is still alive, I would bet my life savings (34) that they are a platinum Crossfit (35) member.

I get in the shower (36), which quickly becomes a bath no matter how much Drano I pour down the drain (37), yo (38). I look down at my legs (39) and become enraged at all razor commercials (40). Hey Gillette, I’d be more willing to buy your overpriced blade stick (41) if your commercials featured them shaving a gorilla’s leg rather than a hairless woman (42).

I turn on the news (43) to hear the same exact stories I’m reading on my computer (44) and my Facebook feed (45). I detest the “new” studies (46), the cornball meteorologists (47), and 19-year-old YouTube celebrities (48). Then, a power suit (49) appears on the television, a “relationship expert” (50). They’ve brought her on to discuss the Brangelina (51) divorce, because America (52). “Relationship Expert” would look wonderful on my business card (53).

Now that I’m done venting to my cat (54), I get in my car (55) and head to Corporate America’s (56) happy place Starbucks. Why? Because spending $2,000 a year (57) on iced Chai teas is the adult (58) thing to do. It wasn’t nearly as expensive when I knew the baristas, but they left me (59) with Susan (60). Today, there is line out the door (61) because Susan has decided to chat with a customer (62). Typically this is frowned upon considering it is 8:45 a.m.(63) and there are about 20 grumpy millennials (64) waiting in line. Susan is the manager (65) and if she wants to talk to a customer about how much vodka (66) she drank the night before, she can. And did (67).

I despise all drivers (68). I can drive better while taking a naked selfie (69) than the geriatric (70) that has just pulled-out in front of me. “Are you high on meth (71), Nana?!” Based on the distant look in her lazy eye (72), she is unaware of her surroundings. Which should go just swimmingly if Grandmica Patrick (73) decides to make her way onto I-4 (74), or the land of ever-shifting lanes (75). Yes, I’m aware of the website that informs you of route changes, but that means nothing (76). Visiting this website (77) would just remind me that we still have five more years (78) until I-4 is “Ultimate.”

The rest of my drive is consumed by the thoughts of CAPTCHA (79), straight men who wear fedoras (80), and the insufferable Justin Beiber (81). I’ve been told that Beiber’s father (82) is to blame for the way he acts out, but I can’t help but think that Canada (83) is the culprit.

I pull into work, and somehow I have managed to suppress my discontent long enough to sing the chorus (84) of “Un-break My Heart.” I immediately spot a coworker of mine (85) waddling through the parking lot. Only one elevator works in my building (86). After holding the door and now the elevator for the waddler, he selfishly waits (87) for a young gal who then pushes the button for Floor 2. I hate stairs and exercise (88).

I don’t want to talk about work (89). Now that I’ve arrived home, I begin an unwarranted round of hopscotch (90) to my mailbox through piles of dog feces (91). I don’t know why I bother checking my mail (92) anymore. It’s all bills (93) and baby showers (94). Now please take the $25 Lamaze Pippin the Push-Along Pup you registered for (95) and let me get back to rolling a fat doobie on your baby’s face.

I only have a few spots left! Please take a moment to envision me on top of a roof, spitting upon the following: Girls that sport selfie “duck-lips” (96), voicemail greetings that say the entire number (97), Xbox Live (98) and Americans that feel the need to pronounce mozzarella the Italian way (99).

That’s all she wrote, my friends. If this was a miserable experience for you, I highly recommend an endoscopy (100). Love conquers hate, but misery is so much fun to write.

The preceding piece is a tribute and/or shameless rip-off of an essay written by John Waters from his book Crackpot: The Obsessions of John Waters. Enjoy and thank you, Mr. Waters.