One of Those Friends

First things first--I cannot STAND a showboater.

Like what you like, buy what you want to buy, be as imfuckingpressed with yourself as you want to be, but don't sit there and rub it under my nose and expect praise. I may be forthcoming with the compliments you so desperately demand to your face, but rest assured that I am absolutely talking shit about you in vague Facebook posts . (I'm such a hardass.) So consider yourself forewarned.

More than the talks of diamonds and how much taxes you owed this year because omigod you are just so damn rich, what I REALLY hate is intellectual snobbery and showboating in regards to one's own personal tastes.

Iiiiiiiiiiii would never listen to a Top 40 song. Iiiiiiiiiiii only listen to small local bands or bands from Scandinavian countries that haven't been signed to a label. They're not even indie--they don't have EPs, LPs, or singles. They mostly just chant and tune their instruments.

Fuck you.

Of course Iiiiiiiiiiii didn't read that book--Oprah picked it for her book club, so it MUST be awful.

You know what? Yes. Yes. Some of the books Oprah selected for her (now defunct?) book club WERE awful, but helloooooo, East of Eden anyone? One Hundred Years of Solitude? These are solid, asshat.

Iiiiiiiiiiii spend my free time studying____________ you've never heard of, drinking ____________ you've never heard of, learning to play ______________ musical instrument you've never heard of, and jacking off to _________________ European porn mag you've never heard of.

Dude, seriously? I'm sure there's a word I've never heard of to describe you, but since I've never heard it, I'm sticking with twatwaffle.

Anyone else have one of those friends? It's exhausting, and, honestly, absolutely not worth my time in any way.

Yet here we are, with me telling invisible you all about it, because I keep getting sucked in.

I'll try to rationalize it. Twatwaffle doesn't know any better. Poor Twatwaffle just can't help it. Maybe Twatwaffle was dropped on her head as an infant/abducted by badgers/forced to watch clips of Ricki Lakes spliced with Barney over a Jethro Tull track on a loop, Clockwork Orange style.

And then I'll give in to this stupid, innate, desperate, sad NEED to be nice, and I'll write to Twatwaffle and excuse her showboating and pretend that maybe I'm giving her commentary some unintended stank.

But I'm not. That stank, much like that of the drugstore cologne on a fourteen-year-old boy at his first Sadie Hawkins, is always intended.

You can practice behavioral modification with the mentally ill. You can practice positive and negative reinforcement with an ill-mannered child. But you cannot fix an ass.

It'll always have a big, ugly crack in it.