Mean Girls

On many occasions in my youth, and, I won't lie, on some recent occasions, I have sat down with friends to "analyze" other people, to ponder over why they did, said, wore, smoked the things they did. Our comprehensive investigation would always lead to a singular diagnosis: the person was insecure. In particular, if the unsuspecting psychiatric subject was female, there could be no alternative assessment. Check out these perfectly reasoned conclusions:

*She makes out with everyone 'cause she's insecure.

*She acts all prude 'cause she's insecure.

*She dresses up and acts like she's all that 'cause she's insecure.

*She's all frumpy and doesn't give a shit how she looks 'cause she's insecure.

*She's all skinny 'cause she has an eating disorder 'cause she's insecure.

*She's all fat 'cause she eats all the time 'cause she's insecure.

*She bases her self-worth on her academic performance 'cause she's insecure.

*She doesn't care about school 'cause she's insecure.

*She has all this attitude 'cause she's insecure.

*She's all nice to everyone 'cause she's insecure.

It would be such a fun and simple activity. It would also have this comforting aspect to it, because the more qualities you could pair off with "insecurity," especially of people that were very different from you, the lower your own correlation would be. On the other hand, those of us with more masochistic tendencies would gladly lay all of our own cards on the table to be shuffled and dealt into the hands of eager young sadists.

Somehow, we would never get around to having deep-seated conversations about people that possessed confidence in abundance, or in any capacity, for that matter. I'm not sure how I would recognize such a thing. Chances are, it's not something I would have to worry about- the ostensibly "confident" person would just be frontin' 'cause they're insecure.

Misanthropy

I hate people arbitrarily and with a passion.

Actually, that's not exactly true. I hate people based on what they exude to me in a rapid assessment. I don't know if I would say this is "superficial," as my decision to hate or not to hate a person has no relation to how good-looking the person is; in fact, I have been known to hate people whom I'd be quite happy to fuck.

I remember on one occasion being notably stoned and thinking I should allow people to redeem themselves in my bloodshot eyes. No, I should take active steps to embrace them in my heart. I thought this could be best achieved by pretending to be their mother. One by one, I imagined giving birth to each of my arch enemies, most of whom possess no knowledge of my existence. I would cry tears of joy as each little bundle, splattered with my vaginal fluids, was placed in my arms. I imagined hearing their first words, taking them to soccer practice and piano lessons, and smirking at their lovable idiocy as they waltzed off to the Prom. This exercise would make me regard my enemy in a very different light. I looked down at my belly button, the place where the bond began. Then I remembered that it was the enemy's belly button, not mine, that was linked to the umbilical cord. Then I decided I was just not cut out to be a mother, so I considered role-playing the father. Then the drugs really wore off and I realized I would burn myself on a funeral pyre before raising such a complete and utter asshole all the way to adulthood.

Pablano Chilli

What the goddamn fucking hell is a "pablano chilli"?

I just went barbeque-grocery shopping per my mom's request, and shit, usually I love grocery shopping, but this particular episode was just one annoyance upon another. First, it was too fucking crowded. Then, I browsed the chillis, and there were serrano chillis, and eh, other ones, but NOT the pablano ones. I hate talking to people, but I mustered up the will-power to ask a worker what pablano chillis were. "They're usually canned," he replied. "OK, thanks," I muttered quickly, scampering away before I could be expected to make further eye contact or conversation.

I went to the aisle with random canned things but again did not see pablano chillis among the assortment of other canned chillis. I then tried to call my mom's cell phone, which had been used in a conversation between us just moments earlier to discuss red bellpeppers, but she did not pick up. Enraged, I decided I would keep calling until she picked up. However, the network connection then faded into oblivion, so that plan went to shit. I was about to create some major destruction when my gaze fell upon an unsweetened baking chocolate bar and I began imagining the (un)sweet possibilities. I dropped the bar into my shopping cart, figuring it would suffice as an appropriate substitute for these alleged pablano chillis.

Then at the check-out counter, some mofo came up behind me and plopped his items down withOUT utilizing one of those divider things. Who does that?? I glared at him resentfully, but the dipshit was too busy picking his ass to notice. Then, as I was putting away my change, some asshole wanted to squeeze past me. Now, I acknowledge that my ass is somewhat monumental, but can you please go around me when you notice that I am standing here dry-humping the fucking counter to let you pass?