Channeling my inner Sophia Petrillo:
Picture this: The Jersey Shore.
1977. A nine year old me, helping my parents empty out my great* aunt's
house which we inherited, and I was tasked with emptying out the
cupboards in the bathroom. I emerged with an item not unlike this item,
and demanded my mother tell me how the hell does one dry their hair with
this?
The memory unearthed in the previous paragraph is no doubt the genesis of the fact that I, in fact, have an advanced
directive for my *ahem* adult novelties. Yes. Advanced directive. I've
got all that shit in a brown paper sack with the words, "In case of
death, dispose in trash directly without looking." And inside the bag
has a note that says, "fuck you for peeking. I shall now commence
haunting your nosey ass. See you on the flip side, fucker."
*Great? Or is it great great? Or great grand aunt? She was the sister of my dad's grandmother. Even though I'm the family genealogist, I get a wee bit bogged down in this particular distinction. If my great grandmother had a sister, is she my great grand aunt, or just great aunt? Ruminate. Or not.
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What sayeth thou? (Mean people suck, don't fuck it up.)
"I hate people."
"People" stop being "people" when they become friends.
Friends stop being friends when they become assholes.
So to refine my hatred, I hate people and I hate assholes.