Ah, fuck it

Things I've learned the hard way:

• I can't save crazy chicks. No matter how shiny my white-knight armor is, I can't heroically extract a whacked-out girl from a metaphorical burning building, because even as she's screaming "Help me, Obi-Wan Katy, you're my only hope!" she's got her arms wrapped around the banister as tight as they can be and the bitch ain't budging. I'm so fucking tired of mixed signals and schoolgirl-mentality games, and most of all, being thrown over for men because it's just easier for the crazy girl to get by that way.
  
  
• Bring your own lubrication when entering a pawn shop with merchandise to sell; it won't make the ass fucking any less painful, but it will prevent spontaneous combustion and excess blistering.
  
  
• Potential employers, apparently, are allowed to demand anything they want of job seekers, and it's perfectly acceptable since so many people are scrambling for scraps these days. Case in point: I applied online for a job last weekend - a secretarial job for a company whose business involves making people's yards pretty - and was sent an application to complete and return. They not only wanted me to sign off on urine, blood, and hair samples (a different rant all in itself), but they wanted access to any and all medical records from every doctor I've ever visited. Call me a big ol' liberal queer, but I find that highly invasive, insulting, and frightening. I fully expected the next check box to demand possession of my first-born child. A line has been crossed, and people are too cowed to bitch about it.
  
  
• Grey pubes are not cute. At least, they aren't cute on me. I don't know why that disturbs me more than the grey hair that sprouts more and more liberally from my scalp each day, but it just does.
  
  
• I never realized how good the writing was on soap operas until the writers went on strike. Squirl and I could've written better dialogue for General Hospital during the strike than the replacement dudes did. (And BOO! to them for resurrecting a dead man to be the Text Message Killer...I was really convinced it was the cop, Harper. Come ooooooon...Diego would not have killed Georgie, especially in such a brutal manner; she was the only person who was ever nice to him.)
  
  
• No one wants to see my ass crack in Wal-Mart. I understand that now. So here's the deal: Wal-Mart, you stop putting your store-brand club soda on the bottom shelf, and I'll stop bending over and half-mooning everyone in the liquor aisle.