Color me cloudy.

I have to say I'm getting pretty sick of the color grey. It's everywhere. The sky, the ground, the trees, the roads. The sidewalks. The buildings. All grey. Gloomy grey.

Sometimes pretty white flakes fall, and disguise the grey temporarily, but it's still there. Underneath. Waiting to show itself when a bit of warmth tries to cheer me up and instead, melts the pretty white away. The grey attacks my senses with its brooding bleakness. With its neverending nothingness. With its morose melancholy. Oh, the depressing desolation of it. Enough to make the brain want to lobotomize itself.

This is why cars are so important. They come in spicy, cheerful colors. And car washes exist to keep the penetrating grey away. What the hell is it with people buying grey cars, anyways? And silver ones. Silver is a just a fancy way of saying grey. I notice that 80% of the cars on the road are a dismal, dispirited grey. Why do people buy cars the color of the most depressing time of the year? What the hell is wrong with them? Do they not understand? Do they do it on purpose, to torment me? Or are they just so monochromatic themselves that they choose their cars to match their characters? I feel like slapping them out of it. OUT! Out of the deep grey funk you're in! Life should be filled with color and imagination! What the hell are you thinking, a grey car? Dude. Get real. Are you afraid to break out of the greyness? Why even bother with the paint, just throw some clearcoat on that bare metal and have at it.

Seriously. How sad. What's wrong with pretty colors? I want to see pretty colors. I want to see sky blue. And forest green, and aquamarine, and hot fireman red. And sunshine yellow. My car is burnt orange. No matter how much the weather tries, it cannot change the color of my car. It is determinedly bright and perky. Citrus-y, tropical, vibrant. Plus, I keep it clean. It sparkles, it shines, it glows with rich, inviting, glorious color. Winter will never beat me. The sight of my car on a dreary, bleary, ice cold winter day brightens my outlook for hours. Why can't other people understand this? Are they really so masochistic? Oh, look at me. My car is sad. I'm sad. Winter is sad. My fugly grey car reflects my negative, downtrodden, sulky outlook. Feel sorry for me!! Or wait....are they sadistic? How brilliantly evil of them. After all, they can see my happily hued car, but I'm stuck looking at theirs. Bastards! Monochromatic grey bastards!

Well. I'll fix them. A few dozen cans of bright yellow spray paint and a black ski mask, and my winter is about to become a hell of a lot sunnier.

Vandalism. The guy with the grey car made me do it.

I Am A Killing Machine.

Every once in a while I wander through the greenhouse at my local Home Depot. It's so peaceful in there, so many pretty species of luxuriant, tropical paradise plants. I think to myself, "Self, maybe I could just have one, and try to..." and then cold reality hits, and I respond, "No, fool, Just Say No, RUN AWAY, RUN AWAY!".
My track record with living, breathing plants is abysmal. Lower than abyss-mal. It's pretty much a 100% death rate thing. No one is so completely sucessful at killing as I am. Sometimes I kill them quickly, sometimes I take my sweet time. Years, even. I had an umbrella plant that survived through sheer will alone before I hexed it with mighty mites and it died a parasitic death. Well. I needed that corner for something else anyway.
Plants are like people. Each has it's own personality and idiosyncrasies. Issues, even. Some are pathologically self-destructive, and I believe that these are the ones that call to me as I pass by, enticing me with their beauty and lushness..."pick me...pick me...". Most of the time I can resist the call of nature, but sometimes I am weak and cannot control myself and the next thing you know, I am the proud posessor of an emerald and ruby hued jewel of an azalea bush.
My killing method is simple and requires no great amount of planification. It consists of initially giving the plant a perfect place of honor, in full view of visitors. Gradually, as it weakens and becomes more and more beaten down and listless, it gets moved further and further from view, until at last it withers and sulks in a forgotten corner, yellow and dry and completely forlorn.
This saddens me, because it was it's own damn fault. If it hadn't been so beautiful in the first place, and enticed me with it's sinful, glorious beauty to buy it, it wouldn't be dead now, now would it? This is why, in countries where they understand such things, beautiful things are coveted so much that they need to be kept hidden.
Thus, from now on, I shall not cast my gaze upon such sinfulness, but shall keep myself holy and pure by not allowing myself to be put into the position whereby I am weakened and the sin of possession takes hold of me.
And now I must go look at pictures of rose bushes until the blackness goes away.

"Buckle up for safety..."

Woo. It's snowing. Turning to rain. Freezing rain. Woo. This means another slippery, slidey, life-threatening drive to work involving people with crappy tires, people still half asleep at the wheel (coffee, people. Ever heard of Starbucks?), angry truckers on speed, and trophy wives touching up their make-up in their rear views on their way downtown to meet up with friends and get their hair done. My cynical view of the world includes the fact that no one can drive, no one can think, and no one can ever match me in the traffic game. Which means my imminent demise at the hands of one of the above.

I always get this black, heavy, lethargic slow-mo feeling of impending doom whenever some yahoo pulls up behind me at a red light, or when traffic slows from 60mph to 10mph...like as if they're gonna ram me right up the ass because they don't know what the fuck they're doing. Like, why is everyone, like, stopping?!? Like? Doh. Like.

Shit.

If it's a taxi, though, I never feel that way. If there's a taxi following me, I can almost feel the black, heavy lethargic sense of doom lifting and floating away. Phew! It's a cab! I will not die today! I will live on to torment yet still more coworkers, neighbours and relatives!!

So where did this innate trust of taxi's come from?? Certainly not from the movies, where it seems every director has the exact same car scene embedded in his brain. Everyone driving in a movie car scene is a complete and total inept loser except the hero of the day. Every cop, truck driver, construction worker, fireman, and I'm pretty sure if professional race car drivers happened to be cruisin along in the scene, they'd be inept, too. So much for any last vestige of reality in the movies. Though, hardly surprising. Reality and movies do not go hand in hand. I'd make a good director, apparently we share the same views on drivers in general. 'Cept for the lowly taxi driver, who, in my town are the only drivers capable of using turn signals, letting people in, and using hand signals that mothers would actually approve of.

Thus, I've come to realize taxi drivers are one of the last things I have complete and utter faith in. No clue why, I believe in their ability to do the job well. Should the brave little taxi fail me, my cynicism will be complete. My faith in mankind's ability to perform an everyday job and have pride in one's work would be crushed beneath the wheels of reality.

And so, on to another day.

Why Be You When You Can Be Me?

So I'm looking around, and I don't get the indication that very much has changed. I'm talking about low self-esteem in women. There has been a pretty serious movement against low self-esteem issues in women for the last ten odd years, but I still see too many chicks out there with low self-esteem. I think I might have to help them somehow. Not sure exactly how, but I feel strangely driven to do so.

Perhaps I can start here, start small, work my way up. It's not like I'm Oprah, I don't have the money, the power, the abilities she possesses to help others. All I have is myself and my sarcastic little blog. Well, everyone has to start somewhere, right?

Here goes. What the everlovin fuck is wrong with you women? Why you gotta whine all the damn time about every little pokey shitass thing?? We're a first world country, fercrissakes, we have everything we need! We have education at our disposal, money, jobs, homes, families, children, pets. Thoroughbred automobiles!! And yet...whine whine whine! My ass is too fat, my boobs are too small, my hair is the wrong color! WHINE! My maid quit! WHINE! My poolboy won't service me! WHINE!

Here is my thoughtful, sensitive advice to you women...shut the fuck up, go home, kiss your dog, pat your husband, and send some money to a third world country where people are being blown to bits and left on the side of the road, you self-centered, indolent, spoiled rotten bitches.

Guinevere, Queen Of The Fucking Universe, has spoken. Off with their heads!

Don't Put Off Until Today What You Can Do Yesterday.

Almost an entire week has flashed past without me posting anything. I feel absurdly guilty :P but I guess no news is good news. Whatever the hell that means. No news could also mean communication lines are down and we're all gonna DIE DIE DIE long before the Cavalry comes.

Did you ever notice all the stupid, redundant and downright illogical shit that we say? That we learned from our parents and they learned from their parents? Here's a good one..."Better than sliced bread." What kind of fucking useless lazyass society thinks that the act of cutting something as soft and easy as bread is such hard work that pre-slicing it becomes the worlds greatest invention?? Does anyone recall the days when, in order to make a loaf of bread, you had to grow a field of wheat first??? Anyone?? Cut it down? Mash it? Kill someone for a starter culture of sourdough? No, no. Nowadays, buying it without it being sliced first is the sign of a hard worker. Wow. I mean...WOW.

Here's another one..."As easy as pie." Easy? Pie is easy? The last time I attempted to make a pie, the pie plate caused the microwave catch fire and the neighbours had to call the fire department. Anyway, I really think it's time we start updating our clichés :P We must adapt. It should say "As easy as Pi". In fact, all clichés should be dragged kickin and screaming into the twentysomethingth century. The old ones are about as useful as tits on a model. Get to work, people. It's not like you're spending all your time slicing bread. Remember, an idle mind is the Internet's playpen.

:P