Why My Neighbor Makes Me Hate People

Last night, I had a wonderful evening watching the Mavs game. As usual, I got along with everybody (even Spurs fans) and the night ended very well. When I arrived home, however, I was greeted by a small pile of rat-dog shit. Someone had allowed their rat-dog to shit on the sidewalk. Not only on the sidewalk, but on the sidewalk immediately at the bottom of the stairs to my front porch. Had I not been paying close attention to where I was stepping, I would have stepped right in it.
Noting the unique position of the pile (what kind of crazy dog actually craps on concrete?), it really made an impression on me. It really takes a special person to stand there and watch one's dog unload on someone else's porch? It is methodical and careless actions such as these that cause me to really hate people sometimes (all of the time).
I think that there are two types of people in this world - special people such as my neighbor, who have no concept of others, allow their pets to shit indiscriminately, and leave the police scanner on full-blast 24/7 (yes, he does this too); and people who care enough to at least pick up after one's pet, return lost wallets, bring your paper in from the rain, and other things such as this. Now, I understand that there are varying degrees of each type of people, but my mind tends to force people into one of these two groups for one main reason: I need something to hate.
Those of you that know me know that I am extremely laid back. I am not quick to anger. I don't pick fights. I would rather be nice than be a prick. This comes at a cost. I am not immune to the normal frustrations, annoyances, and irritations of normal life. I just channel them a different way.
I store all of my rage inside until that unfortunate person cuts me off, hangs up on me, or wrongs me in some other relatively minor way. At that point, when the time is just right, I have been known to explode. I still do not pick fights...it's much more passive aggressive at this point. I yell obscenities, sometimes deliver a strategic middle finger, or some other means of focusing my hate.
If I am not careful, these passive aggressive tendencies will certainly get me in trouble. Just last night, for example, two kids pulled up in a Pontiac as I was walking to my car. They came to a complete stop right between me and my car - showing no consideration whatsoever for the fact that I even existed. So that the driver would know which type of person he was, I provided a gentle reminder in the form of a sarcastic comment. It was, of course, loud enough for them to hear me.
Fortunately, they were smaller in stature than me, and neither of my subsequent comments persuaded them to exit their car to further explore the subject. They did, however, call me a 'bitch' from the street as they left. This just gives further proof that my initial analysis was correct.
I do need to be more careful, I suppose. But I still can't help but be curious about how my neighbor would react to have a big pile of (dog, cow, horse, human) shit on his front steps.

Baby Talk

So, I spent this past weekend with my sisters, who between them, have about 73 children. While the actual number is 5, the omnipresence this weekend of small people at various stages of mobility and cognitive development, makes 73 a more accurate representation of the "Children Index." This is similar to the heat index. It may only be 90 degrees outside, but the humidity and proximity of Satan might make it feel like 190 degrees. It's mostly used as an excuse for old and lazy people to stay in their 72 degree home and bitch about the weather, but the concept is easily tranferred into an analogy for children.

That being said, please do not take the comments above as any indication that I do not love my nieces and nephews (with all of the words in the English language, there really should be one word that means 'the children of my siblings'). I do love them very much and I really enjoy being around them. It's just that I live alone, can listen to whatever I want, say whatever I want, and do whatever I want - regardless of the 'appropriateness,' volume, or time of day. So being around so many children for two full days around which one has to be so mindful of what one says or refers to, is an enormous departure from my normal life. This fact, along with the fact that absolutely none of my day-to-day human interaction is with people below the age of 22, I am not entirely sure how to talk to a baby. I don't just go around speaking baby talk, so I when the opportunity arises, it shows that I am desperately out of practice. I can't help but feel as though the baby knows that I'm new to this, and already thinks less of me. It's very uncomfortable to feel as though you've let down a 6 month old. But at least I'm setting the bar low. I'd rather disappoint them now, than set their hopes high and disappoint them when they're old enough to voice it.

Relax, it's just me

So, you'll notice that more than a month has passed since my last post. I know that had each and every one of you (read: nobody) hooked with only two posts, and that your lives have been thrown into imbalance because you don't know what's going on with me. How's his apartment? Did he throw more stuff away? Has his attitude towards fellow bloggers changed? Does he realize that his talking to a non-existent and therefore completely made-up audience is tantamount to his having a conversation with an imaginary person? Did he just type that?

Well, get up off your couch, throw away the ice cream carton, put down the zoloft - I'm back. Though this next statement will be contradictory to the fact that I write all of these (3) posts from work, please believe me when I say that I have been busy. That's at least the excuse that I give myself and others.

In fact, I'm pretty lazy.

I graduated from a fancy private university with a BA in international studies. That's what happens when you decide while waiting tables in college that being "happy" and doing "what you love" is better than being able to pay your bills every month, living in a cool loft downtown, and driving a schnazzy car. We all made fun of business majors while we were in school - claiming that they had no souls, were in it only for the money, and would never be satisfied with pushing papers and crunching numbers. Well, folks, I was wrong.

Somehow I ended up as an event planner. That means I have papers to push, numbers to crunch, and alot of self-important ass to kiss. So basically, instead of finding a job that has meaning, I found one that does not pay and at which I have to work ungodly hours. I then go home to my apartment in the 'hood, decide which bills to pay, and do it all over again the next day. Now, I suppose that things aren't entirely as bleak as I make them. I get to meet interesting people. Drive around senators. Meet Bono. My boss never lets an opportunity go by without placating me with reminders of the "intangibles" of my job. Apparently he lives in a world where such "intangibles" are easily substituted for hard currency that one can use to keep the lights on in one's dimly lit shithole.

I'm in a big funk today. I apologize for whining so much. I promise not to bitch quite so much next time.