IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU, BITCH!

Can I just say that I hate cell-phones? Not because they imply that the person carrying one is so important that they need to be reachable at all times. Nor because they are privacy-invading social-life disturbing agents of the dark side.


Purely because we are not interested in other people's depressing lives.


Sure, if you were to discuss last night at the zesty group-orgy and painted-bodies love-fest organized by your new age church, we might perk our ears. If you were to break up with all three of your lovers in public, with lots and lots of juicy tidbits, we would indeed sit up and pay attention. And if you wept and wailed and demanded make-up sadomaso sex from several random people in your address book, we would listen with avid interest (while mentally resolving to be more careful about sharing our own phone-numbers).
But most people do not live at full blast, and actually lead lives as "calm" as our own.
Hence we are not interested.
Even our own lives can (at times) tire us, how much more so yours.

This is something that idiots who talk on their cell-phones in public seldom realize.



Yesterday I heard about your life for over a dozen blocks.

You had a particularly unpleasant whine to your voice. It grated. I do not care that you have medical expenses for your feet (they look fine to me, and those shoes are kind of silly). Nor that you had to pay for the crutches you no longer use out of your own pocket.
I did not care the first time you told this to your aunt (Clay and Larkin Streets), nor any of the subsequent times (Clay and Leavenworth, Clay and Jones, Clay and Mason, Clay and Powell, Clay and Stockton, Clay and Grant, Clay and Montgomery). I do not owe you any crutches, neither does the world. Please stop implying that we do. Yes, we really do want to break your legs.

Why do you need to tell your aunt several different times about the B you got for English, and why do you sound so bitterly disappointed about it?
I am surprised you didn't flunk that class, as you sound pretty iggerunt to me, and there is a dullness and lack of imagination to the way you express yourself. You sound like you exhale spelling errors with every breath. That you need to hire a tutor over summer because it has been two years since you did math merely convinces me that you are not very bright - hearing that datum eight more times convinces me that your math tutor will feel suicidal within weeks, and will also develop a dependency on prescription drugs. The poor bastard.

That you, oh horrors, have to WORK over summer because of your outlays, does not interest me in the slightest. If I were the author of a scheme to impoverish you, it might.
I am not. But I fervently hope someone out there is.
I really resent the implication that the rest of us owe YOU something, especially those crutches of which you speak. Please stop complaining about the high-cost of painkillers, as it reminds us of how we suffer from that spoiled-brat whine in your voice, and the agony we feel every single time you evince your feeling of entitlement. You are NOT entitled; not by us, not from any of the people who cringe every time you repeat your medical history, your B in English, your intent to hire a math tutor, how hurt you are that you have to work over summer, and that you had to pay for the crutches (which you clearly no longer use) out of your own pocket.
Please shut up. Just shut up, okay? Shut the crutch up, you horrid whiny thing.

All of us within hearing distance fervently wished that you would get off the bus before you did. We would've been so glad to see the last of you at Jones Street. Heck, if you had gotten off anywhere in Chinatown Heights (Nob Hill between Jones and Powell) you would've made us ecstatic.
But you didn't.

You were STILL on the bus at Montgomery Street, where I got off. You were repeating every miserably dull detail for the umpteenth time. You are a truly horrible conversationalist.
If your poor aunt plans to kill you, everyone who knows you will volunteer to be her character witness and her alibi.
Fercraps sakes, shut up.