I Think I Am Mildly Grumpy And Allergic To Stupid Sluts.

Well, slut a harsh word. But it’s a harsh old world, so walk it off, nancy. Although maybe, just maybe, I should re-phrase that to ‘I’m allergic to people I cannot and do not wish to relate to in any way, so please leave me alone while I’m trying to do a CI Manual. Thanks, and please come again. Or rather, don’t.”

I guess it starts off with listening. If you expect me to be a good listener, then please take the time to listen what I have to say as well.

Don’t ask me how I’m doing, and when I tell you about a friend that has just died, or baby that has just been born, or an awesome new job that I have just got, cut me off to tell me how completely plastered you’re going to get at the Dros with your friends that night, just like every other night in your life. Do this every time you speak to me, and I will tell you how I do not have time for self-centred, self-absorbed tarts looking to rack up my friends like they’re Kauai smoothie stickers on a frequent-sipper card.

Also, if I do tell you this, and make no effort to ‘stay in touch’ or ‘keep being friends', then do NOT send me shit like this:


Vapid Tart: I trust you had a good weekend!

Me: Of course I did. I haven’t spoken to you in two weeks.

Vapid Tart: LOL What you mean?

Me: Nevermind.

Vapid Tart: Okay. Well aren’t you going to ask me how my weekend was?

Me: Fine. How was your weekend?

Vapid Tart: I’m too scared to answer your question.

Me: What?

Vapid Tart: You will hold it against me again.

Me: Oh for fuck sakes.

Vapid Tart: Well you always do :)

(It was the smiley face here that pushed me over the edge. I could just picture her grinning stupidly to herself and making ‘hyuk-hyuk’ noises to herself, a lá goofy.)

Me: You mean have I absolutely no interest in hearing about your weekend of picking up random men for a casual scrumple in the McDonalds toilets outside News Café, because you will ignore everything I say anyway, and blather on about your pointless, gin-soaked evening as though I, to be blunt, give a fuck; and tend to remind you of this every time you blabber on about your pointless, gin-soaked and more-than-likely crab-strewn self?

Vapid Tart: Hahahah you type so weirdly. So you coming to join us for drinks on Friday?

Me: Oh sweet Jesus.

Vapid Tart: It’ll be fun I’m so keen to just get hammered.

Me: Did it ever occur to you that I have no interest in ever been seen out in public with you ever again, and regret ever giving you any of my contact details every single time I see your name in my inbox or your number on my phone? And the only reason I’m even typing a reply is that I’m bored out of my skull, and have nothing better to do?

Vapid Tart: LOL of course not! We’re friends! :)

And so it goes...

Tell me, dear reader. Is there any way to get rid of an obnoxious, vacuous, flatheaded carbuncle of a woman without actually slapping the bitch upside the head? I really don’t want to do that, on account of how it means I’ll actually have to, you know, touch her.

Urgh.