[Ex-Ex-Ex-Oh] (glamoursnipe) wrote,

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Shit I Don't Like, Vol. I

Driving down Hendersonville Road and getting caught in every effing red light between Biltmore Village and Arden? That’s the shit I don’t like.

Security guards who won’t take thirty seconds from following a lone black teenager all over the store to urge some spaced-out mother to round up, leash and muzzle her obnoxious hellspawn? That’s the shit I don’t like.

A week’s supply of fresh fruit/ veg being three to five times more expensive than a box of Little Debbies/ Doritos? That’s the shit I don’t like.

Women who hit on men they KNOW are taken--especially ones who play this like it’s a professional sport and they’re trying for the Wheaties box? That’s the shit I don’t like.

Going to pass some idiot on the highway and the moment you swing into the left-hand lane, they FLOOR IT until you give up and drop back into formation, then immediately resume their former pace? That’s the shit I don’t like.

The absence of other parties in our political system. By now it’s clear that modern Republicans value fetuses over women (and consider a woman’s reproductive system and sexual conduct everyone’s business but her own), one passage in Leviticus over an entire group of people’s safety and well being, and materialism over philanthropy; Democrats are too busy arguing the points to focus on what's really going on. The fact that both parties haven’t been KO’d by a group of renegades focused on the big picture and unwilling to get caught up in a diversionary rat maze of social equality issues? That’s the shit I don’t like.

Having to go all the way to Biltmore Village (at the closest) for my Dunkin' Donuts coffee fix? That’s the shit I don’t like.

My dad complaining about my cooking. Love him, hate that. I’m sorry your palate hasn’t advanced beyond fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, but I cook family dinners out of the goodness of my heart, to give you and Mom a break, not to torture you every time I pick up a kitchen utensil. No, my spaghetti sauce/ chili are NOT too thick, and no, I DON’T reach for my nonexistent garlic stash unless the recipe calls for some. If you don’t like the menu, that’s why sandwiches were invented. You’ll actually hurt my feelings way less if you build a sandwich and back off, because eating what I’ve made but bitching about it every bite? That’s the shit I don’t like.

This support-the-troops, America-owes-you-a-debt-of-gratitude mentality that up and dies as soon as the soldier becomes a veteran? That’s the shit I don’t like.

The radio. The hell happened? You were awesome from the mid-70s to around 1992, allowing all genres to infiltrate the pop charts, then all of a sudden, you decide that only three or four types of music exist? That’s the shit I don’t like.

The de-evolution of hip-hop. Listen to “The Message” (Grandmaster Flash), then listen to “Racks” (YC). And the fact that the more infantile the rhymes are and more generic the beat/ flow is, the more guest vocals need to come round and reinforce it? Yeah…that’s the shit I don’t like.

Picture this: I’m hitting Asheville, looking good, feeling fierce, wearing my best jacket, best jeans, best shoes, plus my Urban Decay eyeliner, my Hard Candy blush, my MAC lipstick, better believe…I approach the door to some consumer establishment like a boss, strutting to “U Got the Look” in my head, and out comes some ratty girl, face full of zits, hair not even a hot mess, stained sweats she must've found in a dumpster. She gives me an incredulous once-over, then shares a look with her equally busted-ass boyfriend like, “Halloween, much?” Now, whut? Uh-uh. My mirror knows better. What are you thinking, anyway, that I do this because I’m enslaved by the fashion police, the beauty nazis, or the patriarchy? No, I do it because it makes me feel good, because I thrive on creative calisthenics, and because I’m from the Oscar Wilde school of thought that considers beauty a form of genius. Trust me, I’m barefaced and sloppy often enough when I’m bumming around the house. Hating on me because you don’t have the balls to be your own art exhibit? That’s the shit I don’t like.

People who’d rather accessorize with their pets and/ or children than experience any meaningful interaction with them? That’s the shit I don’t like.
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