I find the phrase “imo” or “in my opinion” to be annoying sometimes. I’ve said it very few times in the past, but I don’t like it. I usually don’t like restating the obvious, restating the obvious can make you sound really slow, or sometimes, it can make the person you’re talking to think that you think they’re slow.
When you add “imo” to your sentence, you might as well mention that the grass usually comes in a nice green color if you take care of it, gravity doesn’t let us fall out of the earth, and putting crackers and cheese together happens more frequently than substituting stress balls with cow testicles.

I was able to tolerate the phrase when people have said/typed it to me in the past (by not pointing it out), until today, until somebody who I don’t really like used it.

So here’s a quick background bonus story:

There is a girl, oh let’s call her Hortense (because the name is as disgusting as her heart), who sits next to me in one of my graphic design classes. She has been very rude and disrespectful towards me because the work that I create is more advanced than her’s, and she admits it.

Jealously was the original reason why Hortense acted so offensive towards me. Whenever she looked at my work, she would never say anything good about them, instead she’d say only “sarcastic” things such as, “Oh why don’t you just drap the class?”, “I’m sick of you”, “Please make something bad for a change so I can feel good about mine”, “Dude, just stap already,” etc (she had a funny accent, the kind that would say “bax” instead of “box”).

I’m OK with that kind of stuff, but she just kept on doing it, with every piece I made, to a point where it just became annoying and insulting. My policy for that kind of shit is if somebody is clearly jealous of you or your work and they can’t respect it, brag about whatever they’re jealous of. That’s right, rub it. Rub it all in. Rub cow testicles on their faces if you must.

And that’s what I did. I rubbed cow testicles on her face until she could savor the taste in her mouth (not really). When she would glance over at the projects I worked on, I made sure to tell her it was the best damn thing I’ve ever seen, and she gagged every time.

When she tried to make those stupid sarcastic comments about my work, I would cut her off to tell her how much time, effort, and skill I’ve put into it thus rendering them worthy enough to make love to, and she believed everything I said.

By the time she was fed up with my pretend cockiness, she asked, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“God’s gift to graphic design,” I proudly declared.

“Ugh, YOU’RE gad’s gift graphic design?” She rolled her eyes at me, “I can’t believe you just said that..blah blah blah”

She just never shuts up.

But back to the point, haha, today in class, I was talking to one of my classmates about how I’m going to decorate my bedroom after the renovation, I wanted the walls to be pink, but I wasn’t allowed to paint it to said color anymore.

Hortense hears my conversation, she rudely cuts in and says, “pink’s nat a really good choice for wahlls in my opinion.”

“Well…no shit it’s your opinion,” I responded.

She looked at me in a sort of sad, did you just say that? expression, and then opened her mouth as if to answer, but snapped it back. I almost felt bad. Almost.

Case in point, using “imo” is retarded. To hear it come from her is even worse that I had to be rude about it. What good does it do besides pissing me off and filling up empty spaces on your ten page essay? “Imo” is a very snotty yet convenient way of saying, “everything that comes out of my mouth is infallible…with the minor exception for every ‘imo’ I add at the end of my sentences.”

But the problem is, anybody who uses “imo”, probably uses it randomly! They only say it when they feel like it and it makes me wonder…

You say, “this pizza doesn’t have enough pepperoni imo,” and den you say, “red doesn’t suit Kathy.”

Now since there’s absolutely no “imo” to be found in the second sentence, but there’s one in the first sentence, does this actually mean that it is of actual fact that red actually doesn’t suit Kathy?

BAH, I fart on your fact!

To reduce the confusion and the inconsistent sloppy usage of “in my opinion”/”imo”, there should be a specific rule.

From here on out, for those who will continue to reuse the phrase, make sure to always point out that it is your opinion for every opinion that you speak of. It is also required that you back up your “facts” with credible sources. I accept textbooks, documentary videos, and magazine and newspaper articles. Websites, ehh, aren’t as trustworthy as the other ones aforementioned. Sorry.

There are a lot of things I find scary or intimidating at first glance, some of which includes spiders, cops, people who work at Hot Topic, roller coasters and…women in large groups.

Just to clarify, I’m not scared of women, individually, but more like seeing groups or “cliques” of women who I don’t know all too well.  Yeah call me a wimp, I don’t care, but boy do they scare me!

Before I entered college, from kindergarten to high school, there were some people (or kids back then) who picked on me, taunted me, harassed me, basically tried to make my life a living hell.

The frequency of boys who bullied me was random.  They usually picked on me whenever they had the chance, sometimes they had friends with them, sometimes they didn’t.  The girl bullies, on the other hand, were consistent and would always come in packs only during lunch time, and sometimes P.E. depending how many girlfriends they had in that class.  I hated it.  I’ve always hated them more than the boy bullies because the girls always had their own little backup.  You can punch a boy and maaaybe have him punch back at you, but you can’t punch a girl without having five more punches–the other five pulling your hair–coming at you.

Females, of any age, have this sick proclivity to pull the rest of their girlfriends in to their own problems, literally.  The only time they feel indestructible and heroic is when they have their girlfriends standing right beside them as they try to tear down one single girl whose completely alone. Take their clique of girlfriends away and you have one poor and defenseless sobbing idiot.

Yesterday, for Memorial’s day, my older sister really wanted to take me to a picnic that her friends were having, so I went. It was a bit nerve racking for me because she had a lot girlfriends, and again, meeting groups of girlfriends can be intimidating for me when you are your own backup.

We were a few hours late, but as soon as we arrived, all of her girlfriends greeted her and hugged her, and when they were done, they looked at me and looked away immediately as if they pretended nothing was there…but something was there, ’twas I standing there waving, waiting for somebody, anybody to wave back but nobody did…doh!

It was such a gawd awful way to start the picnic that I already wanted to leave. But after eating my plate, alone, I decided that I wanted to go up to the girls to, you know, talk. It was really terrifying for me seeing as how dreadful they looked as a single, cohesive group never leaving each other’s side, but I worked up the courage to walk up to them and this is what happened:

“Hey, so how are you guys liking the food?” I asked in a friendly tone

They looked at each other, chuckled, and then continued to eat, as if nothing was there…again.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Bunch of ungrateful, discourteous women, who are at least eight years older than me, acting like teenage girls.

So instead of trying to make conversation with them, I talked to some of their boyfriends, who were kind enough to actually talk back, they also showed me where the yummy foods were hidden. I also took very boring pictures of the park to kill time. When there was nothing left to do, I tried to make convo again, when I saw one of the girls get up to get food by herself:

“You and your friends are very quiet,” I smiled.

There was a slight look of shock in her face, she turned to look at her clique of girlfriends, and then looked at me and said, “I-I-uh-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just getting food.” She continued to put food in her plate.

Yet another failed attempt to make normal conversation, except this one, actually talked…with hesitance and stutters and nonsense! Only because she was alone, and didn’t have her girlfriends standing behind her ass to give her that confidence to shun me completely.

You girls are funny.

Ugh. I don’t know anymore, it’s 2 AM and I probably not making any sense anymore lol. It just saddens me how they can judge so quickly without even talking to me. It saddens me how I had to waste 2-3 hours of my life.  It saddens me how that little incident reconfirms why I should be cautious of women and their pack.  And it saddens me how my very own sister likes to interact with them.

I just kind of realized how immature I am.

Like, farting is hilarious. I always get a kick out of listening and telling true fart stories to people. Farting and then passing it to your friend via waving-hand motion is really satisfying.

Naked artsy people make me giggle–but I try to giggle on the inside since it’s not really nice to laugh at naked artsy people. I took a life drawing class last year, and it took me a while not to look like I was trying to hold my breath (from laughing) every time a model disrobed in front of the class.

I like pressing buttons, more specifically, unfamiliar buttons, buttons I’ve never pressed before (omfg), just to see what it would trigger. The anticipation is the best part, but sometimes the outcome of pressing a button can be really anticlimactic, aka the one’s that doesn’t work.

And the worst of all (I cringe as I begin to type the inevitable), I own guns…toy guns. Though uh I really don’t feel like explaining what I do with them.

Oh yeah true story, when the workers were cleaning out my bedroom for renovation, the cute younger one came up to me with a box and asked, “Did you want to keep these with you?” Confused, I glanced at the box and noticed that he was holding a box of my toy guns. If there was ever a time I wanted to kill myself, it would be that time.

And the point of all this? Nothing really, I just don’t want to work on my finals. Carry on.

PS – I am still screwed.

Because of the renovation, I’ve been living in the garage with my parents for three weeks already and I…just…can’t…fucking…take it anymore.  Really, I tried to keep my cool.  I kept it cool for the first few days but gees, I cannot tolerate with the way they’ve been treating me.

They treat me like I’m their mentally retarded daughter.

Seriously.  That’s my only problem.  I wish I was trying to be funny, but I’m not.  I’m being treated like a person who suffers from mental retardation.

For instance, my parents will repeat the same stuff to me over and over and over and over again…

Dad: They just put the tiles in today, you can’t walk in the kitchen.

Me: Yeah, I know, the guys already told me.

Dad: Oh? Ok.

(30 minutes later)

Dad: Remember not to walk in the kitchen.

Me: I know.

(one hour later)

Dad: Don’t take a single step in the kitchen.

Me: Yeah, I know! Sheesh.

(five hours later)

Dad: You can’t walk in the kitchen.

Me: (head explodes)

They always restate the obvious…

Me: Wow it’s cold! Oh btw, I’m going to go out tonight.

Mom: Make sure to wear something warm.

Me: Nah…I think I’m going to go with a white fitted wifebeater so everyone can see how long my nipples will harden.

Another thing that really pushes my mentally retarded buttons is how they’re trying to put a curfew on me. It’s really weird. First of all, I’m 21 years old, I’m a woman, aright? And second, before the renovation, I had no rules, I had no curfews, so for them to coerce (yes coerced, dad used anger and intimidation on me to get me to sleep earlier, and mom used “but it’s mother’s day” excuse) me into hopping into bed on my “assigned” time is just really obnoxious…

Mom: I want you to sleep exactly at 12.

Me: No.

Mom: Please? For Mother’s Day?

Me: Why?

Mom: Because it will be good for you.

Yeah…wish I made this stuff up.  I really can’t wait to get out of here (the garage that is!).

Today I received a message on OkCupid (not your average dating site) and it says:

I know I already sent you a message but I wanted to say you are very pretty again.

Apparently the guy sent me another message before. But frankly, I don’t remember the message and its sender, and frankly, I’m not surprised that I don’t remember anything about it because I’m sure the first message was as dull as the second one.

If I only knew how to not come off as an asshole to him then I would respond to his message, but since I really can’t, I’m going to be nice by not writing back to him…directly. Instead I will post my never-sent-it-but-shoulda-sent-it message here and if he reads it (I posted my website link on my OkCupid profile) then so be it, it might be a blessing in disguise for him anyway.

Dear Guy who Thinks I’m Pretty Again,

Thanks. But dude, really, I don’t give a shit. I really don’t.

Flattering chicks online with something as superficial and trivial as, “I think you’re really cute” is not going to make them want to rub your balls, guy. And I say online because it’s truly one of the few “places” where you can send an interesting first message by reading a few things from their profile first. Offline…not so much.

So instead of skipping my profile to take the easy route by using flattery of fucking baloney that doesn’t work on anybody nowadays, cut the shit and take advantage of the written, comprehensive profile I have offered to my fellow OkCupiders by reading it and using it to initiate a real discussion.

Flattery can be sweet, when used in the right time and context, but the chances of getting a decent chick to start liking you by simply telling her that she’s pretty, which she’s already aware of, are low, way low.

You know what we like? Be it online or off, we like smart and funny guys who know how to talk. We like guys who can carry a fun and interesting conversation–not guys who are only capable of saying, “Oh I thank yur purrrrrday…” or in Julie’s case, “Damn, you have a nice ass.”

If that were me, I’d answer back and say, “Aww thanks. Poop comes out of it!” Boner, averted.

Sorry,

Tiff

Look, I don’t think this is asking much, but I wish the restroom stalls at my gym and school had hooks so that I can hang my shit up. Like, at the gym, every time I’m doing my business in the ladies room, I have to lay my gym bag on my lap, but sometimes it tips over and lands on the floor. And for some reasons, that grosses me the fuck out.

What’s even more horrifying is seeing people’s jackets lying on the floor. I mean, if you’re going to lay your jacket on the restroom floor, intentionally, as you’re taking a piss, might as well throw it into the toilet that you’re pissing in. I’ve personally seen puddles of piss scattered throughout the floor inside of those stalls many, many times. No one’s going to clean it up, it dries up, and it stays there.

I bet you dudes are wondering how that could’ve happen in a women’s restroom, the piss puddles. See, some chicks prefer “hovering”. In this particular method, their ass cheeks doesn’t come in physical contact with the toilet seat and is only a few inches apart from each other (the ass and the seat). The ones that can do it do it like a champ. They are precise and their piss strategically spurts into the bowl without touching anything else. Beautiful.

The ones that don’t know how to hover but do it anyways, however, have weak knees. When in hovering position, knees are sloppily bent at a 130 degree angle (when it should be 90, at the least) and wobbling legs would commence. As a result, piss skips the toilet bowl and lands fucking everywhere.

Those kinds of inconsiderate hags should be banned from hovering, and they’re probably the same people who leave shit sit on the top of the toilet seat too.