|And Shredder. He's definitely worse.|
5. Pushing buttons
But not in the way you think, although Troy may disagree.
There is a very primitive, compulsive beast inside me that I cannot tame.
I am compelled to push in the plastic buttons on soft drink lids. All the soft drink lids. Actively depriving others of the same joy.
|I don't care who I hurt. I just want to push the buttons!|
There is just such satisfaction in pushing them down, it's almost as good as bubble wrap.
Loves it... *sigh*
I WILL HAVE THE BLOOD OF YOUR FIRST BORN!!
Okay, maybe a titch dramatic. But seriously, pushing those things in is the best. And although there is no good reason for it, I have a little bit of irrational hatred reserved for anyone who has denied me plastic buttons...
4. Smug without cause
There's something so satisfying about occasionally having a smug sense of superiority. Don't pretend like you haven't ever done it. Hipsters may have taken it to a whole new annoying level, but even regular folk will fall prey to the self-esteem boosting high that comes from making statements about how the book was so much better than the movie.
|Oh look! They sell "obvious douche" in size XXL now.|
|I'm more into "Hammer No More the Fingers" now. |
You've probably never heard of them.
It's purely luck that things worked out this way, but every day without fail, as I'm traveling briskly along on my commute to and from work, traffic is just obscenely backed up going the opposite way.
|See the completely empty far lanes? That's me. Every day. |
I have no idea why this is. It's not as though I feel like less of a person when I'm stuck in traffic.
Although I admit it's terrible behavior, I've no desire to correct it as it makes me feel vaguely good about myself after a day of dealing with punks and the chronically unfortunate. So yes, if you ever see me traveling by you while you're stuck in traffic, rest assured I have no sympathy for your plight and am probably silently congratulating myself for not going in the "loser" direction.
|Ha-ha! I'm getting home first! |
Eat it suckers!
|A good brownie is hard to beat. And they're all good.|
This has resulted in multiple corner brownie thefts over the years.
|Who eats brownies with a fork anyway?|
I might not even want a brownie right then. Doesn't matter. Corner pieces will still get carved and hacked out, perhaps hidden somewhere for future consumption.
And yes, I have heard of the "Brownie Edge Pan".
|Seems like cheating..|
|Mmm... sweet victory!|
2. Pride and greed
I want to donate my eggs.
Specifically because I like the idea of my genes getting passed on without me actually having to do any of the work involved with raising a child. Because, you know, screw that.
Oh, and money.
Now I'm just a phone call away from getting injected full of hormones and harvested, to the tune of a few grand.
I also kind of fantasize that a fabulous gay couple with money to burn will get my eggs. Their child will be sophisticated and have an assortment of scarves, and that will be just peachy.
|What? No scarves?|
This one is truly terrible. But I laugh so hard when reminiscing about the times I've done this that it's hard to have regrets.
For most of my life, I have successfully blamed my farts on other people.
|Or animals. Really whatever's convenient.|
I watched with malicious glee while the patrons glared accusingly at poor Cotton-Eye Joe, who manfully attempted to ignore the smelt I had dealt, and rattled off the evening's specials.
|Gratuities suffered greatly that night...|
I never would have gotten away with it for so long had it not been for her uncontrollable spasms of laughter. Why did she laugh when the gas was passed? Well, probably because it's kind of funny. Just like nut shots and cuddle time with John Stamos.
Anyway, it's hard to proclaim your innocence when you're choking on broccoli and cheesy potatoes from laughing so hard. And whenever she finally settled down enough to protest, another backdoor breeze would be loosed, forcing her into continued hysterical laughter. It was a foul cycle.
|But high in fiber.|
A typical night at the Carson household:
"Sarah! How could you?! And at the dinner table!" I'd exclaim in feigned indignation.
It wasn't until my second, or possibly third, year of college that I confessed to my crimes against my sibling.
- Hugs and kisses Sarah!!!