I hate people. I hate them near and far. I hate them out at bars. But at the risk of sounding like Dr. Seuss' bitter, jaded, red-headed stepchild that the family doesn't talk about, I'll suffice it to say I hate them most in cars. Really though, few things aggravate me more on the road than winky-less jackasses who drive tiny little sports cars yet can't figure out how to put them in gear on the highway. I'm from the tri-state. I huff, I puff, and I get super pissed when I've got somewhere to be and you can't figure out how to go from neutral to fifth gear in fewer than five minutes because you have a penis the size of a runt cocktail weenie and to compensate you bought a car you can't drive. However, I'm amused by the fact that yes, asshole, I drive stick better than you. And yes, I'm a girl. And yes, I'm pretty confident my non-existent man part is bigger than yours, too.
Blarg. I'm going to go sit my snarky self under my imaginary basking lamp since it's raining and I'm only going to get crankier. Is 9:18AM too early for cocktails?
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