Do you know what I hate? The don’t-be-so-hard-on-yourself-when-you’re-trying-to-insult-yourself guy. And by “guy” I mean anyone.
Look, or even looky here, as my eighth-grade algebra teacher used to say (and there’s a job. Hey, this year you’re gonna teach June algebra! Good luck and here’s your methadone prescription), none of us are 100% happy with ourselves, and most of us have ways of dealing with it the best we can. Some of us, and I’m not naming names, may have a little, you know, hilarious routine we do where we complain about our flaws. Some of us might feel a lot better about ourselves after we’ve, just to throw a scenario out there, done a whole bit on our marsupial pouch abdomen and get a laugh. For some of us, the laughs make up for the marsupial pouch.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” stupid esteem-builder earnest person says. “Everyone is beautiful.”
Oh my god earnest people like this need to be drawn and quartered. I mean, earnestness is a trait that’s dreadful enough, and then you get the Aggressively-Earnest-cockblock-your-hilarity person, who really isn’t even in it to remind you to adore your own self, but really is there to say, See how incredibly evolved I am? I’m so evolved I plan to dampen your whole hilarious shtick.
I also kind of hate the word shtick.
Oooo, you know what else I hate?
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
Oh, fuck off. “Okay, I’ll bite” implies you were trying to manipulate someone with an intriguing sentence or something and they’re saying yeah, okay, I’ll allow you to entice me with your manipulative vaguebooking or whatever. I’d say 90% of the time anyone tells me they’ll “bite” I was over there just trying to amuse myself and not WISHING to be bitten.
So how was your weekend? If you checked in with me this weekend, and I also hate the phrase “checked in,” (because it’s also manipulative. “Just checking in!” No, you’re not.) you saw my riveting Wordless Weekend, wherein I tried to make a weekend of doing freelance work look interesting.
Hey, June, how’s your new 60-hour, no-end-in-sight freelance-on-top-of-regular-work going? Is it making you at all cranky? Well, I don’t know, I was just asking. Just checking in.
Long phrases with hyphens in them are big with me today.
Anyway I did a lot of freelance, and turned in the first draft of something, and meet with someone after work tomorrow to interview her for another freelance thing I’m doing, and it would be exciting that I’m making all this extra scratch to pay off my credit card debt but listen to this.
The old Devil in Edsel Jones, up there, who looks so friendly and approachable unless you’re in a puppy suit, has taken up hating another puppy. This time it’s the puppy in the kitty-corner yard, which, let’s discuss this. These people have two dogs: a schnauzer and a white shaggy puppy, and what’s with the proliferation of small white shaggy dogs anymore? You can’t swing a Mastiff’s dick without hitting a small white shaggy dog. I like mostly all dogs, but I just don’t have that same draw to a smaller dog. I am sorry.
Oh, except for this one:
Squee squee squee, squee squee squee squee squeeeeeeee! Somebody brought their puppy in on Friday. Maintained dignity, as you can imagine.
Hey, you’re dignified! Everyone’s dignified! You should love yourself!
You know who shouldn’t love him or herself? The person who announces that we should all love ourselves.
Anyway, back to my yard. Back to the future of June’s yard. So these people have a schnauzer and a white shaggy puppy, and here’s what bugs me. The PUPPY is named Tramp.
Do you know what kind of dog Tramp was?
So, they take their SCHNAUZER and name him whatever, then they take their next, non-schnauzer dog and name it Tramp. It just. I can’t just. I [takes long pull off the bong].
Anyway, Edsel hates Tramp. Hey, maybe I’m hearing it wrong and the dog is named Trump and Edsel is a staunch liberal. If that’s the case, he’s not teaching tolerance, because every day he goes to the fence and they bark at each other with equal vehemence, Eds and Tramp do. And I could never be sure if it was, you know, play or Edsel hated that dog, but all signs point to hate.
Yesterday I was freelancing as I am wont to do, hence my sparkling mood, and I heard the exuberant barking, which I imagine is like the kind of play you hear late at night if you’re a parent hosting a sleepover, that kind of play that sounds like everyone’s tired and maybe it’s getting a trifle edgy and soon there will be tears and spilled Hi-C.
Do parents still serve Hi-C? Because why not? Has Hi-C left us due to the helicopter parenting? Look. Looky here. Hi-C is delicious and tastes of red and I grew up on it and look how I turned out. Pay no attention to the kangaroo pouch in front of me. You should love yourself, June.
Oh my god anyway. So I heard the barking getting started, and I was all Goddammit, because you’d think one gay nervous dog and three cats would be a breeze, but it turns out you’re getting up attending to them more often than you’d think. So I was all Goddammit I’ll just finish this sentence and then I’ll get up and get Edsel, and that is when I heard
Ar! Ar! At! Ar!
that high-pitched dog-injured noise that let’s face it, dogs make a lot when they’re kind of faking. I mean, Tallulah never made that noise, ever, but Edsel does all the time and it’s when he’s, like, stubbed a dog toe or something. He’s always been absolutely fine in the end. Tallulah got hit by a CAR and didn’t ar ar ar. She just ran off to the woods for three relaxing days and slumped home. Kept her dognity.
She was probably in the depths of the woods complaining how her hip hurt and some earnest deer was probably all, Your hips are great. You should love yourself, Lu, and that is when she limped home.
So I burst through the back door, which sounds dirty but isn’t, and ran to the kitty-corner and let’s face it, all my corners are kitty corners. And there was poor puppy shaggy Tramp who OKAY, is CUTE, holding up one teensy shaggy paw.
“EDSEL GO INSIDE” I gritted, and he hung his evil angry gay head and went right in. “Are you okay, muffin?”
At that point the Mom of Tramp–which is what my own mother’s bumper sticker read when I was in high school–came back there, and since neither of us saw what went down, we have no idea if Edsel, for example, bit poor Tramp’s paw through the fence or if she (he? Who the fuck knows. Tramp probably doesn’t know. let see. tramp haff dik, but it size of kipper. also tramp so fluffee!) caught it on something or whatever the hell.
There was no blood and after a minute of hanging his/her/its paw pathetically, old trans Tramp bounced off without incident. I told the woman to let me know if she needed to go to the vet or anything, but
THE POINT OF MY STORY IS
I need a real fence. I mean, I really do. This fence back here, this so-called fence, is a hodgepodge of flimsy wire and old chain link and really I’m lucky nothing more nefarious has happened before this. A real fence would keep in Lily and Iris.
I have no illusions that a real fence would keep in Steely Dan. I put up a big fence and he gets the Mission:Impossible theme song in his gray head.
Anyway, that’s my latest, and I’m delighted to have to spend money on another thing, which means this charming freelance schedule will not end soon.
I gotta go, as it’s 8:20 and I’m not dressed yet. I’m in my gray robe from Target. Are you turned on?
Oh, and speaking of how I turn the world on with my robe, could you take this nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? It occurs to me that I do nothing to promote this blo–website, other than link to it on Facebook and hooo care. Everyone I’m FB friends with already knows I have a blebsite.
Could you copy and paste my stupid blog into your social media and be all, OH MY GOD THIS WOMAN IS BETTER THAN ORAL. Can you do that for me? Can ya?
Thanks. If you don’t have social media, can you just run through the street screaming BOOK OF JUNE! BOOK
In his grip,