herpes to papparazzi

I went to a birthday dinner for a friend on Tuesday at a Mexi-Kinda place downtown.  The food was less than mediocre but I hear the mixed drinks were awesome.  I just had beer, as I don't do frozen margaritas.  (Frozen margaritas are a scam; they have almost no alcohol in them.)  Anyway, that's all beside the point, other than the fact that I will not really recommend Teala's to anyone because it was so lackluster.

During the evening, people would occasionally break out cameras.  I understand that.  It's a festive occasion, people photograph those.  And I used to love having my photo taken--I'd ham up with a silly pose and be done with it.  (Mama Pants used to roll her eyes at me.)  However, I'm not 16 anymore and the sight of cameras does not make me strike a silly pose.  Generally, it makes me hide altogether.  I no longer like having my photo taken.  I know this is because of what I look like, specifically, how fat I am.  (Shut up and read.)  I don't like how I turn out in those photos because I know it's how I really look.  I don't want to look like that, I certainly don't want records of me looking like I do.  So I now avoid cameras, especially those that belong to people that don't give first right of refusal like I do.  (If I take your photo and you hate it, I delete it.)  The people who had cameras out were not the type to offer FRoR, so upon sight of the snappers, I immediately took my hair down and made like Cousin It.

(Sidenote:  I forgot how handy hair can be for that sort of thing.)

Whenever a camera was pointed in my direction, I'd move my head a little towards the side and hide behind the hair curtain until the flash went off.  When people specifically pointed it at my face, I held hands up over my face and asked that they not take photos, that I really didn't want my picture taken.  There are two kinds of people in the world when this request is made:  those who respect it and move on, and those who think it's a challenge and pursue relentlessly as if it's funny.  Guess what kind of people were at dinner.  Hint:  the asshole kind.

On several occasions, I held my napkin up in front of my face.  When I was really fed up with it, I held it up with one prominent finger on each hand showing.  When I was behind the wall-o-hair and people were trying to get me to look at the camera, I again employed the message finger.  On several occasions, the guy across from me sat with the camera aimed at me, me behind my hair, and waited for me to check to see if he was finished trying to snap me.  Being the idiot that he was, he didn't realise I could see the infernal orange light that indicated he was still depressing the button on the camera halfway.  In the end, all they got was hair and fuck-you fingers.  I've a very keen awareness of my surroundings when I need to and I wasn't about to be caught unaware by these people. 

I've been thinking about this since it happened.  I don't understand the relentless pursuit of someone who is so obviously opposed to having her photo snapped.  In hindsight, I suppose I could have given a speech about how I don't like photos of myself because I'm unhappy with my physical appearance and that photos of me just generally pull me further into the self-esteem pit of shit and kinda make me want to slit my forearms wrist to elbow and I could really just use a break from hating on myself could you please shove that fucking camera right up your pooper?!  But I don't see why I should have to be Debbie Downer at a festive event by giving all of that up to someone simply because I'd rather not have my photo taken.  (Plus, is that anyone's business?  No, it's not.)  No one is obligated to sit for a camera.  No one is entitled to photographic evidence of someone else without their consent.  What is so difficult for people to understand about that?  Why is respect and decorum so hard to grasp for some people?

It pisses me off. 

Viva la Hair Curtain.

Grinchy Grincherson

At work, they've put up one of those "Angel Trees" where people can pull down a piece of paper that lists someone's details and what they'd like for Christmas. In and of itself, sure, it's goodwill towards man and all that. However, it's being done through the Salvation Army. Discrimination, shady policies, general fuckery—I do not support the Salvation Army. This post better states why, but beyond the post itself, the comments only serve to reiterate exactly why I will not support them. Frankly, the annoying bell ringing is enough for me, but the rest backs up my distaste for them, I think.

So I didn't pull any person down off the tree (which was drawn on a wall-o-whiteboard) but I did glance at some of the papers. The one that caught my eye was a teenager who wanted a guitar. That's all that was listed. A guitar. Um, kid? If I had the money to buy you a guitar, you can bet you'd still wind up with a $20 hoodie, size XS so you can't do any of that baggy bullshit with it.

Of course, they're trying to turn it into a guilt thing—teams can work together to get a bunch of people knocked out. I simply replied that I will not be participating as my money is already budgeted towards other things and people in my life already. I shouldn't be made to feel badly about this, but there's an underlying side-glance at those who don't participate. Those side-glances only serve to piss me off further and solidify my position even more. Why am I supposed to give someone else Christmas simply because I have a job? I chose not to have kids; I didn't want them and I knew I couldn't afford them. Why I gotta buy your rugrat a bunch of Justin Beiber bullshit because you can't? Not my problem.

This time of year, lots of ads go up in the Wanted section of Craigslist as well. People ask for the most ridiculous items—computers, gaming systems, iPods, cars. And they want them free. Gently used or new, preferred. Or cash. A lot just ask for straight cash. The nerve of these people makes me want to kick a baby seal. Shove your entitlement up your ass, fuckface. You can't give your kids a lavish Christmas; that doesn't mean that a stranger should have to give them an iPod. And the computer to store the files for it. And the car that they bring it to you with. Oh, and here's an extra $500 just cos you had the brass balls to ask for all this shit.

This. This bullshit is why I hate this time of year. That people feel entitled to receive high ticket items from strangers because they cannot provide them on their own. And that those who do have a steady income are made to feel guilty for not filtering our own hard-earned money towards those who have none. Because, "oh, it's the holidays." Bite my ass.  And get off yours.

#8: Someone who treated me like shit/made life hell

There's lots of mud-slogging in these prompts. Because there isn't enough shit in the world right now, I'm now supposed to dredge up memories of someone who made my life hell and/or treated me like shit. Alright, meme, I'll play along.

I went to a babysitter in the neighbourhood who watched several kids at once. Her daughter was a psycho bitch from hell named Kristy who did not like me. (Yes, Mom. I know I spelled her name incorrectly.) I don't know why she didn't like me. I was 3 or 4 years younger than she was, but I was the object of her hatred and maliciousness. She'd smack me around, she'd screw shit up and then blame me for it, and she often made a game of running me into the hotwired fence. She was a peach. I told my parents and I know that at least once they talked with her stupid mother about it, but nothing ever happened. Her stupid mother forgot to pick my brother up from school one day and didn't remember until my parents came to pick us up (though I explicitly remember asking where he was well before then) and we stopped going there to her house. Sometime later, Psycho Bitch Kristy came down with some sort of magical, mystical, mystery illness. At one point, they thought it was Malaria. Stupid Bitch Mom Lady called my mom about it once and I remember thinking right then that I hoped she'd die. (No, I'm not sorry I thought it. Not one little bit.) I also thought she was faking it. I still think she was faking most, if not all of it. I don't wish she'd die anymore. I think she's getting everything she's ever deserved by living her miserable little life.

As the first one of just about everyone in my elementary school to hit puberty, I took several hits in that arena. One kid, Jonny, took particular delight in pointing out my break outs to the world with a variety of unclever, yet hurtful nicknames. The irony of this was that Jonny had fire-engine ginger hair, was covered in freckles, and looked like he'd been fathered by a half-retarded jackal. Also a winner, he fathered a child his sophomore year in high school with a gal who had the IQ of celery. I believe he dropped out of high school before graduating (I switched schools and didn't keep tabs on people that sucked that much) and was murdered a few years after I went off to college.

Another gal in junior high, a Jennifer with a chip on her shoulder, targeted me for no reason at all. She would scream at me, try to get her friends to stare at me, blah blah blah. We wound up in a class together, her sitting behind me. She'd kick my desk. Once, she kicked me in the back. I turned around and asked her what the fuck her problem was. She didn't respond. I switched seats permanently. The next year, she wanted to be my friend. Turns out, she'd gotten me confused with someone else and had tormented the wrong person. I told her to go fuck herself. She's still living in the same town I grew up in. Advantage: me.

Hmmm… Seems like fucking with me doesn't end well. Let that be a lesson, y'all. Grr n' shit.