Tag Archives: crankypants

>Other people’s kids or: A Tale of Barely Constrained Anger

>Here’s a shocker: I’m not the most patient person at the end of a long shift and the middle of a long commute.

The trip home was going to be balls no matter what; I had been at work late trying to finish wrassling with the diary, then on the way to the train I spotted some boxes and swiped ’em (which were awkward as a summabitch to carry) and finally, because the train was on the platform and ready to leave I bustled with my boxes into the first car… and had to sit opposite the toilet. Ace.

But the icing on the cupcake that is my commute were the family of annoying little turds that were sat just a few seats ahead of me.

Cute as buttons with bugs on them (or whatever you are supposed to say about “cute” kids), three little girls with blond curly hair and cutie-pie British accents (I’m still not used to kids that don’t speak broken English in Korean accents… seems wrong somehow).

But holy sweet Jesus, I’d rather be completely unable to breed if it saves me from having to spend anytime around kids like those. Screaming, crying, fighting, back-talking little shits! I would have been less unhappy had someone gone into the toilet I was sitting beside and dropped a steamer.

It is times like tonight that I don’t really grasp how I was ever a teacher: A teacher who honestly liked her students. But then I remember that it isn’t kids that I hate; it is other people’s kids. I know, I know. That woman with the gaggle of little bastards probably loves her kids too, even though they should have been tied in a sack and tossed in a river for how they were behaving. That may sound a bit harsh… but you weren’t the one on the train with those little monsters.

I think I liked my students because they were well behaved, for the most part. They got up to no good once and awhile – they were children, after all. But by and large, they behaved. And that makes all the difference. I like behaving children. I don’t like little turd children who have absolutely no respect for other people and act like orangutans on public transport.

But you know… some of my students came into my classroom as little monsters. But they certainly didn’t stay like that. What makes kids so irresistibly cool to me is how quickly they learn and adapt. They’ll go the way you want them to (alright, not always) if you show them how to get there.

So it was with these little buggers. Their mother had absolutely no control. It was no wonder the little girls showed her no respect; she wasn’t commanding or earning it. Even without knowing her, I could hear the insincerity and lack of conviction in her weak threats of potential discipline.

So I take it back. Those girls don’t deserve to be tossed in the Thames.

But their mother sure as hell does.

PS: Only four more days of this commute.
PPS: I know. I said “positive” posts. I was “positively” pissed off by these damned children and thought I would share.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: Dental "Hygiene"

You know how they have “sensitive” toothpaste? I need that. Not because my teeth hurt, but because I’m squeamish. I have an overactive imagination and seeing something gross while I’m brushing my teeth makes me gag a little. Heck, I can just think of something gross (like someone else’s hair in my toothbrush – EW) and it makes me gag a little.

In order to avoid feeling Harfy Bunger while brushing my teeth, every so often I just give into my own brain and brush with my eyes closed so nothing can trigger that gag reflex. Of course, I still have to think of pleasant things or this trick doesn’t work either… but at least nothing can accidently gross me out if I have my eyes closed.

Here in the House o’ Aurghness, I close them every time I brush.

Gagtastic Harf-Inducer #1: The Crusty Tube of Evilness and Wrong

Really? Really people? The only way this could be worse is if the cap had been left off and rolled behind the toilet. And the only reason it hasn’t done that is because the poor thing can’t escape. If I was that cap, I’d sure as hell be trying to escape. I can’t help but imagine one of the citizens of Aurghville squeezing some pound shop toothpaste that was packaged in Taiwan and is actually made of ground-up crickets and discontinued mint-flavouring that was snuck in through customs past that crusty sickness and onto their brush before putting it in their mouth. Gross.

Gag level: 4/10
Gagtastic Harf-Inducer #2: The Multiple Brushes of Sickness and Disease

First, I would like to point out that NONE of these are mine. I keep mine in my room. I keep it safe. It is hidden away from the other citizens, whom I would definitely NOT trust with something as intimate as my toothbrush. I put that in my mouth, for crying out loud. Other than me, there are three “people” in Aurghville. So WHY THE FUCK are there eight toothbrushes in the bathroom, citizens? WHY WHY WHY?

This hurts me in so many ways:

1. Why are there so many brushes?
2. How could you store them in such a way that the bristles touch each other?
3. How do you know which one is yours?
4. See that yellow one? Would you put anything that colour in your mouth?
5. Why are there so many freaking brushes already?

But it gets worse… oh, so much worse. I didn’t think the grossest possible thing in a bathroom so full of grossest possible things could be so gross. And it is so gross. So, so gross. In fact, so gross that I was worried that it wouldn’t show up in the picture above so I took a close-up.

click the pic to enlarge… if you dare


Gag level: 16.35/10
Gagtastic Harf-Inducer #3: The Aftermath

Your teeth are in your mouth. One would think that is where the toothpaste would also go. Now, I get that you have to spit it out at some point. But I normally spit it out into the sink, don’t you?

Gag level: 3/10 (got a bonus point for me thinking about stepping in it in my *shudder* bare feet)
Anger level: 11/10 (What the fuck are you, citizen? 6 years old?)

I think I’m just going to start brushing my teeth at work. Seriously.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: Bathroom TMI

For my moms: TMI stands for “too much information” and you use it whenever someone tells you more about them than you would like to know. This acronym is usually used in chat and usually in response to something someone has typed about themselves.

But there are so many ways that we can tell others too much about ourselves. It may be the written word. It could happen verbally over the phone or in person.

Or you could trim your pubes and leave a trail of them all down the wall in the shower.

Thanks, citizen of Aurghville. I needed to know that you are keeping your undercarriage shorn and spiffy. Thanks for not rinsing them off the wall so I would be reassured that even though you are, in general, a disgusting human being that can’t be arsed to clean up the kitchen or bathroom, you are spending the time to meticulously groom your cha-cha*. Thank you.

Now I need you all to know that I realise that I’m just spreading the TMI further by posting this. I do. But if you read my blog you must know by now that if I suffer, God help me everyone suffers.

*I’m nearly 100% I know which citizen this belongs to as there is one in the house that is particularly disgusting. And that citizen is female, sad to say.

The Chronicles of Aurghville: The Toilet Paper Mysteries

Let me preface this by saying: I understand I’m not always good with other people. Especially stupid other people.

I know this. I am, after all, one of the founding leaders of The People Haters Club (we have party hats). But in recent years I’ve become a lot more tolerant of people in general (stop laughing). There are even specific people (my moms and three others) that I like.

But I still reserve a place in the darkest, scariest parts of my heart for stupid people. People like my flatmates.

They are making me crazy. Fine. Crazier.

Although there are many stories I could tell (and by stories I mean “shit I could complain about”) I would like to start at the most basic, the simplest thing that is making me want to burn the house down.

When I lived on my own (oh the days… how I miss those days… just me and the mold… and Frank my wee mousie… how I miss my old flatmates Frank and Mold… they were great…


That was the longest, most pointless aside ever mostly-contained in a set of over-strained parenthesis. Let me start The Chronicles again.

When I lived in my shoebox with Mold and Frank, it was easy to keep track of how quickly I went through the basics. After all, Mold only used up… I don’t actually know what mold needs to stay alive. I did use a lot of bleach trying to get rid of Mold, but that’s not really the same. And Frank was good about only trying to eat what I dropped until I blocked up his passageway.

This is still an aside. Damn.

Point is, when I was living on my own, I didn’t use up so much fucking toilet paper.

Yah, toilet paper. There is a serious toilet paper mystery in this house – we go through a frightening amount of it. It isn’t natural.

When I lived on my own, I went through about four rolls a month. Approximately. I wasn’t really counting… I’m doing some fairly solid guesswork. Now, there are four of us living in this flat, but we can go through four rolls in two days. Something about this is not right.

Now, I know some of it is going towards “natural uses”, as someone today obviously pooped (they very kindly left proof of their work in the toilet – a story for another Chronicle) and I would hope used some TP to clean up. But unless they are shitting themselves inside out on a daily basis, this does not account for the amount of missing toilet paper.

I suspect one or more of them may be selling it on the street for crack. I have no other explanation for how the hell so much of it goes so quickly. I just don’t know. Last Sunday I bought a total of 18 rolls of toilet paper. We are down to 6 already. SIX! In less than a week! What the freakshow, yo?

It makes me insane. Partially because once we run out, the other people living in Aurghville are too evil/lazy/vindictive/stupid to go and buy more. Surely it can’t be the price, as all anyone here ever picks up (myself included now that I realise how quickly they are snorting it) is the sand-paper grade shite from the pound shop which costs a pound for six rolls.

They can’t be bothered to buy it. They can’t be bothered to change the roll when they use the last of it. I learned today (the first time it happened I thought it may just be an oversight – nope, now it’s happened twice) that they can’t be bothered to give the inside of the toilet a wipe with the brush after laying an (apparently) sticky steamer.

In my new version of hell: this flat’s toilet is how I picture the toilet in hell to be.

I’m ranting. This isn’t a Chronicle – it’s a rant. But only because I’m angry. Angry and sad. Sad that I’m going to have to start buying my own stash of TP and storing it in my bedroom. I’m not contributing to their sick habits anymore. I moved in on March 8. I’ve purchased 34 rolls of toilet paper. If I was on my own, that would last me 8.5 months. I haven’t even lived here for three months yet.

I may never solve the Great Toilet Paper Mystery of Aurghville, but I can stop supporting it. And if I’m not sharing it, I’m going to go out and buy the most expensive toilet paper I can find. Maybe something made out of kittens.

Just remember to ask me for the “good stuff” if you are ever over visiting. You’ll have to, because all you’ll find in the Aurghville Toilet o’ Evil and Wrongness is the last scrapes of tissuey hope clinging to a bygone era of abundance and decadence in the form of a cardboard tube: an era when people replaced the empty loo roll.

Way to blog, turbo

>I’ve been neglectful of my blog writing. I’ve been busy. Or something.

I’m better at writing stuff in the blog when I’m having a laugh… and the chuckles aren’t quite so thick and frequent as they once were just now.

I’m mostly just in a very uncertain spot… not sure how work is going, not sure how the new flat is going, not sure of other things I don’t wanna talk about. You shush.

Lots of things to think about these days and not a lot to write about. That’ll change. My brain will burn out eventually from the thinking and my mouth will start working. I believe that’s one of my greatest weaknesses… that my brain and mouth never work at the same time.

My hope is that April will be a brighter, more sunshiny month with promises of good stuff to come.

>Somedays… I just can’t win


So, on Friday I went for a massage and it was pretty rocking. I miss having massages. I just can’t handle how expensive they are when it isn’t Thailand. But it was worth it, it was very relaxing and I felt much better. Until today.

Further, I bought a very fancy-shmancy (and expensive) mattress topper that turned my bed from a mattress of hellish pain into a mattress of cloudy comforting heaven. It made it so I wasn’t waking up every morning more sore and tired than when I went to bed. Until today.

Somehow I managed to sleep on my neck the wrong way, and now my neck and shoulder are freaking killing me. It is making me cranky and prone to exaggeration. It is going to drive me to drink. Hopefully a couple of pints and a few pills and I’ll heal right up. At least, that’s the plan.

How does one sleep on one’s neck the wrong way? Why was I sleeping on my neck? How does that even happen? Why don’t I wake up before it gets like this? Shouldn’t my body have some sort of early warning system for when I’m hurting myself in my sleep? Honestly, who designed this thing? Stupid brain! Be more helpful!