ring-a-ding-ding

At a mind-numbingly dull work event last week, I stood behind a table trying to imagine myself elsewhere - at the DMV, in a jazzercise class, on a date with a cat-o-nine-tails - anywhere but facing more hours upon end of standing up in heels and pretending to be genial.

So I suppose it's conceivable that my features weren't in a well-composed fake smile while a prematurely balding middle-aged prick chatted up my associate by telling her how lovely and charming her smile was. And it's conceivable that when he turned to me, that the expression on my face was rather bland. What is not conceivable is that he actually said to me, "You know, that look on your face is why you don't have a ring on your finger." And though I held my composure, I imagined a throat-punch with this kind of ring would be rather satisfying.

How bout this diamond ring, asshat?

dear pompous-ass professor:

The enormity of your ego is eclipsed only slightly by the amount of audacity you have to continually email 7-years-gone alumni about your blog posts. It's almost sad to me that you, a published author, pander to us with your look-at-me emails every time you have a drunken thought about birds. Fucking birds. Here's a post worth sharing with everyone: we don't fucking care. We don't give a shit about your birds and your beer and your close encounters with b-list celebrities.

And you know what? Here's something else for you to consider in your mighty Nor'eastern brain - the one that's so far superior to my Southern drawl. DO NOT send me a friend request on Facebook directly following your blog post about shameless self-promotion that you - you guessed it - e-mailed out to the entire listserv.

I mean, really. You're a grown man. So do us all a favor and stop telling us every time you open a Yuengling and shit out some sort of craptastic half-witted essay about preserving bird habitats. Put that fucking feather in your cap.

You did write the book on this.