Things that suck.

Do you ever get into that strange sort of funk where you're in no mood to be pleasant? Where you're just tired and inspirationless and would prefer to avoid other human beings for awhile? Where things are not going your way and the world has been kind of mean? Where the sunshine seems too bright, the sound of children laughing in the neighborhood is a bit nauseating, and you find it enormously easier to complain about things than to give them the benefit of the doubt?

I get that way, too, sometimes.


Things that suck:

• That unfortunate combination of insomnia and OCD (obsessive cleaning disorder) that runs in my family.
  
  Such a combination is the only cause I can determine for finding oneself scrubbing the kitchen floor while wiggle-dancing to “I’m Too Sexy” at 4:00 in the morning while one’s cats look on, somehow both mortified and unimpressed.


• Partial albums on iTunes.
  
  Okay, seriously, Steve Jobs? This is why you have not yet managed a completely successful takeover of the world. I have been waiting for Elvis Costello’s cover of “Beautiful” since it first aired on House two years ago, and now that the show’s soundtrack has finally been released, all I get is one Jon Cleary song, a couple of easy listening tracks and a little bit of Band From TV? Come on. I can’t believe I have to go buy a disc somewhere. I’ll probably have to play it on my giant stone turntable powered by a couple of tiny, purple pterodactyls.


• Shawshank (no relation to Tim Robbins).
  
  I never heard from him after he stood me up. Not once. Not even a half-assed excuse via email. I even checked the newspaper for any news of deadly prison riots, but sadly there were none. On the upside, I can now commit fully to being self-righteous and offended. I hope he finds a hair in his pasta.


• Leafy green plants.
  
  Alright, look. I’ve admitted that I’m notsogreat at cultivating plants. I know my limitations, and so I keep a very small number of living things in my apartment that cannot find their own way to the food dish. (I do have one Dorian Gray bamboo plant on my desk at work that is virtually impossible to kill, and I did have a very successful ivy plant at home, but then I adopted a serial killer.) It sucks because I really like the cheerfulness plants bring to a room, and I am happy to have them around. Once in awhile a new plant follows me home, but every time I try to show it a loving family environment, it dies within two weeks. I water it correctly! I give it appropriate light! I research and take notes about its genus and species and I go out of my way to make this one different from all the others! (Did I mention I got an enthusiastic A in horticulture class? Because I did, I swear.) But they always die. The only ones I can keep alive are succulents, but if I get one more cactus, I’m going to be required by law to hang a sombrero on my wall.


• “Egregious” overuse of “quotation marks” (see related: cruel—and unusual—punishment of the m-dash, and inconsistent treatment of its brother – the n-dash).
  
  Such punctuation offenses make me want to stick pencils in my ears, and then form a non-profit organization called Citizens Against Irresponsible Punctuation, For the Love of God, where we sponsor PSAs with celebrities talking gravely about their private battles with punctuation while violin music plays in a minor key and the camera angles go all sketchy and poignant.


• Mysterious nocturnal spider bites.
  
  They don’t even hurt that much. But when you look down to find yourself absently scratching a spider bite that was definitely not there went you went to bed last night, you know: while you were sleeping, one found you. One cocky little spider sat around and waited for you to fall asleep (probably on a dare), then crawled onto your arm or foot or shoulder or FACE, OH MY GOD, with all of his crawly, spidery little legs, wandered around, scouting the real estate until he found the perfect place to break ground, sank his creepy little teeth into you, unprovoked, chewed on your skin cells for a little while, released some spidery itching toxins for good measure, and then wandered away, presumably into the folds of your bed linens for a nice nap. There’s virtually no upside for you, the victim, because the chances that the spider was a radioactive science experiment capable of passing on a talent for webslinging and an affinity for color-coordinated bodysuits are unfairly low.


• Lame fortune cookies.
  
  A fortune cookie is not supposed to be an exercise in Stuart Smalley’s daily affirmations. After scarfing part of a #32, some of a #55, and two-thirds of a #60 (I order a week’s worth of Chinese food for the leftovers—for the leftovers!), all I want to do is sink slowly into my own guilt. The last thing I want is to crack open my fortune cookie, the one thing about my meal that can restore me to a comfortable sense of self-satisfied irony, and have it say, “Other people view you as a genuine person with many redeeming qualities” or “You enjoy competitive sports.” That’s not why I eat those things. Nobody eats fortune cookies for a list of self-esteem exercises, and they certainly don’t eat them for the taste. They eat them because no other foodstuff will remind you, in all seriousness, that “Life is not a struggle. It’s a wiggle.” Further, “Buy many dream boxes; ask a friend to select one,” and “Do not kiss an elephant on the lips today.” Those are helpful fortunes, my friend. Anything else is a waste of carbs.


• Health Insurance companies (it's really a pity I work for one).
  
  They're heartless and sneaky and make me feel like I should be defending my right to be healthy. Somehow, when I get on the phone to a customer service representative with my health insurance company, they magically make me sound confrontational and demanding, which I don't think is an accurate representation of my personality. They probably think I'm one of those "unruly problem customers" because I actually double-check their work, and then I ask for clarification when they talk in circles. (If they just spent a little time with me—maybe a movie night at my place or a trip to the zoo?—they would see that I'm actually kind of enjoyable and easy to get along with. I'll even share my popcorn.) They tout their "easy online access" to all my claims information, and yet they code everything in such a way that nobody will ever be able to decipher it without locking themselves in a room with John Nash. Their code is, in fact, so vague and nonsensical that they can manipulate the system to manufacture almost any reason at all not to pay my claim. "Your procedure was done in a hospital instead of a clinic, you say? No coverage for you!" "You only have recommendations from two doctors, a surgeon, an oncologist, and thirteen nurses? Not enough!" "The hospital's billing department did not dot their i’s with hearts and highlight the total amount in pink? I'm sorry, that just won't do!" I want to move far, far away and send the customer service department weekly postcards highlighting various Canadian landmarks.


• Izzy keeps stealing my keys.
  
  Ever since she got tall enough to stand on her hind legs and reach the top shelf of my computer desk, where I keep my keys, she has delighted in swiping her paw around up there until she hooks the keyring. While writing this post alone, for example, I have bodily removed her from the desk four times as she’s tried to take my keys. The latest removal was accompanied by a rather loud “What the EFF is your problem? You cannot borrow the car!” She’s sulking now.


• The kind of pudding you have to cook.
  
  I'm sorry. Maybe I'm showing my generation gap here, but Jello instant pudding TROUNCES cooked pudding any day. I made some of that fancy cooked pudding the other day and there were about ten reasons it made me want to throw up. High on the list were: consistency, smell, taste, color, and that creepy film that forms on the top that looks like jaundiced elephant skin, which takes four hours and a lot of Dawn to scrub off the bowl. I should have known: always trust Bill Cosby. Always.

These are just a few of the things that can make my days less fun than they should be. What are the things that suck in your daily life? Do you hate it when gum loses its flavor 45 seconds after it leaves the wrapper? Does it make you absolutely insane when your eyelid won’t stop twitching? Does your ass fall asleep when you sit cross-legged on the floor? “Pins and needles! Pins and needles!”

I’d like to hear about it. Tawk amongst yourselves.