Things I hate

You know who I hate?

The people at those fucking kiosks in the mall.

I do not want you to give me a lavender hand massage. I do not want you to clean my jewelry. I do not want you to scratch my head with that spider thing. I do not want my hair straightened. I do not want to make a helicopter fly up, up, up.

…but most importantly, I did not drop that scarf. That is your scarf. You’re trying to sell it to me. I see your game; I know that you want to hook me in with your sexily accented, “you dlop tis?”, and frankly, I’m insulted. I probably own 50 silk scarves. I love them, and wear them on my head all weekend. Your scarf was ugly—no no, not even ugly; it was hideous. I own a blue and burgundy scarf with pictures of big clocks and chains all over it, and I am telling you that your scarf was tacky. Think about that. Just get the fuck out of my way with your hideous head coverings and let me enter Sephora so I may buy the palest shade of foundation ever conceived by god or man.

Oh, and calling me "pretty lady" won't work, either. I own a mirror; I know I'm pretty--I always have been-- and I am not flattered. Work on getting a better sales pitch than the guy leaning out his truck window, ok, hon?

Side Note:

We walked by the Halloween store, and the hideous mannequin in the window was wearing a Tinkerbelle costume. About 10 seconds after we passed it, Laura said, “I kind of want to claw my eyes out now.”