Oh, Internet.

November 30, 2010

About forty-five minutes ago, I finished my night-long quest to get through all of the backlog of posts I hadn’t yet read on Hyperbole and a Half. I did it, and it was glorious. Never before have I felt so high on life!

Then Facebook must go and ruin it all! Curse you, you blue bastard.

At this precise moment, it is half past five in the actual morning. I am sleepy, but my Allie Brosh-related endeavour makes it entirely worthwhile. As I often do when I stay up late, I went onto Facebook, located my boyfriend’s page, and scrolled down to send him a message. Normally my messages are filled with the insane ramblings of someone suffering extreme sleep deprivation, but usually he nods and pretends to understand me. Actually, that can be said for just generally, too.

So, following my carefree scrolling, I notice his ex girlfriend had left a message on his wall. (Can I just point out at this stage, how much this is making me sound like a whiny teenage girl? Well, I’m twenty, so haha! Joke’s on you!) My glee of completing the Internet was immediately dissolved. The message referenced something they had clearly been talking about! I didn’t know they had words! And she included an X on the end! What does this mean? (Nothing, probably.)

I don’t know if it’s just the fucking ridiculous amount of snow magically appearing in my front garden every morning that is turning me into a nutcase, or maybe my alarmingly high E number intake, but I am worried for my own safety. This would not normally bother me. I am a rational human person. My boyfriend is an inherently nice man, with a beard, no less. A bearded man can do no wrong! Unless they are a paedophile, which they probably are.

Coupled with my snow-induced insanity, is my disappointment in Tommy Wiseau. Yesterday, technically speaking, I was supposed to go with a couple of friends, plus Bearded Boyfriend, to watch Tommy Wiseau’s masterpiece The Room at a local cinema. I was just about to step into the shower (Oh, racy. Actually, not really. I have a cold, and am still pretty mucus-y.) when I got a phone call from Bearded Boyfriend. They had decided to change the film they were showing, approximately four hours before they were due to show it. We bought our tickets two weeks ago. Learn to Maths. We found out later on that there is only ONE copy of The Room in the whole of the UK, and it was stuck down South because of this delightfully inconvenient snow we are currently experiencing.

Everyone is tossing off about the snow on Facebook. (Ah yeah, that was my original point, wasn’t it? That actually doesn’t seem at all important now that I’ve had ten minutes to digest it. That and the jam sandwich I just ate.) I would not even have a beef with snow, had it not disrupted my driving test last year, meaning I had to wait six weeks to get another testing date. This did give me six extra weeks to practice, but it clearly did no good, as I am still riding the disease infested petri dish of death and ebola that is the bus service.

At this point I was going to insert a whole list of why I hated snow, but then I realised I perhaps shouldn’t. Snow was good to me on Saturday. Snow might actually have my back.

I hate working Saturday shifts. The malls are filled with countless cases of Maternum perambulus, or Charverii myrmidius magnus. Sundays are fine, because they are mostly just filled with Angry Customers, but I don’t know whether they have a Latin name. Anyway, I was at work for a Saturday afternoon shift, when members of staff started talking about people on other departments being sent away, because they wouldn’t be able to get through the Impending Snowstorm of Doom that was about to envelop us. Because I live quite far from my workplace, I was hopeful. A full hour and a half before I was due to finish, my area manager told me to go home. I nearly kissed her. (I didn’t, because I’ve been there three years and she still doesn’t know my name, so I don’t think we have a future.) As a result, I got to catch an early bus, where someone had drawn a penis on the window, and come home to a lovely warm fire and sausage, mash and peas for tea. Was there ever a more fulfilling evening? I think not, friends.

My, my. This blog post was particularly coherent. In summary: Insecurity! Needless angst! Oh look, a sandwich! I’m over everything that has ever bothered me. Fuck, I hate the snow! No wait, maybe I don’t! Peas.

And, as someone on my Facebook said, “RIP lesly nelson”.