Classical Sass

Faux Rant

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I am avoiding writing about the cloying darkness for a third consecutive night by meeping unrelentingly about social media etiquette.

Like, why do people like comments in a thread, but not the original post? Not so much here (because each comment is its own story wheeeee), but on Facebook. Why. Rude. Like you’re so meh on the post you can’t bring yourself to like it, but that comment is fucking gold? Want some caviar with your opinions?

Every. Single. Fitness. Humblebrag. It doesn’t matter if you actually spell out how amazing you are in whatever franticfuck workout you’ve put yourself through: if you’re on there talking about your amazing workout, and your job isn’t fitness trainer, you’re there to show off how amazing your body is all the while pretending you are just a regular ronald and side note, I don’t care if it is body pride because fuck all of it in every taut crevice it has. No. Fuck your fitness routine, fuck your weenie teeny carb intake, and fuck your idly present tone definition. Fuck your casual photogenic prowess, too.

Sharing but not liking. Seriously? You’re just a full time pilfering chucklefuck now? Ok.

The correcting. If you want to get on my actual blog post and rawk about my typos, I’ll take my lumps. Because: writing. If you feel the need to get on my facebook status and shit out seven different errors just because oh gawd this is just who I am tho tee hee I can’t help myself then remember who you are when I show up on your every trifling dipshit post about that shard of broccoli that looked weird at the store the other day.

Improving the jokes. Anywhere. Real life. Social media. That work luncheon involving every humorless fuck nugget in the office and Alice who has never uttered a single word to anyone. Don’t improve the joke. Do not. You haven’t made it better. Sit there quietly, and kick yourself for not having thought of the better version before the shittier one was uttered. Kick yourself hard enough to remember that improving someone’s joke is the same as showing your dick off on a subway platform: you’re doing it to please yourself, and no one finds it funny.

Food porn.
Just kidding, I love food porn. Food porn e’ry day. Yas. But also, posting oatmeal and sliced strawberries isn’t food porn. That’s the food porn equivalent of a crusty glory hole and a plastic bucket stool. You do you, but remember the only glory in a glory hole is that you came away with your original wanky.

Spoilers. I will get in my janky prius and scooter my ass all the way to your exact location. And I will end you. With my resting bitch face and my soul obliterating scorn. I won’t even get out of the damn car.

  • I’m not actually annoyed by any of this (except spoilers; I will legit snuff you out). I’m faux-ranting. I have to be on an airplane tomorrow and like shenanigans all weekend and also the creeping darkness that won’t go away and so I’m faux ranting. I love it when my peeps workout. Have a good workout ok. Take pics/post them. Whatever. I’m going to have another scotch.

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