I Can't, Vol. 39

I've got a fever to write. And the only prescription is a new "I Can't" installment. 

I can't...

with GUFFAW. I hate that word. I hate how it looks, how it sounds, and what it stands for. I'm okay with CHORTLE or SNORTED. But GUFFAW reminds me too much of BAHAHA which I really fucking can't with. 

I can't...

that LL Cool J hosted the Grammys. I mean, I can't with the Grammys in general, but he made it literally unbearable. I turned it on right as T.Swift was hitting the crescendo of "Out Of The Woods," rolled my eyes so hard they stuck in the back of my brain, and now I can't see. I don't even know how I'm typing this.

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I can't...

that I just so happened to be holding my phone to my ear when I had to slam on the brakes in a local parking lot this weekend and some cranky old bat said "HONEY? Get off your phone!" JUST BECAUSE MY PHONE WAS IN VIEW DOESN'T MEAN IT WAS IN ANY WAY THE REASON FOR ME SLAMMING ON MY BRAKE. Why does everyone make phones the enemy?! Maybe I'm just a shitty driver! Ever think of that???

I can't...

with how often I feel I'm cleaning my kitchen. Granted, I cook a lot. Like pretty much every night of the week. But I'm only usually cooking for me. So how the hell does it look, feel, and smell like I'm cooking for a family of four all the time? I'm constantly washing dishes/pots/pans, loading and unloading the dishwasher, wiping down countertops, and cleaning off tables. It's NEVER ENDING. Just when I think I've gotten the residual garlic smell cleared out for good, there's more garlic being crushed and minced for another meal and I JUST CANNOT WIN.

I can't...

eat Taco Bell sober. Probably why I get so excited when I'm drunk because the opportunity/possibility is there.

I can't...

with the way Nurse Jackie ended. I mean, does any show ever end the way you think it should? No. Never. Maybe Gilmore Girls. But even that's coming back to Netflix with new 90-min episodes to wrap shit up. I just... was truly disappointed in the writers on NJ. I didn't get it. I still don't. And I miss Zoey.

I can't...

when I get home from work and have to pee so intensely but, of course, Cece needs to go first because those are the rules when you own a dog. So I have to wait on her and, sometimes, she lolly gags to the point where I'm standing there, legs crossed as hard as possible to keep my own pee in, dying. "GO PEE OR I WILL" is often something I yell at her. Once she finally gets it done, the next few minutes are a whirlwind of running back into the house and shooing her out of the way while I barely make it to the bathroom. I LEAD A VERY EXCITING LIFE, GUYS.

I can't...

figure out what makes my buns decent some days and ratchet af others. It's just a guessing game and one that I usually lose.

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I can't...

explain how happy I am that this quietly disappeared from emails:

Please consider the environment before printing

It was too much. Like, okay. We get it. But also WHO PRINTS EMAIL? PDFs, sure. Entire Powerpoint presentations, yes. Pages of actual notes, ok. But a singular email? It just seemed misplaced and I'm happy it rarely makes an appearance anymore.

I can't...

that I barely got a winter. I feel like I complain about this every year around this time, but IT'S REALLY UPSETTING, OK? I love Dallas. It's my home. I've chosen to remain here. But that doesn't mean I can't be sad when our winters are unreasonably warm. IT DIDN'T EVEN ICE THIS YEAR. If Texans can count on any sort of cold, inclimate weather, it's ice. Just sheets of dumb, stupid ice that is easily drivable after a day, but that we pretend isn't and act like we're stuck at home for the rest of the week and you can't get mad at us or claim we're not a team player because what if we attempt to drive in and get in an accident on the way to work, yanno? WE WERE ROBBED OF THAT THIS YEAR.

I can't...

people who drive at snail-pace in a garage parking lot. I don't know how garage parking lots you've dealt with are configured, but the one I park in for work every day is shafty in that it's one, continuous climb to the top. One way. Not two ways. Single-file car line. By 9am, the only spots available are on the very top floor (sometimes the second-to-last, but you'd have to be having a very lucky morning). So it kills me when I pull in and get behind some asshat who is making the inevitable climb to the very top at 2MPH in hopes of miraculously finding a spot anywhere below that. Like it got missed. Like some chump wasn't trying to park on level 8 as opposed to level 11 and willingly passed up the better spot. JUST KEEP DRIVING, BUDDY. WE GOT HERE LATE. WE'RE GOING TO GET SHAFTED WITH A SPOT TODAY AND GOING SLOWER ISN'T GOING TO MAKE A BETTER PARKING SPACE MAGICALLY APPEAR. JUST OWN IT AND PUT THE METAL TO THE PEDAL BECAUSE YOU'RE MAKING ME LATER BY THE SECOND. Gah.

I can't...

get into chiseled, pretty boys. I can't, I won't, I never have, and I never will. 

I can't...

be trusted in any sort of "market place." I don't know if you reading this have stores like this in your town, but here in Dallas we have things like Central Market, MarketPlace, Fresh Market, etc. And any time I enter any of those stores, it's like I might as well go to the bank before, empty out my account, walk in, and start making it rain. WHO KNEW FRESH FLOWERS, EXOTIC CHOCOLATES, AND ROWS AND ROWS OF ORGASMICALLY FRESH PRODUCE COULD BE SO EXCITING? Oh and candles! And samples! And birthday cards??? I WANT IT ALL. ADD TO CART X 13.

xox,

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