splenetic: adj. irritable; peevish; spiteful
I’m not always a quiet, mellow, little ray of sunshine. Sometimes, in spite of myself, I get pissed. The bad thing about me being pissed off is, being wired the way I am, I typically ignore a lot of things that would send other people (especially women) over the edge. I try to live with a bit of an intentionally narrow focus, otherwise the sensory overload would drive me apeshit. So over time I have developed the self preservatory art of selective attention, and I’m good at it. I can sort out and discard a lot of bullshit that way. Usually I’m pretty good at keeping from majoring in the minors, but not here lately.
It seems like the slightest things are really getting on my nerves, and my sensitivity level is almost discernible. I don’t like that. Not at all.
The bad thing is, that when something does manage to get stuck in my craw, and I’m really cheesed, it usually takes a good while for the anger to brew, and even longer for it to dissipate. I’m the queen of the delayed reaction, which I know is unhealthy, and quite illogical to the (largely) innocent recipients of my wrath.
I checked most of the logical reasons for being so peevish and easily annoyed-
1. Aunt Flo- but I’ve not seen her since the hysterectomy, which was in 2009. Can’t say I miss that noise.
2. Yes, I did remember to put the Prozacs in the pill box, and I’ve not missed any pills this week.
3. The weather does suck, but it’s Ohio and that’s normal.
4. Long ago, I got rid of any itchy or binding clothing I had.
5. Jerry, but he’s always a pain in the ass.
6. Sinus mess and its attendant sleep deprivation. Now I might be getting somewhere.
7. People being dumbasses and just plain jerks because they get some kind of power trip from taking out their frustration on low-level pissants like me who generally don’t deserve it, but can’t do anything about it.
Sounds like a combination of #6 and #7, with an extra heavy dose of #5, just to make it even more shitty.
Maybe I should bring my thoughts around to summer, and dudes in swim attire. That might keep me from wanting to throttle the next asshole who tries to unload on me.
I’ve observed something I call the Man-Speedo Paradox. Buff young dudes who would be positive eye candy in a tight little banana hammock/ thong style bathing suit or the briefest of Speedos, end up in swim garb like this:
C’mon, sugar, be brave, you know you’d look hot in a banana hammock!
Unfortunately I don’t get to see too many hot, buff young pups, Bermuda shorts or not. Here’s the visual I usually get treated to at the pool:
Not sexy. Not on any level. At any time. Ever.
I guess that the Man-Speedo Paradox can be summed up as: the surface area of the dude is directly inversely proportional to the surface area of the swim attire. To make it simple: The hot young skinny dude is going to wear Bermuda short type swim trunks that took yards of boxer-short material to manufacture. If the wind blows just right, skinny dude could be flown like a kite.
In contrast, the big, fat whale dude is going to be wearing a banana hammock that contains about a postage stamp size square of Spandex. I’m going to get to see much that should remain unseen forever.
When Steve-o was about 7 or 8 I took him to a public pool. I spotted a very large dude who appeared to be naked, and I was afraid Steve-o would make a scene about it should he catch the visual, (and he would) so I tried to tiptoe away quietly to report Big Bare Bubba to the manager. Just as I turned around to tip-toe to the manager’s office, BBB bent over, and when he was bent over, I could see a very thin strained strip of bright red Spandex. Steve-o apparently saw it too, because at that very moment he exclaimed,”Hey, Mom, why is that fat guy flossing his ass?” My son does not know the gentle charm of subtlety. Ever.
It’s not a crime to be large, but dress accordingly. Nobody wants to see a 300# she-behemoth in a thong either. Steve-o has a rule about women which sort of makes sense. “If your pants are bigger than mine, I’m not getting in them.” He’s not limiting himself to wraith-thin little flowers, either. He’s 6’1″ and somewhere between 190 and 200#. Steve-o also wouldn’t be caught dead in a banana hammock or a Speedo. He is clearly a Bermuda short trunk dude, when one can get him in the pool, which means convincing him that nobody can really see his back hair, and he doesn’t have moobs.
Now this calls for the RAZORBA!
I’m not a big fan of hairy anything, except dogs. Dudes should not have back fur any more than women should have moustaches and sideburns. But I can see why Mr. Gorilla-Back would want to stay out of the pool. That’s just nasty. But there is a solution:
Or you could get that spray-on NAIR:
Steve-o, your birthday is coming up.
I see a gift idea right here!
I don’t see how anyone could shave his own back. And if you tried, you might end up getting nicks and cuts in places where it’s pretty inconvenient to bleed.