Number 4: Most Pictures You Post on Facebook

The self portrait. If only Van Gogh could see all of you now, he'd be...well, he'd be really old. No matter how you work it, you're never going to fool anyone into thinking that shot was candid in any way, whatsoever. Also, attention fat people of the world: holding the camera high and looking up might fool your prospective courter from jdate, but you'll just be all the more disappointed (not as much as him, though, honey), when he sees you live, waddling towards him. Be honest with yourself, and don't make me waste a trip on the A train out to wherever, only to find that the picture of you online is from 1997, either. Fuck. That.

I'm digressing from the title of this post. My major conflict is thus: Facebook has increased the maximum number of pictures you can add to an album, leading a number of users to simply post every single shot they took on their trip to Cancun. Do you really think anyone cares about the picture of the airport? How many comments or "likes" have you gotten on that third shot of your dinner from night one? Have you gotten a lot of "ROFLs" on that picture of you and your gals taking a shot of tequila? I didn't think so.

Just because Facebook is now allowing you to add 250 pictures to your album, I nonetheless implore you to try limiting it to 60. That is the number at which you will be forced to pick out the "memorable" shots (despite their mundaneness), and leave out the second and third pictures of the same palm tree. Click click!

Number 3: "Supper"

I dislike the word "supper." There, I said it. I hate hate hate it.

Start with the sound of the word. Sup-per. Like a cross between super and supple, two words that are also arguably annoying to hear. Are you just having a super day? I ogled her supple breasts as I imagined my face betwixt them? Distasteful in the least, all of it.

Dinner. Now there's a word I could get used to. Fine dining, the formal dining room, "I dined at Cipriani last night," "Did you hear Charles got invited to the state dinner? Oh, it's going to be just lavish." Kraft Macaroni & Cheese Dinner? Yes, please.

Now, compare that to uses of the word supper: supper clubs (more on that below), the Last Supper (great fun!), "I made a meatloaf supper for the kids last night," "supper time, Fido, come git it!" Ooh, and let's not forget that it can also be used as a verb! "Have you supped, yet?" I just feel that using any variation of this word suggests you're eating out of a trough.

Supper Club: Am I the only person disturbed by the idea of many, hundreds even, people all eating the same thing at once, like at a wedding, or a funeral after-party? First of all, say we're all supping on something like a chicken breast. There are two hundred people in the room, not including the one fucking vegan who's bound to be at any affair like this. This means that one hundred chickens were killed, and each person got half of one. Everyone (except, again, for that goddamn vegan) is experiencing the exact same thing (be it left or right breast) at the same time. Some may say it's a human tradition for bonding. I shudder to think we can't come up with something better.
What could be worse, though, is the idea of something like a pig roast. Funny, that the animal that once supped on slop, is now part of a sick human tradition called "supper."

Count me out.

Number 2: Eggs

Eggs. What. The. Fuck.

Everyone's favorite breakfast, eggs have forever ostracized me from every brunch party as the only egg-hater. They disgust me, and I am disgusted with every one of you who has eaten a hard boiled egg like it's a fucking apple. Never have I eaten an entire egg without it being mixed into a batter or some sort (i.e., cake). I've got a number of issues with these so-called "incredible" and "edible" items. Let me explain:

They're one cell. One fucking cell, like in high school biology class. Think that one over, people. The yolk? It's a fucking nucleus. The whites? Mitochondria, vacuoles, and everything else you don't want to think about eating. Ever. One giant cell that acts as a seed to grow an entirely new chicken! Do you like the idea of eating a fetus? How about a calf, direct from the cow's clam box?

They coagulate. Few things in the world are meant to grow more solid as they heat. What about the laws of, I don't know....melting? As far as I'm aware, it's just eggs and blood. I'm still debating if semen would. Anyone know?

They have hard shells, and differ in color based on the pigmentation of the oviduct of the hen.

"Incredible:" There's nothing incredible about eggs. Nothing at all. Unless, of course, a velociraptor pops out. They are merely queefed out of a hen's vagina (see the complete process here), as nature intended. Except we (read: the rest of you) eat them.

"Edible:" I beg to differ.

Number 1: This View, Daily

Welcome to Transcriptions of an Irritated Life. I've realized recently that the thing I do best is criticize the world and everyone in it. Show me perfection and I'll find you a flaw.

Number one on my list has been a long time coming. It's this view that I get from my desk, as a look out from my office. Sometimes I can sit and just watch her for what seems like hours. Her name shall, of course, remain anonymous. The back of her head, however, shall remain timeless. Her tightly-wound hair is a perfect introduction to her personality: implacable, sturdy, but mostly inept and seemingly without purpose or appropriate planning.

She handles incoming sales calls and customer service, this hair. But with each phone call, she becomes confused, delirious from even the most mundane of questions. How do I know this? Well, because for every question posed to her, she must put the caller on hold, and ring up her superior via intercom for the answer.


There seem to be a lot of issues with "the system." For every complaint we receive (which is no number to laugh at), "it looks like it never went through the system. Okay, what's the ISBN number?" (Do you know what ISBN even means?) "Sir, it looks like it never got shipped... I don't know why, that's so weird. We don't have it in stock at our warehouse in Massachusetts, but we do have it at our Singapore headquarters. I can have it shipped to my office here in New Jersey, then ship it to you myself. It should take about a month." The conversation sounds rather harmless, but once you hear it repeated fifteen times a day, it becomes like waterboarding. I'll tell you anything, just make it stop!


"Put on some music, David, if you're so annoyed by her," you're saying to your screen right now. Ohh ho ho ho, I can't do that, though. Because, despite her relative lack of utility, talents, or memory, she can't "concentrate" if she can hear the dull tone of talk radio or ambient music. So, I've been reprimanded. And I swear when I was out one time she came in and tried to brake the cord, because now it's got to be plugged in a very specific way if you want both speakers to work.

Also! I hate watching her put on moisturizer. Of course, I'll get to my disdain for all things "moist" someday soon, but with the Hair it's so much more irritating. She snatches the tube (you can see it, the only thing on the shelf above her), squeezes it on like it's spf 45 and she's going to the sun, and complains out loud how "dry it is in here. Isn't it dry?"

The worst, though, is when she makes popcorn in the afternoon. I have innumerable issues with popcorn anywhere outside a movie theater, which my boyfriend can relate to.

I dislike the Hair. It is final.