Tales from Behind the Counter #1

This might make me an unlikeable scrooge, but I feel like every Christmas I don't spend spent mostly enraged and hating on most other humans is an occasion nothing short of a miracle. After many, many years spent working in retail and hospitality, I can safely say that my faith in humanity has been eroded something terrible. No time of the year highlights this as surely as the holidays.

Last year however(and the year before, from memory), was a joy. I was working a job where I earned actual money, and one in which the office actually closed for a couple of weeks over the Chrimbus break. I was able to actually spend time with my family, I didn't have to think about KPIs, I didn't have to set up for a Boxing Day sale in place of eating tasty food, I didn't have to make up some excuse about not being able to work on New Years Day or Boxing Day. Most of all however, I didn't have to interact with the special kind of douche bag/terrible specimen/murder-worthy people that inhabit shopping centres, cafes and carparks during December.

This year is a little different. I'm currently working a bunch of odd jobs, which range from highly enjoyable to mediocre at best. I'm also job-hunting.

Please, employ me.

But you know, a girl's gotta eat right? So I'm back working at a cafe a few days a week. Just get a casual job, they said. It'll be easy money, they said. And I believed them. I'd forgotten about the screaming children, the mess, the demanding obnoxious duds, the insane requests, the fact that you're beyond exhausted after it all the shit subsides. I'd forgotten what it's like to have your soul slowly, slowly and surely crushed to the cynical, angry point of no return.

Somehow, I'd forgotten how very, very much and how very, very often I dislike people.

Anyway, ranting and raving to a friend of mine after a particularly busy shift, I was reminded of the myriad stories I have about being sent to the very edge of sanity by my fellow humans during the holiday season.

I know this isn't hospitality, but I think you might enjoy it. Certainly, I wish I could crack the absolute shits at every smartass jerk who I ever came across:

I can't tell you how satisfying that was. I spent the rest of the shift strutting around like some sort of victorious gladiator. I was just about daring people to ask me a stupid question, or to dare challenge my authority. And, for those of you playing at home, I didn't even get into any sort of trouble for my little outburst. The guy slunk away with his tail between his legs, with his shitty, shitty purchase.

If you've never yelled at an idiotic customer, I highly recommend you try it sometime.

Please don't show me any more photos of the baby.

Please. Stop. Just, please stop.

There are only so many times I'm able to muster up the false enthusiasm and high-high pitched cries of "Oh, how cute!" that one is obviously obliged to make when a photo of a small human wearing a bee suit or eating something or taking a shit is thrust into your eyeline.

There are only so many variations on the theme of "OH, that is ADORABLE!" I can make.

There are only so many times I'm able to pretend I'm the slightest bit interested before I'm likely to spontaneously combust, or climb to the top of a bell tower, or just tell you outright, "THAT BABY LOOKS LIKE A KNEE."

Let me be clear: I don't hate your baby. Nor do I have anything against your choice to create another human being. In fact, chances are that I was (and probably am) quite excited for you. It's exciting stuff! A tiny baby popped out of your or your cousin's or sister's or sister-in-law's or your special lady's lady's lady parts! Circle of life, sunrise sunset, so on and so forth. Please note however, that the further removed I am from the baby's circle of existence, the further away I can feel my excitement becoming and thus the further away my interest in seeming excited is.

If I'm being honest, I probably was genuinely excited even during those first few photo sharing moments. If it's your baby, I was definitely excited. That's super great. My exclamations of "that is the cutest thing I have ever seen!!!" were, while a little over the top, mostly sincere. Let's put it about 90%. The actual cutest thing I have ever seen is probably more along the lines of puppies playing, but point is I would hypothetically actually be super excited for you.

Put it this way: If you bombard me with photos of the baby every single time I see you, obviously my interest is going to wane. Do I show you a new photo of my dog every time I see you? No. No, I don't. And my dog's actually cute, unlike the alien-like being with the overly large head that's on your phone. That might be a little harsh, but come on - am I the only one who finds the vast majority of babies incredibly un-cute?

Obviously I know this opinion will most likely be an unpopular one, but I'm on a roll here so I'm just going to barrel on.

I do find some babies cute. My friend has a particularly cute baby. So I bought them an awesome book about a bear, and actually uploaded a picture of said cute baby onto Facebook because it was making a ridiculous face.

If you show me variations of the same thing about ten million times every single time we cross paths however, my reactions are going to turn from "AWW!" to "Mm-hmm". Apart from being occasionally awkwardly un-cute, babies are mostly pretty useless. There's only so much they can do. They sleep, they cry, they eat, sometimes they cry or eat while sitting. Sometimes they poo or throw up. Maybe my knowledge of babies is limited, but I guess that's partly because when I was a kid I avoided my little cousins like the plague and now all the photos I see of babies from friends are of babies sleeping or crying or eating or sitting or throwing up.

Again, there's only so much of that I can take.

Their faces always kind of look the same: confused, or constipated, or asleep. Or all of the above. Cute yes (unless you or your kin just have a weird looking knee-baby), but not after a thousand pictures. At the very least, learn to edit your photos. Make it a Best Of album, not an anthology. For the love of all that is holy, please edit. And while we're at it, your baby does not need a Facebook profile. Nor does it need to post "status updates" from within the womb.

"Can't wait to meet Mummy and Daddy!"

No.

Just, no.

On the other hand, if you just got a new puppy I will look at every single one of the photos you've ever taken of it and I will squeal uncontrollably the entire time. I want to see all of your puppy photos. Scratch that, I want to see all of your dog photos. All of them. I will look at all of them. I'll sit with you and listen to all of the adorable stories of your adorable dog doing adorable things. I'll ask many questions about your adorable dog and I'll then clap my hands with glee when you tell me the answers.

I believe at this point I've exhausted all of my reserves of anger and irritation on the subject, so I'll sign off. IRL, I'll continue to attempt to keep the excited reactions happening for as long as I can.

You COULD care less?

I won't deny that a well-placed comma, or a full sentence used in a text message sends me into a surge of happiness. I won't for a second deny that I value proper use of grammar. I also am prone to fits of anger when the following are used:

• "Irregardless"
• "Much of a muchness" 
• "Preformance"
• "Your" in the place of "You're" 
• "Thusly"

But that's old news, no? Old, oft repeated news. 

I come to you tonight not to gripe again about the same old boring words that send my into a flying rage, or about the fact that I judge people incredibly harshly on their ability to use a full stops and capital letters appropriately. I come with new news, with a brand-spanking shiny new phrase, the latest to incur my wrath. 

"I could care less." 

This is how I feel when you say that.

Really? Really? You could care less? What the Sam Hill is that supposed to mean? WHAT is that supposed to mean? Do you mean what you're saying? DO YOU EVEN REALISE WHAT YOU'RE SAYING?

When I hear someone say "I could care less" about x or y, their tone of voice will usually imply that they actually couldn't give a shit about whatever the hell they're saying they could give a shit/a care/a hoot about.

So you say that you "could care less" about the Melbourne Cup? Well, that must mean that you actually do care at least a little bit about the Melbourne Cup. But check this out: your Facebook status updates repeatedly declare the myriad ways you think the Melbourne Cup is a giant waste of time. So, are you saying that you do care about the Melbourne Cup, or that you actually hate it and couldn't care less about the race that stops a nation?

"I could care less" = You obviously care at least a tiny bit. Because you could actually care less about it. 

"I couldn't care less" = There is no way for you to care less about whatever the hell it is. Which means you don't care about it at all. 

Think about it. Please, for the love of all that is holy, think about what it is that you're saying and what it means. Because if you're don't, there is a (large) chance that you're Doing It Wrong.

Everyone will know you're doing it wrong. 

That's kind of all I wanted to say. I had to vent, because after seeing a phrase that makes NO SENSE - even less sense than "much of a muchness" - become commonplace, I get very frustrated.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

An Open Letter to the Guy on the Tram.

Really? REALLY?

Dear Guy on the Tram,

I am sorry that this letter threatens to interrupt your intense tap-tap-tapping on your iPad (I'm sure what you're writing is super, super important), and to rip your steely gaze from the very shiny screen of your iPad (I'm so jealous) but as it happens, I have a bone to pick with you sir.

When I leapt upon the tram outside the Arts Centre last night, it was with a spring in my step and with jubilation in my heart. I'd managed to turn what had started as a crummy morning into a lovely day, and I was on my way to a friend's house for dinner. She'd offered to cook me dinner. Dinner not cooked by me is like to be a tasty dinner, so I was suitably excited.

Then! I spotted you, dear be-suited man on the tram, and the empty seat beside you. I noticed your backpack occupying said seat beside you, but I thought that would be NBD and you'd apologise to your backpack and let me sit on the seat it had been enjoying. You see, as someone who frequently goes about my day with a backpack filled with things I hold dear to my heart (my notebook, my phone, a sandwich for instance), I can understand that you might feel reluctance in relinquishing the seat of your darling companion backpack. As I soon found out however, warmth in your heart for a backpack was not the issue at hand.

"Mind if I sit there?"

I asked you, and received no response. That's okay, I thought. He's obviously writing something very important on his shiny iPad, and he is listening to music after all. 

"Hey. Can I sit there?"

I thought I'd raised the volume of my voice slightly, but obviously your music was too loud. Silly me, and I should have realised that it'd be a task to interrupt your Very Intense train of thought, such was the steely and determined gaze directed at the shiny iPad, and the staccato stabs of your index fingers on the screen.

I leaned forward. "Dude. Can you hear me? I'd like to sit there."

Alas, your gaze remained trained at your iPad. What was your deal? Hey? Buddy? Pal? What was your deal? I stared at you for a moment, as your fingers tap-tap-tap-stabbed at your iPad.

Did you not notice me out of your peripheral vision? Were you that enraptured by the iPad goings-on? Well, I was wearing a bright red dress and very chunky white shoes and as luck may have it, I am currently sitting pretty at the Fattest I Have Ever Been, so I'd hazard to say that YES YOU DID in fact notice that I was standing very near to you and staring right at your conspicuously tanned face.

After staring at you in disbelief for a moment longer, I stepped back and grabbed hold of a pole as the tram lurched into motion. As I walked to my friend's house I accumulated in my mind an entire arsenal of razor-sharp quips I might have lashed at you with in that moment, but alas I was too dumbfounded by the fact that you chose to PRETEND YOU DIDN'T NOTICE ME standing less than a metre from you, leaning down to speak quite close to you indeed. Repeatedly. I spoke to you repeatedly. Only for you to pretend like you'd not registered anyone speaking at you or standing near you.

I looked over at a fellow tram traveller, to see her smirking. Everyone was looking over at my failure to acquire a seat, in favour of your backpack, man on the tram. But then, maybe what you were typing on your iPad really was just much too intense and you'd been sucked into a trance filled with graphs and buy buy buy sell sell HOLD there's a meeting tomorrow that must be prepared for. I am not sure, I can't comment on that, because I didn't speak to you again, Man on the Tram.

Instead I stood in the doorway and watched as a similarly be-suited fellow hopped on the tram and strode down the tram and immediately took the seat next to you as you acknowledged his presence and removed your backpack so he'd be able to sit there unencumbered by a backpack against his derriere. If it hadn't been in my own backpack, I would have thrown my copy Feast for Crows at your conspicuously tanned head. In hindsight I'm glad I didn't, as I'm sure I'd be less inclined to keep reading if Feast for Crows was all of a sudden covered in fake tan.

Look Man on the Tram, if you were saving the seat next to you for your pal, you should have just said so. It doesn't take much to interrupt your furious tap-tap-typing in order to turn to the person attempting to ask you something and reply politely.

"I'm sorry, my pal is about to get on the tram. I told him I'd save him a seat." See? Not so hard.

I would have said something along the lines of, "That's cool, guy! Enjoy whatever you're doing on your shiny iPad! It looks very important. Carry on!"

Instead, I took an empty seat and stared at you and your similarly be-suited pal and watched as you said the absolute minimal amount of words to each other then sat there next to each other in steely silence. If you went to all that trouble to save your pal a seat, surely you'd want to actually speak to them? Apparently not.

I sat there and imagined - through my unwavering death stare, which of course neither of you noticed - that you were robot aliens from outer space who had no knowledge of strange human customs of acknowledging those who speak to you, or common public transport etiquette. I imagined that if what had just transpired had transpired in some wacky comedy about two inept yet loveable alien robots fumbling their way through a mission on earth, it'd be quite funny. I think for all my amusing imagining though, one fact remains:

You're most probably merely a douchey jerk, and I hope a bird poos on your suit, and that you drop your iPad and the screen smashes spectacularly. And I hope you get AIDS.

Yours sincerely,

Reb

I have a bone to pick with 'Memes'

This is how I feel. 

There are plenty of things that I dislike. There are plenty of things I dislike with a great, great passion. Here are just a few things:

• When people comment on things with "THIS." and nothing else ... What does that even mean? Actually, I take that back. I know what it means, I just think it sounds stupid.
• When I download something and it's in a format I can't play it on my TV. 
• When I watch Freaks and Geeks and then I realise that beautiful, amazing, hilarious show ends.
• When people end posts with "That is all." ... I don't really have a reason for that one, it just gets under my skin and makes me want to say something snarky and troll-y. 
• The use of phrases like, "right in the feels" or "ALL OF THE x !!!" or "squee!" or referring to food as "noms".
  YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG. USE YOUR WORDS. PLEASE. SAYING THINGS LIKE THAT DOES NOT MAKE YOU ENDEARING. 

HOWEVER.
Above all else at the moment, more than my hatred for Tony Abbott or the fact that Neil Armstrong is dead yet Snooki is procreating, as a supreme indicator of my inability not to be a nerd, is my hatred for "Meme" pages on Facebook. Moreover, the fundamental misuse of the word "meme" makes me want to strangle something ... or to capslock yell into the vast expanse of the internet.

Firstly, my beef begins with this:
Completely disregarding whether or not the word "meme" is being used correctly, "meme" pages on Facebook are by and large intensely unfunny. They're not. They're. Just. Not. Funny. They're one big disgusting crime against anyone and anything that has ever actually been funny, ever.

See, I could forgive these "meme" pages if they at least elicited a tiny hint of laughter from me. Alas they do not, so alas I cannot. Of course, it may just be a matter of my sense of humour being of the slightly skewed, twisted kind and as such isn't in tune with what the masses might find tickle their funny bone. Or, it could be that the vast majority of meme pages are just ... really, really, rubbish.

Observe:

From the "AFL Memes" Facebook page.

This nugget of comic gold is from "Australian Memes"

Or, if you'd like, you could peruse the Australian Big Brother Memes page. The vast majority of the seemingly unstoppable fountain of "Meme" shit on my Facebook news feed is dumb, racist, sexist or all of the above. Generally, this all comes with a completely un-ironic slew of spelling mistakes. More about that in a moment though.

What is that I hear you asking? Hm, what's up? What are memes?

Well. These are memes:

Good ol' Bachelor Frog

I suppose what I'm getting at is that memes are like internet in-jokes. The joke is the same, you just change it a little. It doesn't matter if it's the "animal head with coloured background" type, or whether it's a written meme ("and my axe!"), what matters is that it was a funny that made enough of an impact to result in lots of people using it in a bunch of different ways. What I'm getting at is that the "meme" pages on Facebook aren't so much nuggets of hilarity that have grown and spread through the internet like wildfire until everyone knows what they are as much as they're just images with text on them. THEY'RE JUST IMAGES WITH TEXT ON THEM. And listen careful as I say this: using the right font does not mean that you're doing it right.

You might think it strange that I'm bothering to write about this sort of - admittedly, juvenile, stupid, and downright unimportant at best - junk. If you're aware of how much of a giant nerd I am however, it won't be strange in the slightest. I'd be the first to admit that spend way, way too much time on the internet. In fact, I recently was chatting to a friend, and he said the following to me:

"I don't know how you keep track of everything that happens on the internet. I'd find it fucking exhausting."

Well, it's not exhausting. Because I'm a giant nerd. I spend an unhealthy amount of time on Reddit. When Curiosity landed on Mars I alternated between staring at the screen in awe and running around in gleeful laps of the building. The most exciting thing that happened a few weeks ago was finding out the actor who plays Data on Star Trek and the scientist in Independence Day are ONE AND THE SAME (Brent Spiner). Out of all the characters on The West Wing I find Toby to be the most attractive.

Dreamboat.

More noteworthy than all of that however, is the fact that I managed to somehow end up spending the greater part of my last semester at university trawling through the seedy underbelly of the internet. Doing a research project on internet communities and how they evolve within different environments meant that every night was a constant stomp through the not-safe-for-life landmine-filled fields of 4chan. It was also a nightly sojourn in 2009-era Reddit. My mind is now permanently tainted with things I cannot un-see, and it's also well and truly cemented my position as a slightly snobby member of the internet.

I DIDN'T SPEND ALL MY WAKING HOURS IN THE DITCHES OF THE INTERNET TO SEE THE SANCTITY OF OUR MEMES TARNISHED.

But then I think, maybe I'm just a grumpy old man. Maybe I shouldn't get all up in arms when something on the internet evolves, which inevitably is wont to happen. Whatever. The whole "meme" thing has just done some next-level evolution, and there's nothing I can do about how un-funny I find it all except be disgruntled and storm off to watch some Adventure Time.

BUT.

There's having a slightly different sense of humour that a bunch of people I vaguely know and happen to still have on Facebook, and then there's being disgusted by offensive shit. It takes a lot for me to get up in arms about offensive shit on the internet, but I find that whenever morbid curiosity gets the better of me on Facebook, I always end up being all like, "I DON'T WANT TO LIVE IN THIS KIND OF WORLD". There's thinking, "You're doing it wrong as far as memes go" and there's thinking "the planet earth of the future is doomed". Hell, even if these meme pages are using actual meme templates, the fact remains that they're overwhelmingly unfunny.

It's incredibly disheartening that whilst "researching" for this little rant, I only had to go to two profiles to accumulate links and pictures. One of these people I happen to be related to, and the other is someone I had always thought had their head screwed on in fairly a logical way. What do I do? Do I tell them that they're doing it wrong? Do I delete them? Do I troll them super hard?

If you end up bothering to have a look at a few of those pages, I guarantee you'll be disgusted by at least a bunch of pictures. By that I mean to say that I couldn't even laugh at them for being so hilariously bad. They were just downright ... awful. Gross. Made me embarrassed. It also made me want to copy & paste a lesson in proper use of Your/You're into every comment box of every image.

Some of the pages I was just referring to that you might want to track down in your own Facebooking time include (I'll not be posting actual links here):

• Booties Boobies and Bodies
• Centrelink Memes
• Melbourne Club Memes
• Dumb, Drunk & Dirrrrty Bitches
• Australian Memes.

Look, I know that this is a futile rant. I also know that merely posting this sort of thing is practically like sending out an invitation to be trolled. "U MAD BRO?" ... well, yes I suppose. I love the internet, and I love observing the myriad ways the boundaries of political correctness are pushed in the name of the "lulz" (to use the parlance of our time). I myself am a little surprised that the Facbeook "meme" posts that have been clogging up my screen of late have sent me into such a state of anger.

I suppose when people are doing it SO wrong in so many ways without even having the decency to actually be funny OR USE APOSTROPHES CORRECTLY while being incredibly racist and sexist, I can't help but get angry. If you're doing none of those things correctly (humour, grammar, internet, decency), then chances are you are DOING IT WRONG on every count and you should have your internet license revoked. 

Consider the Hangover

The hangover is a mean, ugly, vile beast. It doesn't really have any natural predators. There are some who make wild claims that they are immune to its evils and ploys and attacks, but they are liars. Liars, or ignorant (wilfully or otherwise), or they are under the age of 20. The hangover is part dragon, part fighter jet, and part buffalo. And rhino. There's probably an angry, raging rhino somewhere in there.

The hangover takes no prisoners as it struts/barrels/lurks forbodingly through life. The hangover storms down the road without a care in the world. It's like a kid knocking over another kid's sandcastle. It leaves a trail of destruction in its wake without ever giving a fuck about the consequences, about what people may think of its actions. I'd like to be a badass of hangover proportions, but alas I know that I am not.

The hangover renders each person it touches debilitated. Varying degrees of incapacitated reached and surpassed by those who incurred the hangover's wrath, while the hangover stands by and watches without ever feeling sympathy. After all, that which induces a beating from Mr Hangover were approached with prior knowledge of the consequences. I, you or they may have even at one point yelled above the music, "MAN, I am going to pay for this tomorrow!"

They who now moan in pain, spend aeons in the shower, enjoy a morning sitting next to a toilet, or gorge themselves on bacon and remorse knew that the hangover is a motherfucker who ain't one for carin', especially after it punches you in the face.

Now that I think about it, the hangover is a real piece of work. I oughta take it outside, give it a piece of my mind. A swift kick in the dick, perhaps. I know that I won't though. The hangover reduces me to a monosyllabic blob of pain, misery and waves of nausea. I am a veritable surfer, such are those waves. Or rather, I surf as well as one can when your head feels as if it's been stomped on by a morbidly obese man wearing shoes with cleats.

The hangover sits on the couch next to me and smirks while I guzzle up an entire box of barbeque Shapes at 5pm after spending most of the day up until that point with the toilet bowl, or a bucket. The hangover shakes its head in feigned disappointment (read: actual amusement) as messages are sent to friends, "Sorry man! Won't be able to make it today. I've got an editing job that I really have to finish. Dinner next week?". THE HANGOVER MAKES YOU LIE. I WAS NOT EDITING. I was in the midst of a nauseous self-berating. The hangover makes you lie to others, and yourself.

"No ... I'm pretty sure I left before I made a real ass of myself."

WRONG. 

The hangover knows this, and isn't afraid of informing you. With a smart-ass, self-satisfied grin. The hangover is a dick. My work here is done, it thinks, while knowing it'll never really be done. It isn't ashamed of striking down an entire house's worth of sleeping bodies during the night. Indeed, the hangover revels in its ability to do so. Seemingly overnight it deals out the destruction (that's not even factoring in the destruction dealt to the house), and not a single fuck is given. I don't think the hangover has any friends, but I don't think the hangover cares. The hangover's probably a bit of a sociopath. A troll, of the highest order. I wake up with The Shame (oh, the shame of it all), and the hangover says "U MAD?" 

One might occasionally want to be a no-fuck-giving boss a la the hangover occasionally. I for one, would like a devil-may-care swagger to accompany me through my day. The thing is though, I do care about trails of destruction being left in my wake. I'm the one who ends up responding to questions with "Hnnnggsrrrhshhh...", after eating one metric shit-tonne of bacon. I can't ever not give a fuck if I leave that trail of destruction. I am not a part-dragon, part-buffalo, part-fighter jet, part-rhino, all-not-give-a-fuck creature. And that is why I consider the hangover after having to deal with its smug aura of self-satisfaction while I spend the day watching The Big Bang Theory instead of The Wire because my brain just cannot handle it. I consider it, and now I've decided to steer clear of it. At least, for a little while.

I'm doing Dry July, y'all!

Four things I don't like but I find a lot of people do like.

I know a few of my posts of late have been quite ... positive? Loving? Verging on slightly sappy by my standards? I feel compelled to put order and balance back into the universe of this blog, so here are a bunch of things I can happily be quite negative about. Enjoy.


Vegemite.
Vegemite tastes like how I picture a paste made of the vomit of Hitler combined with the excrement of the devil would taste. I've tried Vegemite multiple times over the course of my life and not once have I managed more than the tiniest bite at a time. If Vegemite were a person, I would gag upon setting eyes on them. Seriously. I might even fight them. It'd be a battle to the death. It wouldn't be pretty, nor would it be a stylish choreographed action sequence. Vegemite would have the support of All Australians Everywhere and I would be a lone wolf by myself on my own against my salty black spreadable foe. We'd tussle and wrestle with fists flying and knives very nearly gouging eyes. It'd be like that scene from Deadwood where Seth Bullock has to fight the Native American Indian to the death and it's really brutal and dusty and not very pretty. Is Native American Indian the right way to say that? I feel like I'm being offensive. Better that I insult the sensibilities of those who like Vegemite than those who are the native people of North America. Why did I think of Deadwood? I think it's because I just watched two films starring John Hawkes. Boy oh boy, is he a good actor.

Sex and the City. 
Alright. I avoided Sex and the City for years, at the behest of a friend who'd been forced to sit through all six seasons by his girlfriend. They broke up soon after,  although I'm not sure what role four glamorous sex-crazed laydeez living in New York had to do with their relationship's demise. Nowadays, I have in my life a posse of amazing lady bros of my very own and I love them dearly. So when I was urged by them to maybe give the show another go I relented. I sat through four or so episodes on their couch, and enjoyed them well enough. Maybe this isn't so bad, I thought. Certainly there were some amusing "LOLSEX" moments that were easy to relate to as a female lady with a vagina. So far so good. However, I recently had cause (editing job, being very sick) to be at home for a few Fridays nights in a row. I made sure to watch Sex and the City whenever it was on TV - after all, I'd blow the socks off the girls if I suddenly had the same encyclopaedic knowledge of SatC storylines as they do. It was this intense exposure to Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda by my own doing that made me reach the following conclusion:
I don't like them. I don't like Sex and the City. I just don't. I unfortunately just don't like any of the characters. Actually, I take that back. I like Miranda. But the dykie smart-ass never gets as much screen time as horse face! Or even the slutty one sometimes! Boo hiss to you, horse face and slutty one - that's what I think of the matter. Look, I understand that Sex and the City was a breath of fresh air, that it was ground-breaking to see a bunch of laydeez onscreen talking about sex the way dudes do. I understand that, and think it's muy rad indeed. That doesn't change the fact that I find the main character so annoying that I quite often had to change the channel and watch some Rage before giving it another go. To be honest, I'd much rather watch Entourage or Girls if I'm in the mood for a posse of four taking on a city and the shagging many members of the opposite sex. Even if the latter constantly keeps me on the verge of having a quarter-life crisis. And I know Entourage is kind of filled with douchebags, but I ended up watching about four seasons of it in about two weeks, so sue me.

The sun. 
I see glum or raging status updates on Facebook by friends about how awful it is that winter's come around once more. I though, am rejoicing. At first sign of rain and gloom, my spirits soar. Summer is too hot, too bright. Summer reveals all the pudgy bits acquired over the year. Summer isn't conducive to drinking tea. Summer makes me sweat profusely, which isn't very attractive. Winter though, is the time for big coats, and beanies, and layer upon layer of dark clothing. Winter is the time for big boots stomping around in puddles. Winter's too cold? Put on another layer. Easy fixed, broseph. In winter, I never feel bad for wasting an entire day indoors because of a hangover, or because I just can't be bothered going out. Winter is perfect for being indoors while it rains, or being outside while it rains. Summer taunts you, says "Come on kid, why are you wasting the day? Carpe diem, do something, YOLO!" 
Hell, summer says things like "YOLO". Dick.

YOLO
I didn't even find out what the hell YOLO is until about three weeks ago. I didn't feel so ashamed of that fact though, when I realised that YOLO is merely carpe diem for douches. I've seen #YOLO used in a straight-faced "SRSLY, ITS A MOTTO YO" way on my Facebook feed a handful of times, and every time I almost vomited all over my computer screen.
#YouOnlyLiveOnce is what YOLO stands for, as well as stupidity and - of course - douchebaggery.
I urge you, head to Twitter and search #YOLO. You will find gems like the following:
"Tweeting and driving #thuglife #YOLO"
or "PARTY TONIGHT gonna get my drink on LOL got test 2moro #YOLO"

It should come as no surprise that YOLO was in part made popular via a song by Drake.