“I don’t wike it.”
I have been laughing about that video for weeks now. Chris Evans speaks to my soul, or rather his nephew does. I truly think he’s correct. “I don’t wike it,” is so applicable to life. Part of me is an adult and is capable of fulfilling responsibilities that I have. I don’t shuck things off simply because I don’t want to do them or don’t like them or don’t like the person I have to do them with. I’m reliable, and, for the most part, I do good work. Still, there’s a deep dark part of me that, every so often, cries out, “I don’t wike it!” The intensity varies, but sometimes you just gotta admit, “I don’t wike it.”
1. Having to get up from my desk to go ask anyone any sort of question. Unless, you know, I’m trying to actively avoid what I’m working on at my desk. Then, okay, I guess.
4. Crafting a perfect email to a client who has crawled out of the depths of hell just to make your job harder, and having to kiss their ass and offer them the sun in said email.
5. Running out of creamer half way through your pour, then having to stop the process of making sweet nectar of the gods coffee to open the second bottle of creamer and continue pouring.
6. Being asked eight times a day by multiple people if I’m running around naked in my apartment because my roommate isn’t around. Like, why is this new? This is exactly how things were with my last roommate and no one cared about my clothing choices then?
7. Sitting down to write a letter to a friend and realizing there’s no pen within arm’s length of you forcing you to stand up find a pen, and then when you sit back down you realize you took your drink with you that last time so you have to get up and go find it, and then when you sit back down you realize there’s something else you forgot, and oh my God it never will end.
8. I’m struggling reading Waverly in book form. I really want to listen to it on tape, but there’s one volunteer in the free online version and I swear her voice is going to give me a stroke. Da-da-da-DA. Da-da-da-DA. For minutes on end.
9. The fact that my keyboard hates the space bar. And when I finish typing this, I’m going to have to go back through and fix thirty spelling errors simply because my space bar refuses to do its job.
10. Having to get my oil changed on my own. I genuinely hate this one enough that I often think that I should just learn how to do it myself so I don’t have to deal with going to get my oil changed. It’s not worth the anxiety.
On the plus side, this post took an unexpected turn onto Baker Street and planted itself firmly on the doorstep of 221B, which I’ve only enjoyed. That was a nice turn of events. Yep.