These Whorebags Don't Go With Any Of My Outfits

I'm going to let you in on a not so little secret. Short people, especially those under five foot tall and over the age of 21, (who bear a strong resemblance to myself) hate being ignored. Much more so than normal sized people. Being called "spunky" comes in at a close second.
I HATE being ignored. Even when I don the highest heels in my closet, most of the time I'm talking to people's noise hair. So being ignored on top of that makes me want to grab a handful of those noise hairs and pull. It makes it even worse when the noise hairs are paired with an attitude and a unwarranted sense of self importance. I currently have two people in my life that fit that description - one's a guy and the other's a girl. You know the type - too cool for school, I wear my sunglasses indoors, name dropping, resume recitin', aren't you so lucky to be talking to me type of twat? We've all met at least one. What's worse, because of certain circumstances, I have to be civil to both of these aforementioned taint stains, when really, I just want to tell both of them to kiss the fattest part of my ass. I can't even vent/blog about them properly!

(sigh) why must it be this way? Why can't only cool people like yourselves come into my life? Why must pieces of shit float up into my snorkel when I'm happily swimming life's ocean blue? I know I'm not going to get along with everyone I come into contact with but why must there always be at least ONE that is forced upon your life that you HAVE TO tolerate? Why can't all experiences with idiots be brief and forgettable? I guess its even worse because I think when I turned 30, my asswipe tolerance level went down to an all time low. My schmuck bell upgraded to wifi and got more coverage, so it went off spiderman like when an assmunch was within 50 miles. When I'm forced to sit there, look at the poop through my snorkel and hear the douchbag bell go off at full volume inside my head and I can't do anything about it but be the "bigger" person (HA!) and smile- it gets really tempting to give into the big fat angry baby inside me, and put a flaming bag of poo at their door.

Relax,
Relate,
RELEASE.

I'm over it.
Kind of....flaming poo will always be an option.

EDIT: I got a little perspective after writing this. Think you have a bad job, top my bloggy friend Liz's job. No seriously, go read the crap she has to do/put up with. She should be nominated for sainthood or something.!