A  B i t  o f  A  B a d  W e e k
A 500-Word Rant
by Julie Pocock

"4 years of university -- 4 YEARS -- and FOR WHAT??" screamed Rory Tait, Reece's Peanut Butter Cups circle researcher/weenie extraordinaire/my indignant mentor and now a very dead guy in the grand scheme of reality. FOR WHAT. Amazing, isn't it, what manages to stick to your brainstem after you finish wading through all the insipid redundancy, all the tearful mediocrity, all the incredibly disappointing cesspools of shit in your life, year after fucking year. FOR WHAT. It wasn't bad enough that I suffered through an entire 7 hours of Blind Datedom, smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding, talking endlessly about his Armani pants, his worldly electronic possessions, his cologne, his Lincoln, his ex-wife, his ex-lovers, his ex-lovers' sex toys -- then being taken out to dinner at one of the chintziest student hangouts in the city, suffering through too-assertive demands to be kissed in public, only to be called "pretentious" because I truly believe my smarts and my fire will take me places marrying a stinky-breathed albeit wealthy man won't. It wasn't bad enough I was slapped with a formal disciplinary letter at work that accused me of using lewd words in private emails during off-hours -- in essence, being monitored by Big Sister while being slagged for not having MY legs tied together, for not following my manager's example of what a good prudish farmgirl should be, for not biting my already overly-raw tongue and conforming to that figurative doggie-style fuck that renders those who are weaker WEAKER. It wasn't bad enough that the stress of everyone's incompetancy, forever surrounding me, squashing my personality, suffocating me with a stench far more disgusting and unforgivable than I'm willing to gloss over and say "fuck it", made 2 out of 3 of 1997's body piercings bleed like bitches in heat for 6 straight days, forcing me to waste way too many of my quarters on laundry, endlessly waiting with false hope that the evil in my body would truly be purged and expunged forever. It wasn't bad enough my period has lagged on for an extra 11 days, ruining the Post-Menstrual Horniness Blues I tend to look forward to so much each month, rendering me defenseless against the bitch I try to override for at least 2 weeks out of every cycle. It wasn't bad enough that I've been placed against my will in the middle of the fucking Sahara -- humid without the romanticism of sultry ambiance, the air suddenly full of Los Angeles and people aimlessly walking up and down the streets with too much clothing on, not sure if they're brave enough to break from the status quo, grab spines and put their goddamned sandals on, pale sickly feet and all. FOR WHAT. I can rage all I want, I can shit on lesser people's heads, I can enjoy my superiority complex while masturbating through naughty thoughts, but my cat puked on my ironing board, and there's not a fucking thing I can do about it.