People who write terribly.

I have become much more tolerant this year, okay? I am able to tolerate all manner of dumb people now, and also people who refuse to use the brains God gave them and the education they received in school and type like a literate.

I know it might be shocking that there are people out there who appear to be illiterate. They certainly don't show up on the Internet very often. Most people in America have gone through years of schooling, Kindergarten to senior year, etc. It makes no sense for them to suddenly forget all their education the moment they touch a keyboard.

I used to think these people were stupid and awful and not worthy of my attention.

ppl who rite liket his

and people who write like this with no periods or commas

though occasionally they use a lot of punctuation!!!!!!

and smileys :) :) :) 8DDDDDDD

to express their feelings

But I've narrowed down my list of people who don't speak English correctly to only two types that actually drive me down the hall.

• People who use punctuation and everything except for capital letters
• People who don't try at all

I think it's fine to drag out the last letter of a word if you're really feelinggggggg ittttt. I think it's fine to type in ALL CAPS if you're ANGRY. I have become a different person! except not really.

There are still those few who can drive me insane by the way they type. Some of those are those horrible people who can use every key on their keyboard EXCEPT the shift key.

they can use periods correctly. they can use commas, if there's need for one. sometimes, they branch out into some fancier punctuation; i've even seen them use semicolons. but no matter what you do, they never seem to capitalize the first words of sentences. they don't even capitalize the letter i.

People who type like that are pretentious assholes.

That is the first thing I think. I mean, maybe I get to know them and they're actually an all right person. Maybe I get to know them and they're really fabtastic. But my first impression is always that a person who types like that is just being pretentious. There is no reason for them to type that way.

Also, people who just don't care. I used to think they were butchering the English language and stuff. But then I spent a while talking to my wife the way they do, or at least the way we think they do. And it made me realize something:

Typing like that is incredibly lazy.

I'm serious. You don't have to TRY at all. If you don't know what to say, you can just dash off a lol yeah and pay attention to someone else. You hardly need to spend any of your attention on them. You can talk to like five people at a time because you're not actually involved in any of the conversations.

I used to think, "Well, they're obviously dumb if they want to talk like that. Why should I waste my time on them?" when people did that to me.

Now I think, "Well, they obviously don't want to waste their time on me. Why should I waste my time on them?"

Except I just DID waste my time on them by writing this post.

Dudes who look like chicks.

Especially when you see them and you're like, "Oh look, a chick," and then they talk and you go like this

WTF

because they have such deep voices and you suddenly realize that they're secretly a man.

It drives me DOWN THE HALL, I am telling you. It's terrifying. It's like, "why aren't you a woman!?" Freaks me out every time.

Like, everyone's already heard my story about how I was walking to the bus stop one day and I saw this CHICK. (At least, you know, I thought it was a chick.) It was easy to make the mistake, okay? They had long blond hair (not as long as mine, HAHA) and were totally wearing GIRL JEANS, and I was walking behind them so I was like "oh yeah girl whatever."

And then they turned and he had a BEARD and I totally freaked out, but INTERNALLY so he probably didn't notice. Hopefully. Anyway.

And today while I was downtown (at Art War, which is like a con for hippies) I got a smoothie at Smoothie King because the bro-boy loves that place. There was this PERSON sitting around drinking a smoothie and I just assumed it was a chick. Let me tell you why.

The person was totally wearing yellow crocs, skinny jeans, giant sunglasses, and one of those weird plaid buttony shirts. Also, they had a really feminine haircut. It was like a bob kind of thing? But blond and brown and I don't know how to describe it, okay, but it was ten kinds of girly.

Then I heard him talk as I left and he was a MAN and I said to Mother:

You know what I HATE?

So of course I had to write about my HATRED for these men who look like women. But you need to know, my ex-wuffles really encouraged me by talking about Bill Kaulitz. Familiarize yourself with him. He'll be on the test.

I mean. Go look at him because he looks like a WOMAN OH MY GOD. It's terrifying. In fact, you don't even need to GO look at him because I will provide you a picture, right here.

Somehow, he is a man. It's a mystery to us all.

Anyway.

You have some extra crap today, to go along with what I've written.

Music ♥

TVTropes ♥

Ciao ♥

Books where people taste like something.

So I was reading a dumb teenage girl book today. You know the type. They have sparkly pink or lime green covers with names like "1-800-Boyfriend" or "Spring Fling." The heroine is a charming girl who thinks she's ugly as sin despite consistently having guys drool over her. Her best friend has been friends with her for their entire lives and tends to be either a total ditz or a heartless bitch. It takes her the entire book to find the right guy, even though he's been RIGHT THERE the whole time.

I love those kinds of books. Sure, they can be unbelievably dumb and predictable, but it's nice to read them sometimes. You don't have to think about anything other than the love interest's strong arms from scooping ice cream at the local store with a cutesy name.

The problem is that sometimes things happen in them that I totally can't forgive. This goes beyond the heroine not wanting to tell the baseball player she was totally into that she played baseball, because she didn't want him to think she was a tomboy (??).

I am talking about when they finally kiss, after an emotionally charged baseball game/friend's party/day spent flying kites, and Luis Love-Interest pulls away from Hannah Heroine, gazes passionately into her chocolate-brown eyes, and tells her in his sexy, deep voice:

"You taste like turnips."

Okay, maybe Hannah Heroine really likes turnips. Maybe she has a turnip addiction so bad that her friends are secretly planning an intervention. I don't care. If she hasn't been eating turnips in the past half an hour, I fail to believe that she can taste like them.

That's what happened in this book I was reading, the one with the baseball player. After their first kiss, Baseball Dude told her that she tasted like chocolate cookie dough ice cream. I thought, "Oh, that's kind of cute," since she had been eating the ice cream just a minute ago -- ice cream that he had bought for her just to be nice.

Then he mentioned it again a few chapters later. She hadn't been anywhere near ice cream for at least a day or two, but he still told her, "I love the taste of chocolate chip cookie dough." I thought, "Good for you, but I don't think she tastes like it anymore."

Then they kissed sometime after dinner and she described her own mouth as tasting like chocolate chip cookie dough, despite not having eaten any recently, and I put the book down.

I don't think it's possible to constantly taste like chocolate chip cookie dough. I mean, I eat a lot of that kind of ice cream, and yet I'm pretty damn sure I don't taste like it. Someone is free to come over here and check, but I'm fairly certain I don't taste like food I haven't eaten all day.

It's one thing for a smoker to taste like cigarettes (yum) or someone who's just been eating sugar cubes off a plate to taste like diabetes, but this thing is way too much for me to handle.

And now that I'm done writing, I'm off to finish that book with Miss Cookie Dough.

Twist endings.

Let's say you're reading a book, or watching a movie, or whatever bloats your stoat. It's going pretty well. The plot is gripping! the characters are intriguing! and you're enjoying it. John T. Everyman has finally defeated the monsters that were plaguing the city and is heading back to his family.

You're only pages from the end (or minutes, I guess, if you were watching a movie) when SUDDENLY the whole fictional world turns on its head! Everything you thought previously was a lie! It's like the writers have decided to send you a message, and the message is:

SCREW YOU.

It turns out John T. Everyman was suffering from delusions! Or the monsters weren't real monsters; they were manifestations of his inner anguish that only appeared to him; and now he's wrecked half the city for no reason! Or it was all just a dream! The whole story is not what you thought it was.

I hate it when that happens. Especially when it seems like the story has been building up to this one twist the whole time. Sometimes the twist comes out of NOWHERE. That's even worse, because it means that either I was so dumb I didn't see it coming or the writer was so incompetent that they shouldn't be writing books, let alone ones with crazy twists at the ends.

Twists in the middle are fine. Good, even. I mean, they keep the story moving and stuff. As long as they're not too random, I'm down with that. If there are still a few hundred pages left to explain why this new twist has happened, it is all fine in my book.

I'll even allow twists NEAR the end, because I'm so gracious. John T. can be in the middle of the boss battle with the biggest, most terrifying monster yet when he and his talking sword merge to form a new entity and defeat the monster, if he wants. Sometimes these kinds of things end up seeming like the writer pulled the idea out of thin air, but at least John T. is still himself and still fighting monsters. Nothing happened to ruin my perception of the book.

Because when there's any kind of twist in a book, I have to set it down. (And by set it down I mean slam it down on the nearest flat surface.) Then I have to make a noise of realization, like "ohhh," and maybe run in a few circles while I think about what this will mean for the rest of the book. If there are people around, I blurt things out to them like "John T's sister died five years ago when the monsters ate her! It wasn't really a car crash!"

Then I keep reading.

If it's a twist ENDING, I can't do that. I close the book (with a really loud snap) and throw it at something. Then I make an ANGRY noise of realization, like "what," and go punch something. Like the BRO-BOY. (No, I don't REALLY punch the bro-boy. He punches back.)

You can't do anything after there's a twist ending! There's nothing else! You just have to sit there until it sinks in that John T. Everyman has been hallucinating all his fantastic battles from a mental hospital. Then your whole world just like falls to little fragments around you until you pick up another book and hope this one has an ending that MAKES SENSE.

(By the way, this post was written by the robot that's been pretending to be Libby for the past six months. Everything she's done since then was FAKED by a cold, calculating machine. A machine that's set to self-destruct in five minutes, so you'll never get any answers.)

(Just kidding.)

(At least, that's what it WANTS you to think.)

You.

Not really.

I mean, you're at least reading this. That gives you at least a few awesome points in my book. If you keep reading after now you're either a) weird, b) bored, or c) Erin.

This is only my second blog ever, which is more than some people write in their lives. It's still a very small number for me, so I'm going to treat it like it's my very own child that I made in about five minutes. It only takes five minutes to make a decision you'll regret for the rest of your life, and while I don't think I'll regret this forever, you never know. I can regret things for a long time.

It's kind of why I decided to make this instead of, you know, going back and reviving my old blog. Every couple of days (maybe more often) I flounce up to whoever's around me, strike a pose, and say:

You know what I HATE?

If it's the bro-boy, he says, "No, Libby," or "What is it this time?" or just looks at me like here we go again and says "What?"

If it's Mother she usually says, "No, daughter. What do you hate?" or sometimes, "I am not a dude," if I've said "Dude, you know what I HATE?" like I so often do.

If it's the cat she just stares at me and goes "merp," and I tell her anyway. The cat loves to hear about my opinions. The only thing that makes her happier is going on field trips to the top of the freezer or the top of the bro-boy's head.

Anyway, after I have hooked their interest by posing dramatically and/or falling onto a chair with my legs spread all manly, I go in for the kill. (In this blog I'm going to skip the dramatic poses, because they don't work very well when you can't see just how fabulous they are.) This is the part where I start rambling about WHAT I hate and WHY I hate it and WHEN I'm president of the world I am going to ELIMINATE it. This is the part where you nod along and pretend to be interested while I wave my hands around like a lunatic.

When I'm done, I usually follow one or two courses of action (that sounds kind of professional, don't you think?):

A) I wait expectantly for an answer, or

B) I jump up and run away before you have any time to do anything.

Since this is a blog and you're not exactly reading it at the same time as I'm typing it, neither of those is going to work. I'll have to take option C, which I made up right this moment:

C) I look over what I've written with a devious smirk and/or a maniacal cackle and click the orange "publish post" button.

After that, you can feel free to do whatever you want.

Have fun!