Welcome to the first installment of my brand-spankin’-new column, “Things that Bother Me”.
Some people claim that my propensity to assess truth with reckless abandon can be categorized as “whining” or “complaining”, but I don’t see it that way.
Sure, lots of things bother me, maybe more so than others, but this is your unique opportunity to join the ranks of misery, as its love for company is as old as time itself.
#999: When you borrow something from someone and it breaks.
Don’t you just hate it when you get pinned for something that totally wasn’t your fault?
Take, for example, your roommate’s can opener. You may use it perhaps once a week, while she uses it on a semi-daily basis. However, because God hates you, the next time you use it, it crumbles apart in your hands from rust and decay.
“But it was about to break anyway!” you proclaim, yet already knowing the battle is lost, and a trip to the dollar store is inevitable.
Oh, and guess what? When that piece of shit dollar store can opener breaks, guess who’s on the hook for another one? That’s right, you, the occasional tuna eater.
Or maybe you borrow your buddy’s bike for the weekend, set out for the trails, and zip along at high speeds until a very stoppable force (you) hits an immovable object: you are now one with the tree.
Upon inspecting the wreckage, you discover that not only is your ankle busted, but so are the brakes on your friend’s trusty death trap.
Whoops! Guess who’s buying a new bike?! You guessed it.
And then there’s one that really gets my goat, like when you want to go binge drinking and your license has already been suspended three times. “But I need a way to get to the party!” you shout at your friend, who is already slightly irritated with you for getting his sister pregnant.
But what are friends for? That’s right, car loans and hot sisters.
Unfortunately, your friend neglected to remind you about the car’s tendency to lock up at random times, even though you are already well aware of the slight design flaw. And then the expected happens, as you become one with a giant oak once more, leaving a trail of elderly entrails in your wake.
“But all eight of them ran in front of me!” you scream at the police officers, taking a swig from your 40 of vodka, gently nursing the protruding femur. “It’s my friend’s fault, he never should have lent me his car. He’s the one you want, officers!”
Whoops, guess what? Not only are you going to have to replace your friend’s 1989 Ford Tempo, but he has the gall to make you pay him back for bail, too.
And those are some things that bother me.
