I have many pet peeves, ranging from those that are completely understandable to those that are fairly irrational. I'm sitting in class and I say something a little but foolish, a genuine mistake none the less. I look to my left -- everyone is politely letting it slide-- I look to my right and there is the one class mate that just has to smirk. He joins eyes with his pal across the room and in a demonstration of their social superiority and hulk-like levels of testosterone they burst into malicious and mocking laughter.
My biggest pet peeve isn't something that would bother most people, or really something that most people even pick up on. The phrase "I could care less" is utterly wrong. Ive heard it misused in daily conversation and even more upsetting; in movies. It's actually wrong. It's "I COULDNT care less". By saying I could care less it means you care a little bit right now, and could care a little less than how much you do now. It's wrong.
It's the dog who runs off at night, not my father or Henry, but sometimes Jacob and Mom, too. As if I can't see her crawling low to the ground like a snake on the prowl, then taking off to delve into night's stories and secrets. One time I followed her, my legs pumping slowly, as if kicking through heavy water, to keep up with her stride. I watched as she ate the salmon skins my neighbor leaves in his backyard for the deer. She knew I was behind her, but did not say anything. When the shrill call of a thirsty fisher rang, I retreated.
Most nights I wait at the front door for 3 minutes, admiring my reflection in the green glass. When it is clear that Josephine is not coming back (which she never does,) I slip on Dad's size 10 garden clogs, and begin my trek to find her. I hate these solo walks, but not because of the silence or darkness; those, I love. The animals––the marble eyed bat, clicking and chirping to the dubious skunk who glances over his body to check for calculating prey, like the starved coyote, who dances with wiley, firey foxes––are what frighten me. Josephine, with her flexing feet and vacant stare, can challenge these creatures with courage. But I cower beneath my shadow at a flick of wind, or call of a babe searching for mother. I do not like feeling afraid, and I do not like looking for Josephine when she does not need to be found.
One of my main pet peeves is people stepping on the back of my shoe. It's a pretty small inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, but it's one of the easiest ways to make me boilingly angry. I don't care if it was an accident, if you do that to me, you're an idiot and I hate you. If my shoe comes off, then I'll spend the rest of the day hoping that your food gets stuck the next time you try to use a vending machine.
Lexie, I love this! It's very passionate (something I value greatly, if you didn't already know), but I know your writing skills, and I know you could have expanded your thoughts a bit more. Your vocabulary is superb, and your voice is so consistent! But I know you have more to say, I know you've got more in you! How often does this happen? Has it ever happened with a stranger on the street or someone you were very close to? How do you react to the person who has stepped on your shoe? Do you yell of just say, "It's fine" and keep all your anger inside? These are just some questions you could expand on. I still love this piece, very descriptive, very wonderful. I look forward to reading more of your work as the year goes on! :)
I've never been able to understand why and how people tolerate dirty hands. It's disgusting. Of course, I have considered that it may be me whose pet peeve is creating a sense of bias around this topic, but I've come to the conclusion that it's not just me, it's also the rest of the world having dirty hands. I can pick up on people with dirty hands like a foxhound smelling out small game... I can tell if someone has dirty hands from within a 5-7 meter radius. My obsession is indeed abnormal, obviously hand-washing is not people's number one priority. I respect this fact and agree with it. But we live in the 21st century, you have absolutely no reason to have dirty hands! No pardon for flakes of dirt on your knuckles, no excuse for grime under your fingernails (EW.)- or graphite stains in the creases of the friction ridges on your fingertips! Consider the Cro-Magnon. Without running water, given only primitive shelter-building skills and minimal language deftness (not to mention being forced to live in a hellish society without the existence of a blogosphere or Instagram), the early primate "Cro-Magnon Man" was not able to keep his metacarpus pristine. It was simply not logical, even if the thought ever occurred to him. But now, we have 3D printers selling at market prices and cars with lower emissions and higher efficiencies available to the masses. It's not that difficult! We even have dwarf hand sanitizer bottles you can latch on to your backpack. I see no reason why one cannot keep their hands relatively clean throughout the day. It gets on my nerves. I mean really, skin is a venerable environment, and contaminated flesh is a prime breeding ground for bacteria and pathogens of all distinctions. Do me a favor. One round of "happy birthday" in the bathroom is all it takes. Thank you.
I understand that sometimes it is difficult to get my attention. My name sounds like a lot of different words (please, peas, cheese, elise, ease etc), and it's easy for me to get lost in a book, a song, or a conversation. Sometimes yelling my name is not enough, but please, please, please never ever ever touch my shoulder. The result is often comical enough that my brother does it on purpose. If it's a hearty tap, or something solid, I will simply turn around, but if it's a half-assed slight brush of a few fingers, especially they touch my actual skin, I jump so badly that it's not only me that notices. Occasionally, if I'm distracted enough, I'll scream or accidentally elbow the victim in the gut. Try it, I dare you. I hate the way an unexpected light touch feels like a bug crawling up my neck or across my arm, and I hate the way I'm not quite sure if it's there.
When is it appropriate to correct people on their poor use of grammar? Some people say never. I say do it sparingly. It's most justifiable to correct people on their grammar when they are overcompensating in an attempt to show how cultured they are. Anyone who says "octopi," for instance, is asking for it. "You're sick? I feel badly." Well, thank you for telling me that you suck at feeling. "If you're interested, please send an email to Jane Doe or I." Yep, just send that email to I. I'm not prone to correcting people who make mistakes. I wouldn't want other people to correct me all the time when I make mistakes. However, when a person tries so hard to sound intelligent that the opposite result is achieved, I find it difficult to hold back. So please use the correct plural form of the Greek word octopus. We all know it's octopodes. You could also just say octopuses because this is English for cryin' out loud.
"Dude, stop taking my clothes" is the number one phrase you can hear me say to my brother at almost any point in our co-existence. I mean, is it really that hard for him to just ask? To just mutter those simple 14 words (fifteen if you don't count the hyphen), "Yo man, my clothes are all in the laundry, can I borrow a t-shirt?" Or perhaps its a pair of SmartWool socks (to keep his feet warm) that he's jonesing for. "Dude, I could really use a pair of those wool socks you've got, it's 30 degrees outside!" Man, all you gotta do is ask. I don't care about the sweatpants, or the shorts for gym class, or the nike midcalfs for lax practice. I just want you to be a mensch and acknowledge that you are requesting something that's not yours, kapeesh? Kapeesh.
Every morning when I wake up I tend to wake up groggy and grumpy and just flogged down with phlegm and an aura of screw-off-sir-talking-is-for-the-socialites. And then miraculously I wash it all away in the shower as if my morning bitterness was simply a layer of grime accumulated overnight. I'm sure some of you reading that currently did not enjoy yourselves to read that. I don't care. I'm also currently writing this at the time of night where I don't care, if that wasn't evident just now. There are times of the day where I just plunge into infinite pessimism. Some of you out there look at me and probably think "Oh look it's James! The spastic one! He's always looking off into the distance, not a care in the world, not a ship out in the storm!" well sorry but no that isn't me. I won't always clock into work a happy person who want's everything to be a win-win situation, sometimes I want you to die. Sorry reader, not you exactly but everyone else but you. I don't enjoy those people who are always happy and trying to cram some love-and-peace doctrine down your throat. How are you always happy? I respect your views but why do you got to make me feel the same way? Why are you mad at me for being me? Come on people isn't that an irony? I understand what you're saying is good, maybe even morally justified if that's your character, but that's not my character. I'm not about loving everyone, and I'm not about to start with you. Sorry reader, specifically I refer to my object of complaint mentioned several sentences before this.
I am driving to school, passing the hardware store around 7:45. After three years of making the daily commute, I know this means we have plenty of time, that I can relax and maybe even still get a “legal” parking spot. My sister is riding shotgun, and she knows too. We're set. As I peel away from the stop sign, I make a gentle right, and thats when it happens. Without a word, my sister squeezes the coat hanger above her seat as if we were in the last chopper out of Saigon, as if she might fly out the window if she grabbed with a little less force. My grip on the steering wheel involuntarily tightens. It is beyond annoying: its offensive to my sensibilities. However, I take a few in-through-the-nose-out-through-the-mouth breaths and continue driving without utterance. I am now approaching a stop light, and my eyes are doing double time trying to simultaneously watch her and the road. I slow down gently, almost sarcastically so, and analyze her reaction. To my chagrin, her body flies forward, lurching towards the dashboard, her head coming within inches of it, as usual. It always amazes me how she comes so close to hitting her head each morning but has yet to actually complete the motion once. As we pull away from the stoplight, she braces herself like Buzz Aldrin pulling away from Florida. We make our down the rest of the morning path to school, and my turns become slower, gentler, slower, gentler until by the time we're turning in front of Emery I'm holding up traffic. No matter, same result. I get my nerve up to say something everyday, thinking that she must be doing it intentionally. Everyday before I can though, she hops out of the car and says “Thanks for the ride!” and I have to just let it be. This might even be the most irksome part.
I have many pet peeves, ranging from those that are completely understandable to those that are fairly irrational. I'm sitting in class and I say something a little but foolish, a genuine mistake none the less. I look to my left -- everyone is politely letting it slide-- I look to my right and there is the one class mate that just has to smirk. He joins eyes with his pal across the room and in a demonstration of their social superiority and hulk-like levels of testosterone they burst into malicious and mocking laughter.
ReplyDeleteMy biggest pet peeve isn't something that would bother most people, or really something that most people even pick up on. The phrase "I could care less" is utterly wrong. Ive heard it misused in daily conversation and even more upsetting; in movies. It's actually wrong. It's "I COULDNT care less". By saying I could care less it means you care a little bit right now, and could care a little less than how much you do now. It's wrong.
ReplyDeleteIt's the dog who runs off at night, not my father or Henry, but sometimes Jacob and Mom, too. As if I can't see her crawling low to the ground like a snake on the prowl, then taking off to delve into night's stories and secrets. One time I followed her, my legs pumping slowly, as if kicking through heavy water, to keep up with her stride. I watched as she ate the salmon skins my neighbor leaves in his backyard for the deer. She knew I was behind her, but did not say anything. When the shrill call of a thirsty fisher rang, I retreated.
ReplyDeleteMost nights I wait at the front door for 3 minutes, admiring my reflection in the green glass. When it is clear that Josephine is not coming back (which she never does,) I slip on Dad's size 10 garden clogs, and begin my trek to find her. I hate these solo walks, but not because of the silence or darkness; those, I love. The animals––the marble eyed bat, clicking and chirping to the dubious skunk who glances over his body to check for calculating prey, like the starved coyote, who dances with wiley, firey foxes––are what frighten me. Josephine, with her flexing feet and vacant stare, can challenge these creatures with courage. But I cower beneath my shadow at a flick of wind, or call of a babe searching for mother. I do not like feeling afraid, and I do not like looking for Josephine when she does not need to be found.
One of my main pet peeves is people stepping on the back of my shoe. It's a pretty small inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, but it's one of the easiest ways to make me boilingly angry. I don't care if it was an accident, if you do that to me, you're an idiot and I hate you. If my shoe comes off, then I'll spend the rest of the day hoping that your food gets stuck the next time you try to use a vending machine.
ReplyDeleteLexie, I love this! It's very passionate (something I value greatly, if you didn't already know), but I know your writing skills, and I know you could have expanded your thoughts a bit more. Your vocabulary is superb, and your voice is so consistent! But I know you have more to say, I know you've got more in you! How often does this happen? Has it ever happened with a stranger on the street or someone you were very close to? How do you react to the person who has stepped on your shoe? Do you yell of just say, "It's fine" and keep all your anger inside? These are just some questions you could expand on. I still love this piece, very descriptive, very wonderful. I look forward to reading more of your work as the year goes on! :)
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteI've never been able to understand why and how people tolerate dirty hands. It's disgusting. Of course, I have considered that it may be me whose pet peeve is creating a sense of bias around this topic, but I've come to the conclusion that it's not just me, it's also the rest of the world having dirty hands. I can pick up on people with dirty hands like a foxhound smelling out small game... I can tell if someone has dirty hands from within a 5-7 meter radius. My obsession is indeed abnormal, obviously hand-washing is not people's number one priority. I respect this fact and agree with it. But we live in the 21st century, you have absolutely no reason to have dirty hands! No pardon for flakes of dirt on your knuckles, no excuse for grime under your fingernails (EW.)- or graphite stains in the creases of the friction ridges on your fingertips!
ReplyDeleteConsider the Cro-Magnon. Without running water, given only primitive shelter-building skills and minimal language deftness (not to mention being forced to live in a hellish society without the existence of a blogosphere or Instagram), the early primate "Cro-Magnon Man" was not able to keep his metacarpus pristine. It was simply not logical, even if the thought ever occurred to him. But now, we have 3D printers selling at market prices and cars with lower emissions and higher efficiencies available to the masses. It's not that difficult! We even have dwarf hand sanitizer bottles you can latch on to your backpack. I see no reason why one cannot keep their hands relatively clean throughout the day.
It gets on my nerves. I mean really, skin is a venerable environment, and contaminated flesh is a prime breeding ground for bacteria and pathogens of all distinctions. Do me a favor. One round of "happy birthday" in the bathroom is all it takes. Thank you.
I understand that sometimes it is difficult to get my attention. My name sounds like a lot of different words (please, peas, cheese, elise, ease etc), and it's easy for me to get lost in a book, a song, or a conversation. Sometimes yelling my name is not enough, but please, please, please never ever ever touch my shoulder. The result is often comical enough that my brother does it on purpose. If it's a hearty tap, or something solid, I will simply turn around, but if it's a half-assed slight brush of a few fingers, especially they touch my actual skin, I jump so badly that it's not only me that notices. Occasionally, if I'm distracted enough, I'll scream or accidentally elbow the victim in the gut. Try it, I dare you. I hate the way an unexpected light touch feels like a bug crawling up my neck or across my arm, and I hate the way I'm not quite sure if it's there.
ReplyDeleteWhen is it appropriate to correct people on their poor use of grammar? Some people say never. I say do it sparingly. It's most justifiable to correct people on their grammar when they are overcompensating in an attempt to show how cultured they are. Anyone who says "octopi," for instance, is asking for it. "You're sick? I feel badly." Well, thank you for telling me that you suck at feeling. "If you're interested, please send an email to Jane Doe or I." Yep, just send that email to I.
ReplyDeleteI'm not prone to correcting people who make mistakes. I wouldn't want other people to correct me all the time when I make mistakes. However, when a person tries so hard to sound intelligent that the opposite result is achieved, I find it difficult to hold back. So please use the correct plural form of the Greek word octopus. We all know it's octopodes. You could also just say octopuses because this is English for cryin' out loud.
"Dude, stop taking my clothes" is the number one phrase you can hear me say to my brother at almost any point in our co-existence. I mean, is it really that hard for him to just ask? To just mutter those simple 14 words (fifteen if you don't count the hyphen), "Yo man, my clothes are all in the laundry, can I borrow a t-shirt?" Or perhaps its a pair of SmartWool socks (to keep his feet warm) that he's jonesing for. "Dude, I could really use a pair of those wool socks you've got, it's 30 degrees outside!" Man, all you gotta do is ask. I don't care about the sweatpants, or the shorts for gym class, or the nike midcalfs for lax practice. I just want you to be a mensch and acknowledge that you are requesting something that's not yours, kapeesh? Kapeesh.
ReplyDeleteEvery morning when I wake up I tend to wake up groggy and grumpy and just flogged down with phlegm and an aura of screw-off-sir-talking-is-for-the-socialites. And then miraculously I wash it all away in the shower as if my morning bitterness was simply a layer of grime accumulated overnight. I'm sure some of you reading that currently did not enjoy yourselves to read that. I don't care. I'm also currently writing this at the time of night where I don't care, if that wasn't evident just now. There are times of the day where I just plunge into infinite pessimism. Some of you out there look at me and probably think "Oh look it's James! The spastic one! He's always looking off into the distance, not a care in the world, not a ship out in the storm!" well sorry but no that isn't me. I won't always clock into work a happy person who want's everything to be a win-win situation, sometimes I want you to die. Sorry reader, not you exactly but everyone else but you.
ReplyDeleteI don't enjoy those people who are always happy and trying to cram some love-and-peace doctrine down your throat. How are you always happy? I respect your views but why do you got to make me feel the same way? Why are you mad at me for being me? Come on people isn't that an irony? I understand what you're saying is good, maybe even morally justified if that's your character, but that's not my character. I'm not about loving everyone, and I'm not about to start with you. Sorry reader, specifically I refer to my object of complaint mentioned several sentences before this.
I am driving to school, passing the hardware store around 7:45. After three years of making the daily commute, I know this means we have plenty of time, that I can relax and maybe even still get a “legal” parking spot. My sister is riding shotgun, and she knows too. We're set. As I peel away from the stop sign, I make a gentle right, and thats when it happens. Without a word, my sister squeezes the coat hanger above her seat as if we were in the last chopper out of Saigon, as if she might fly out the window if she grabbed with a little less force. My grip on the steering wheel involuntarily tightens. It is beyond annoying: its offensive to my sensibilities. However, I take a few in-through-the-nose-out-through-the-mouth breaths and continue driving without utterance. I am now approaching a stop light, and my eyes are doing double time trying to simultaneously watch her and the road. I slow down gently, almost sarcastically so, and analyze her reaction. To my chagrin, her body flies forward, lurching towards the dashboard, her head coming within inches of it, as usual. It always amazes me how she comes so close to hitting her head each morning but has yet to actually complete the motion once. As we pull away from the stoplight, she braces herself like Buzz Aldrin pulling away from Florida. We make our down the rest of the morning path to school, and my turns become slower, gentler, slower, gentler until by the time we're turning in front of Emery I'm holding up traffic. No matter, same result. I get my nerve up to say something everyday, thinking that she must be doing it intentionally. Everyday before I can though, she hops out of the car and says “Thanks for the ride!” and I have to just let it be. This might even be the most irksome part.
ReplyDelete