Pet Peeves

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You may not see it from just looking at me or studying my mannerisms or even just hearing me speak. In fact, most of my closest friends don’t even realize that I hate everything; a burning hatred so internal that I feel like combusting on a daily basis. I would rather make a list of things I thoroughly enjoy, because such a list would be short and more concise. But despite the infinite pet peeves I have about everything and anything, I have strategically singled out the ones that sincerely get my blood boiling.

   

If I walk into class and there’s crumbs on my desk, I’ll walk right on out to my car and drive back home and try again tomorrow. For future reference, refrain from treating your surroundings like a pig sty and clean up your mess so I can avoid having an aneurysm. Furthermore, I absolutely adore the way my papers seep into a fresh puddle of condensation from a French Vanilla iced coffee that the girl prior to me so indulgently smothered upon my desk. Also, mistakes happen, but eraser shavings are the biggest mistakes to ever exist.

   

Being in performing ensembles, you’d think that every moment of making music together would be unforgettable. It’s hard to forget when my director tries to be funny when he’s not and all the childish woodwinds hysterically burst into nonsensical buffoonery like he’s a comedic genius. It’s hard to forget the dust adhered to your tuba when it’s plastered upon every item of clothing you own. Spit is even more unforgettable, especially when it builds up in the valves of my instrument and gurgles when I go to play. It’s truly hard to forget those half-brained orchestra goons attempting to play their instrument with no rosin on their bows. And of course, how could I forget that one time when I went to play my solo during the winter concert and the Bb key continued to stick just like it had during all those practices and all those times I told my director to get it fixed.

 

If you own a spam account, please stop. You’re not funny; you are an annoying piece of trash that believes cluttering people’s feed with close ups of your face suffices as comedy gold. Plus, stale memes are stale. If you have trouble processing irony (or just can’t), don’t try to bring old memes back from the dead. If you post food pictures on any outlet of social media, you are a disgrace and my hatred for you is at its peak. Keep your greasy looking food to yourself, thank you. I would not wish upon my worst enemies the displeasure of waking up to the ruckus of my father using the Ninja Blender at 5AM. Talk about an innovation in annoying atrocities. And finally, if I had a dollar for every time I was interrupted in the middle of saying something of actual importance, I would be a millionaire. Then, maybe I wouldn’t be so negative with a million dollars now, would I? Absolutely not, because I’d still complain about crumpled up hundred dollar bills.






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