Dude, you’re a millionaire. Use the toilet.

Enough attention has already gone to this ridiculous story, so I’ll be brief. Nineteen year-olds occasionally do stupid things. (Ew, Right?) Sometimes they do stupid things on camera. While I would not have chosen to relieve myself in a mop bucket, I also think that this is probably the least fascinating non-news story I have heard in a while. (Let he who is without bathroom sin cast the first stone.)

Princess Smartypants.  In seven months of playing brain-training games on Lumosity, I went from being in the 20th percentile in my first month to the 98th percentile. In a crowd of 100 people in my age group, only two of them have higher scores than me. (Or two percent. Whatever, )

You’re racist? You’re fired.  Big Brother has not been relevant to me since Dr. Will won  the game back in the day. It is a show I will occasionally watch–if I can tolerate the houseguests. (Which I cannot, 97% of the time) Some of this year’s houseguests are the worst. Thanks to Gina-Marie and her “nigger-insurance” comment, and Aaryn’s (ugh. That spelling!) equal opportunity hatred of everyone, (particularly Helen, who is brilliant, and seems like a genuinely nice person, and Elissa who is winner Rachel Reilly’s sister, thus, hated by proxy) I cannot watch a full episode without feeling as though I have lost a bit of my soul. The worst thing about all of this is Aaryn’s annoying reaction when she was confronted by a fellow houseguest. Ugh. (Sidenote: Gina-Marie and Aaryn have both been sacked from their jobs, and spellcheck keeps trying to change Aaryn to ‘Aryan’. Mmm.Hm.)

I’m not perfect. Thank God! Perfection is exhausting. Perfect people cannot have any flaws. Perfect people cannot make mistakes. Perfect people cannot be wrong. For a person who strives for perfection, nothing he or she does is ever good enough. Nothing anyone does is ever good enough. I am going to concentrate on being excellent rather than perfect because I will never attain it in this lifetime. Perfection is for the birds. (And Jesus.)

I need to work on my delivery. My mother once told me that, if we were strangers, she would think that I was intimidating. When I asked her why, she replied, “It’s your demeanour. You always look as though you have no time for foolishness, and you are abrupt when speaking.” Mom and I both know that I am about as intimidating as a kitten, but the way I carry myself screams, “Mess with me, and you may get cut.” That said, I need to try to sound less snippy, and more pleasant. Today I was listening to a tribute to the wonderful Joni Mitchell, and in her new poem, ‘This Rain, This Rain’, this line stood out to me; “If I were nicer, less astute, Less compelled to spew the truth…”  

I’d be a lot nicer, but I would also be more reserved. (I’m an INFJ. I don’t need to be more reserved than I am today) Sometimes I cannot help but call things exactly as I see them. I learned a lot simply by speaking the truth out loud when others hesitated out of fear. When I lie, I lie about unimportant things. When I tell the truth to people, it’s like receiving a jackhammer to the skull. I may be abrupt and standoffish, but no one can say that they have no idea where I stand. (If they are unsure, they have not been paying attention)

This post is beginning to get a little “rambly”, so I’ll end it here.




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