This is a Public Service Announcement

Hello, lovely people who have so lovingly clicked on a link from theSprout, CLIC, StumbleUpon or any other subterranean patch of online landscape. If you've come from the first two aforementioned sites, then in an effort to not have you read the exact same article which has just been published on them, I've transferred my  Humanity Annoys Me posts from my Tumblr account - so as to deliver some fresh controversy to you. Aren't you lucky.

So, enjoy! And thanks for visiting. I would say I love you all. But I don't know you. So, instead I'll say: you're swell, take care. Which is coincidentally a phrase many a drunken one-night stand has uttered to me before pushing me out the front door.

Yeah and follow me on Twitter for more condensed misanthropy HERE

Also, if you scroll down, on the right hand column I've divided my posts into categories so you can choose what you read as opposed to me thrusting my thoughts at you in chronological order. If there's a topic there you don't see please feel free to e-mail me a request. My contact deets can be found in the About section - top right. 

Sam

Humanity Annoys Me - Week Ending 19/11/10

I'm in one of my black moods today. This doesn't mean I'm harbouring suicidal thoughts, I simply feel varying degrees of annoyance at what humanity is doing and/or saying.

                     

Bullet points are the order of the day.

• I don't understand why people direct questions about a general topic, to which they want a specific answer to via social networking. They could just as easily Google what they're trying to find the answer to, instead of waiting for a reply. While I concede that neither source is particularly credible, I'd choose Google over any of my acquaintances' so-called knowledge. I'm sorry, but it's true. 

• I have a hard time looking at sentences that read like, "your pritty cute to", which is what I was met with this morning in my online dating inbox. I don't realistically think I'm going to meet anyone online with whom I would start a relationship with, but I enjoy conversing with people and this saddened me. (And anyone who attempts to judge me based on this confession should take a long hard look at themselves. How do you meet people? Spending too much money on Vodka and throwing it up all over them/yourself? Yes, thought so).

• Vegetarians are offending me, (as usual), with their self-satisfied fan pages they persistently affiliate themselves with. I encountered one which instructs people on how to become more environmentally-friendly. Here's a thought, that electricity you're using to assert your smugness to everyone else in the developed world has contributed to your carbon footprint. Why don't you stop using electricity altogether? Stop being so selfish. And while you're at it, stop using public services/transport, your own transport, living in buildings, eating and drinking, wearing clothes and doing anything which involves using gas, oil or coal. At least then you'd have made a start.

Also, I'm aware people are often annoyed by me. And I'm glad. Because the amount of contempt I have for most people doesn't feel quite so acute, when I realise that I impact just as negatively on their day as they do on mine.

Humanity Annoys Me - Week Ending 12/11/10

Oh hi, how are you? Yeah I don't really care, I was just being polite. But now that you ask how I am, well, let me tell you....

Public Displays of Awareness

• I'm not averse to the sentiment which comes with romance and love as a whole. Really I'm not. In fact, personally, I rather quite enjoy it. But I've said it once, and I'll say it again, this perpetual public display of awareness is bordering on insane behaviour. You're not declaring your love, you're declaring your insecurity and territorial obsessiveness. The whole point of being in a relationship with someone is the fact that they are available to you in private, when it's just the two of you. Dial their phone number, write a text message, type one to their inbox, tweet a direct message, instant message, send a carrier pigeon. The possibilities are endless. But please, stop making it public. Your love can exist without other people being privy to it. Really, it can.

Sentences are greater than symbols

• > is a popular maths symbol which has leaped out of Key Stage 3 textbooks and become an overused aphorism which is beginning to wear on me. I've used it a few times to illustrate a point, sure. But it has the originality shelf life of dairy and it curdled long ago. It's wonderful that you have an opinion, really it is, a lot of people don't have any. But why stop there? Try backing your opinion up with an argument. Or if it's too challenging, please just write greater than instead. Did you know that's what it meant? Sure you did.

The iPhone Locator App

• OK, let me just clear this up once and for all. I don't care what location you happen to be at. I don't care who you're there with. I don't care that you were there, but are no longer there and are now somewhere else equally more generic. Seriously, they're always generic places which is usually a Nandos or a Wetherspoon. It baffles me why people would want to make it known to other people how dull and mundane their choices of venues are. And if you persist with notifying me of your exact whereabouts via GPS, I will use this information and wait for you in the conveniently located alley behind it. So become more interesting or be silent. It's up to you.

Nice Guys Finish Somewhere In The Middle

Everyone is familiar with the aphorism, "nice guys finish last". It's become as ubiquitous a concept in the dating game as the concept of dating itself. We all have friends who we consider to be the quintessential decent guy, (in fact I have a few), and we all agree that they shouldn't still be single. Yet, despite their keenness to attract a long-term girlfriend, that's exactly what they are. Which is endlessly frustrating to them, because they're of the opinion, (like everyone else), that single women are desperately yearning for a special man in their lives. I mean, of course they are. Right?

Well...yes. There are of course, varying degrees of desperation, depending on the individual. (I, for instance, am not explicitly looking for a boyfriend, but am not averse to being found - so yes, pretty desperate). But allow me to shine a clarifying beam of truth into the dark recesses of your understanding of women: being a guy with amiable qualities doesn't automatically make you boyfriend material. Women don't want to be treated like your grandmother. They also don't want to feel as though you're only interested in entering into a relationship with them because they meet a basic criterion, i.e they're single, straight and live nearby. They want to feel as though you've chosen them based on individual merit. Complex isn't it?

This isn't to say that amiable qualities can't be endearing. Of course they can. The trouble is words such as nice and amiable harbour both attractive and unattractive qualities. The attractive are that of caring, respectful, committed and virtuous. With the unattractive being boring, lacking in confidence and essentially a door-mat. So, when faced with the prospect of a man who is nice but unsure of himself, and a man who is confident and assertive, yet lacking in any qualities that a loving relationship can be built on, women will choose the latter. Or the bad boy, as he's often referred to.

Yes, confidence really is that attractive a quality to women. Even if it is accompanied by, selfishness, an aversion to fidelity and arrogance. Women don't take pleasure in experiencing any of these qualities, but they often feel it's a small price to pay for the sexy appeal of a man who is self-assured and assertive.

Here's the key: women don't want a man who is too nice. Someone who encompasses a little of both is a far more attractive prospect. We'll call him, Mr. not-so-nice. A man who knows he's a catch and isn't afraid of rejection, but who doesn't objectify a woman and isn't conceited enough to assume she will respond to his advances because it's worked for him before. I'm just as likely to reject the affections of an unassertive nice guy, as I am to ignore the arrogant presumptions of a bad boy.

A popular misconception though, is that women enjoy being treated poorly. I can't stress how vehemently untrue this is. When it comes to affairs of the heart, there's a difference between liking a person's behaviour and tolerating that behaviour. The treat them mean to keep them keen philosophy only works to an extent. It shouldn't be abused to justify hurtful actions. Instead, it should be used as a precursor. You see, women, as with men, enjoy feeling a sense of achievement. Make room for her in your life by all means, but still show her that you actually have one, i.e. commitments and responsibilities. It's important to keep a woman on her toes and not to be constantly available to her.

Because even though, women are more successful, intelligent and independent than ever before, their emotional needs are still the same. They don't need to be protected, or depend on someone else. But they do want a man who can offer these things, which they can then rely on - should they ever need to. 

Over the course of my adult dating life, I've experienced both sides of the equation. I've been both the enabler of bad behaviour and the callous objector - with each being equally unfulfilling. I've tolerated having no contact for weeks, being lied to, being cheated on and being stood up. Not because I took any pleasure in it, but rather I was holding on to the idea, that if I kept tolerating it the person in question would soon grow to reciprocate my infatuation with them. Of course they never did, and eventually I either had enough or was dumped for being so uninteresting to them. Which was a good thing, because it taught me to respect myself and stop pursuing people who weren't prepared to treat me the way I deserved to be treated.

(NB If you're a man reading this, gleefully thinking you've found a loophole and you'll just find a woman who will tolerate your appalling behaviour, because it appears to work for a while - then you might want to consider the fact that by not wanting to make someone happy, you're yet to discover what makes yourself happy. So, I suggest you concentrate on that first, before you attempt to pursue a mature relationship with a woman).

And as a semi-reformed Ice Queen, I've also doled out my fair share of hurtful behaviour. I knew instantly what behaviour I could get away with and what I couldn't. If I ever met a nice guy, sure, I took advantage of their patience and understanding. And like a little puppy who has been spitefully rapped on the nose, after I displayed a hint of remorseful kindness, they were all too willing to come back for more. Because, even though I wasn't interested in them romantically, they were a significant ego boost for when I was feeling lonely, depressed or generally bored. (Usually because I was being kept waiting for a response from a bad boy I was relentlessly hounding at the time).

But, sometimes it doesn't matter what you do - she's just not going to be attracted to you in that way and will exile you to her safe place: the friendship zone. Sure, it might seem as though you're making head way; she refers to you as, "sweetie", sometimes replies to your messages at lightning speed and seeks you out for advice. But, face it, you've got predictable, vulnerable and eager-to-please written all over you. She's never going to regard you as that person who will be strong and take charge of a situation.  Sure, when she pulls that cute expression with those big innocent eyes, you'd swear butter wouldn't melt behind that perfectly formed pout. But she knows she can have you, and therefore doesn't want you. So, stop wasting your time fixated on winning over this girl, because that's exactly what it is: time wasted.

 

Here are a few helpful hints, which the nice guy should consider the relationship weapons of mass destruction.

She says:

• You're SUCH a nice guy."

Translation: I'm never going to have sex with you. Not even out of pity. Maybe if I'm horny or depressed. But probably not even then.

• "I wish I could find someone who understands me the way you do."

Translation: I'm looking for a guy who is going to have sex with me and never have anything to do with me ever again.

• "You're going to make some girl very happy one day."

Translation: And she's going to be a less attractive un-funny watered down version of me. 

• "I feel like I can tell you anything."

Translation: And everything about all the men I'm actually interested in.

• "I just don't deserve you."

Translation: I just don't find you physically attractive.

• "I'm really nothing special." 

 Translation: I really am, I just don't want to be special to you. 

• "I've reached a time in my life where I want to focus on me and my career."

Translation: Please stop asking me out on dates, I'm trying to let you down gently here but you're making it damn near impossible.

And by she said, of course what I really mean is I've said. Yes, it's true. I really have said ALL of those things, at one time or another. 

But, don't get disheartened. You're a catch. Really, you are. Women do appreciate nice qualities. It's just sometimes, they don't believe it's real unless they're made to work a little for it first.

Fly Me To The Moon

Apparently Facebook is unveiling a revolutionary messaging service which is better than e-mail. I've read several articles from various news sources and a few opinion pieces about this new development, but am no closer to discovering just what on earth any of it even means. Couldn't these tech whizzes be inventing more constructive things which people actually want, instead of boxing us further into a social networking corner which we'll never leave?

Such as making broadband faster, so that videos don't take an insubordinate amount of time to buffer. That's what people really want. Or maybe put some pressure on Megavideo to extend the allocated 72 minutes of free streaming time to encompass the length of an actual film. What do you mean I need to wait a 54 minute period to watch the end of it? Why? That's insane. What am I going to do until then? I'll tell you what I'm going to do, I'm going to go Google the ending. Find the bit of the plot I was at on Wikipedia and READ the ending courtesy of user updated spoilers. "Screw you Megavideo", to quote a popular Facebook fan page.

Also, every futuristic Sci-Fi film I've ever seen have depicted airbourne automobiles. It's nearly 2011, I don't want a unified messaging service, I want flying cars. I don't necessarily need to own one myself, (I'm not even licensed to drive one on the ground), however just knowing that they're in existence and available on some kind of extortionate finance agreement would be far more newsworthy than all my online messages being in one convenient place. People don't even send me any messages. People do however like to take me places in cars. So, go touch a monolith and make it happen.

EsCABade

Recently I blogged about the perils that can often be involved when experiencing a seemingly mundane journey via public transport. In which I portrayed myself to be a hapless victim forced to eavesdrop on other people's ludicrous conversations. Of course what I didn't tell you is that I've had my fair share of outlandish behaviour when it comes to public transport. It mostly involves the fact that I vehemently refuse to cough up for the fare and take extreme measures in avoiding this legal requirement. In the past it's just been limited to trains, (which I think is perfectly acceptable), but recently I'm ashamed to admit, I entered new territory and added cabs to my shameful list of callous debauchery.

In my defence, it wasn't premeditated. Halfway through a journey home from a drunken escapade my cab buddy decided to get out and leave me with no contribution and so as I neared home I discovered that I didn't have a shred of cash on me. I panicked for a few moments, desperately trying to think of a plausible solution. And that's exactly what I did. Well, what seemed perfectly plausible to me at the time anyway. I decided that I would convincingly sound shocked and appalled at having no money as we neared the entrance to my close and venture the idea for the driver to come back the following day to collect the fare. Of course in those few moments of mulling over my options, the crazed penny pincher in me decided that I would thwart the drivers efforts to obtain the fare the next day by instructing him to go to the wrong house.

Believe me. This seemed like such ingenuity at the time. I believe I even stifled a few glee filled giggles, marveling at my plan. So anyway, he agreed to return the following day. Begrudgingly so. But he had no choice in the matter. So upon entering my estate, I proceeded to tell one clumsy lie after another in an attempt to calm my nerves. I claimed to live at number 11, but instead instructed him to stop outside a house bearing the number 19. He presented this fact to me, to which I replied very cleverly with, "yes that's what I meant." Accompanied with a hefty amount of nervous laughter.

So it was at this point I felt as though I wasn't really doing my best to legitimize the lie and proceeded to tell him my name was Sian. (Which is completely absurd as Sian isn't exactly dissimilar to my actual name), and as a further stroke of genius supplied him with a contact number, in case there were any problems. Half way through reiterating my phone number to him I realised of course there were going to be problems - he would be returning to a house which blatantly wasn't mine, so I panicked and tried to give him an incorrect number, only to then not give him enough digits. All in all, I don't think he was terribly convinced that anything I'd said was the truth.

Still, I bravely bade him good night, stepped out of the taxi and walked up the pathway of number 19 - where I do not live. (I cannot stress this enough). So, as I'm slowly getting closer to the front door, I can still hear the cab engine at a standstill and not reversing as I'd hoped. Shit. I calmly stopped mid-way and proceeded to make an epic show of, "looking for my keys", in order to kill some extra time in wondering just what in the hell I was going to do next. I did this for about a minute, which is a very long time to be making exasperated sounds and flailing your arms in the air, all the while surreptitiously looking over your shoulder to check if a suspicious cab driver is showing any signs of leaving. Which of course, he wasn't.

So I walked further down the drive way and stood in front of the back gate, which was a great big wooden mechanism, (presumably designed that way to keep people like me out), put my bag on top of a wheelie bin which stood adjacent to the side of the house and pretended to go through the contents of it further. I then took my phone out and pretended to be on it, wandering around the perimeter of the house, as if I was trying to reach someone who was inside to let me in. Still he's parked there with the engine running, gawping at me like an insane person. Because clearly he's the one who is mentally ill in this scenario. I retreated back to my position outside the gate and idly considered climbing over it into the back garden. I immediately aborted this plan when I took a closer look and discovered a sign warning, "beware of the dog". It was probably a fictional deterrent, but I didn't want to risk it.

Several minutes had gone by now and at this stage I sat down on the floor for a while behind number 19's Renault Megane, obstructing the cab drivers view of me, which was oddly relieving. Even though the ominous growl of the engine, still in the same spot where I'd gotten out, was a constant reminder that I would have to come out eventually. I contemplated climbing over Number 17's gate and curling up in a flower bed for a while, as that didn't have a guard dog sign on it. But then the driver would see me doing so and would know for certain that I didn't live in Number 19 then. Although I think he was beginning to cotton on to the fact that I blatantly didn't live there by now.

Feeling defeated, I started to put all of the contents back into my bag from the top of the wheelie bin, which I'd removed earlier in my, "key searching", efforts. I whipped my phone out and started talking. I don't know who it was supposed to be to, all I know is the person on the other end was incredibly funny, because I didn't stop laughing. At this point the cab driver had finally turned the engine off and was talking on his phone. I assume he was talking to a real person, unlike me who was essentially talking to nobody. He was probably rallying around his cab driving cronies to come and teach me a lesson, or worse; the Police. As soon as this thought entered my brain, my reaction was immediate. Within seconds I'd whipped my shoes off, thrown my phone into my bag and ran off at lightning speed, (or what certainly felt like it) in the opposite direction. Back to the entrance of the close, as the cab driver was facing the other way and so it would take more time for him to turn around if he decided to follow me. (I do possess some logic after all).

Of course he did follow me. But I had some distance on him. I can only imagine what this must have looked like. A girl erratically sprinting along a main road at 4.30am, being chased by a cab while trying to keep her shoes wedged under her arm and hold her dress up, which was doing little to stay where it should have been. I covered a couple of hundred yards in all and physically exhausted, chest heaving, I finally flung myself into a footpath which led back to my estate. Funnily enough once back inside the residential area I jogged past number 19. Ah, my old friend. And then proceeded to run through various front gardens, not wanting to venture too close to the roadside, just in case the cab driver suddenly appeared and tried to run me over. Which in all fairness, I wouldn't blame him for attempting.

Suffice to say, I got home unscathed but drastically short of breath. The next day I didn't so much as go near a window, just in case I was spotted. To my horror though, I discovered that in all the confusion I'd misplaced my purse. To this day, I'm not sure where it's gone. I could put it to a poll. Either it's on number 19's wheelie bin. On the roadside. Or, sickeningly enough, still in the taxi? In which case, calling and asking for it back would just be bad form. Luckily the address on my drivers licence isn't my current one. But I guess he knows my name isn't Sian now. Damn, and I'd almost got away with it.

National Novel Writing Month

Apparently it's  National Novel Writing Month. So in lieu of any actual facial hair in which to lovingly craft a suitable 'tache for Movember, I shall be attempting to write a 50,000 word novel in just 30 days, throughout this lovely month of November.

If it does so well as to actually get published, I shall consider sitting through a televised charity appeal and not flicking over.