You're Making Me Hate You Read Online Free PDF Page B

particular tangent. Oh no: this self-important opera plays itself out at all hours. You see it everywhere. I could do a dissertation on coffee shops
alone
. You know that feeling? I walked into a Starbucks the other day and, as usual—with my sunglasses on so people didn’t notice me staring—I studied the various customers around me from my vantage point in line. Starbucks never lets me down. Free Wi-Fi and caffeine bring out the inner dipshit just as strongly as Jack Daniels and Grey Goose. Tables are filled to bursting with writers, pumping out script after script that most likely will never be committed to film. If they’re not punching up scenes, they are working on their manuscripts in hopes that a publishing house
really
has a division dedicated to fan fiction involving
Harry Potter
, Superman, and a multisexual duck with several sets of genitalia. As flattered as I was to receive that particular story, I would be remiss if I didn’t say I was uncomfortable passing it on to people who trust my judgment.
    One day, while waiting to order my usual mix of java and Yeah Dawg, there was a woman jogging in place, fresh from her morning run—or at least that’s what she wanted us to think—talking rather loudly into her headset Bluetooth device at a colleague she obviously had seniority over. The conversation was long-winded, innocuous, and holding up the line: she was actually doing this at the counter while ignoring the “coffee barista” who was trying to take her order. The lady wasn’t even looking at him; she was just barking into her NSYNC microphone: “No,
no
, NO! You can’t
do
that! There’s obviously been a misunderstanding on
their
part!” I couldn’t take it anymore and leaned behind her, essentially cutting her in line. Now I deplore queuebarging as much as the next dude, but I was in a hurry and didn’t want to stand there waiting for the Queen of Douche to place her order, which was most likely going to be some sort of soy-smoothie-berry-green tea concoction that, in my eyes, honestly has no place in a coffee shop. As I did so, she suddenly came to life. “Hey—hold on a second, Martha. Hey! I was next in line!”
    I calmly looked her in the face and said, “Get off your phone then and make your order.”
    She replied with, “You can’t talk to me like that!”
    To which I responded with, “If you’re on your phone, then you’re not in line. Sorry.”
    And the barista agreed with me. Her Majesty the Bitch left in a huff, jogging all the way.
    That is just one example of a Taylor Trigger: self-righteous indignation. When people suffer under the illusion that their time and attention is more important than everyone else’s, no matter how mundane the occasion may be, I snap like a piece of dried-up driftwood, waiting to be set fire at the pyre. Some might think that, given my station in the world and what I do for a living, I would have those very same impulses to imply that my fecal contributions have no malodorous air. Guess what, fuckers? My shit does indeed stink, and even though I might have been an insufferable cunt at times in my youth, I make a concentrated effort to avoid that sort of behavior at all costs. I may be an asshole, but I am no ball bag.
    At least I hope not anyway.
    Getting back to the bull pucky, idiocy is tragically not relegated to the anal annals of the worldwide coffee shops. The malls of America certainly conjure up some serious reasoning for government-enforced sterilization. The funny thing is that presently there are three different
kinds
of mall in the world.When I was growing up, there was just the local mall: each side of town had its own, and they were pretty much just a representation of the people who lived there. So basically malls were a great way to get a feel for what that side of town had to offer—the poor side, the blue-collar side, the rich side, and so forth. However, businesses evolve right alongside the animals and plants that are the