No More Mister Nice Guy

A Mathematical Proof (with no Actual Math)

Given: 1) When someone’s being a jerk, everyone says they woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
2) My bed has four perpendicular sides.
3) I have been acting like a real jerk.
4) This never used to happen.



Prove: I have been robbed.


1. When someone is being a jerk, we say they woke up on the wrong side of the bed. (Given.)

2. I have been acting like a real jerk. (Given.)

3. Therefore, I am waking up on the wrong side of the bed.

4. My bed has four sides. (Given.)

5. I have tried waking up on all four sides of it but am still a jerk.

6. This never used to happen. (Given.)

7. Someone has replaced my original bed, which had right sides, with a bed that is identical, except that it has nothing but wrong sides.

QED, I have been robbed and obviously have also forgotten everything I knew about proofs.


The point is, somebody stole my bed, replaced it with a dud bed and the whole thing fills me with rage. Then again, everything fills me with rage lately. That’s the whole problem. I have little reason to be as grouchy as I’ve been for the month, but if I were to move into a garbage can on Sesame Street, even Oscar would be like, “Whoa. What’s her problem?”

If I were a cartoon character, I would be walking around with a thunderstorm over my head, using the lightning bolts from my personal cumulonimbus collection to turn the people I don’t want to talk to or look at or exist near into little piles of ash.

ACME explosives have nothing on me.

ACME explosives have nothing on me.

Some mornings, I wake up thinking that I’ve recovered — that I’ve finally found the right side of the bed. Then something small happens and clues me into the sad reality of my life now.

Subtle Hints that I Might Not Be in a Good Mood

1. Spending 70% of my walk to work mentally berating the guy ahead of me for walking too slowly and breathing too loudly.

2. Rolling my eyes at my cat.

3. Yelling at my french toast for screwing up.

4. Catching myself thinking, “Why are you speaking to me?” whenever anyone speaks to me.

5. Grinding my teeth every time I get a text message or phone call.

6. Typing mean comments about people’s babies on their Facebook photos and then daring myself to hit enter.

I’m no stranger to anger. Besides being a dyed-in-the-wool misanthrope and charmingly hypoglycemic, I’m also an emotionally stunted person of Scots-Irish descent. They tell me we’re a prickly people.


A few of us, anyway.


A little bit of anger is my constant companion, but usually if I lose my temper, it flares and then it’s over and I’m fine. This drawn-out, simmering rage is different. I don’t like it, which is par for the course because it makes me dislike everything.

I’m trying to fix it, though.

This Might Help!

1. I tried writing down the things that were making me angry to get them out of my head. It might have worked, except now I have a physical reminder of everything that’s ticking me off.

2. I tried distracting myself with a funny movie. I probably shouldn’t have gone with Planes, Trains and Automobiles because I do not feel less angry. If anything, I feel more angry. Mostly at John Candy.

3. I tried exercising to release endorphins. I thought my hate fire could fuel a good run, but pretty soon I realized I was just chanting, “I hate running, I hate running” in my head to the beat of my sneakers.

4. Right now, I’m trying to make a conscious effort to change my attitude towards the world. Yesterday I saw a Neil Gaiman tweet about loving everyone, which seemed like something I could get on board with. Now I’m thinking the same terrible things about the guy ahead of me on the walk to work and my Facebook friends’ babies, but I follow it up with, “But god help me, I love ‘em.” See? Nicer. Kind of.

Damn you, Gaiman.

Damn you, Gaiman.

If I can’t get any of these strategies to work, I don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll just sit around waiting for the return of my normal bed with the nice sides.

In the meantime, I guess I’ll be here, writing about my g*******d feelings, watching this f*****g movie and trying to love a world full of b******s.

I’ll Follow You into the Dark

Not so long ago, my house contained two cats: Sir Winston Purrchill and Benito Meowssolini. I don’t know if it was nature, nurture, or the way my roommate and I named them after warring leaders, but they couldn’t have been more different.

Winston, who is shy and sort of weird about keeping things clean, spends most of his time hiding under large pieces of furniture, trying to eat people’s hair, and unraveling toilet paper rolls because he thinks it’s funny. If I had my way, that’s what I’d spend my days doing, too.

Benito, on the other hand, loved meeting new people, chatting up a storm, and was not at all concerned about the amount of time he spent rolling in dirt and drooling on himself. We took him in after I’d watched him prowl our alley for a year, but once he was inside, all he wanted was to be outside again. He’d sit in the window for hours, throwing his entire body into the glass if a bird, human or fellow cat happened to come by.

Like this, only somehow more cartoonish.

Like this, only somehow more cartoonish.

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I Don’t Know Why You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

I’m slowly starting to get a handle on how humans make small talk. (It turns out it’s with their mouths! Boy, was I doing it wrong.) I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been to two whole parties since I wrote that post on small talk skills and I only panicked and hid on the host’s basement stairs once.



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You’re So Nice and You’re So Smart

I wore a dress to work today. That’s not unusual — I like dresses and the way they cover my less work-appropriate bits. It wasn’t a new dress. I’ve worn it to work many times before, but for some reason today was different.

Maybe it’s because our office (actually the entire university where I work. Actually the entire state of Colorado.) falls closer to the casual side of the business casual spectrum. This dress is sort of a half-step up from that — maybe even verging on general business attire. It stands out a little in that sense.

Maybe it was because I usually wear it with a cardigan and now that I don’t sit next to an exterior wall, I can afford luxuries like going without a sweater and eating granola bars that haven’t frozen inside my purse.

I promise that this hasn't become a fashion blog. I'm getting to the point.

I promise this hasn’t become a fashion blog. I’m getting to the point.

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Don’t Stand So Close to Me

On Tuesday morning, I started to think that I might be coming down with something. By 2:30pm, I had to leave work because it felt like every bone in my body was made out of those weird Twizzlers with the gooey insides.

Every bone. Even the little ones in my ears.

Every bone. Even the little ones in my ears.

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