Sublime

I call these people human spam. They’re everywhere, and they exist in every profession. They don’t want to pay their dues, they want their piece right here, right now. They don’t want to listen to your ideas; they want to tell you theirs. They don’t want to go to shows, but they thrust flyers at you on the sidewalk and scream at you to come to

“If you run into an asshole in the morning, you ran into an asshole. If you run into assholes all day, you’re the asshole.”

“Maybe Mom won’t notice. Maybe if I tug my shirt again she won’t notice; maybe if I hold my breath for ten seconds she won’t notice,” says my OCD voice, formerly known as my Still Small Voice, but which I’ve since accepted as the pounding voice of mental illness. It’s more sporadic than it used to be, and almost exclusively related to food and my

I just couldn’t relent. In my younger days, I had a horrible habit—back to those habits—of needing to explain to stupid people just how stupid they were. I’ve since learned that the best way to deal with stupid people is not to have them anywhere near your company and, if possible, not even in your life!