A RAVE!

... as in a rant and a rave. No parties here. It seems to be in the air, this venerable spring cleaning for the soul. I am about at whits end, the end of my rope, it's the last straw, ain't taking it not one more again ...

Are you so well endowed that you can tuck your dick between your legs and touch your asshole? Are you? Nice. Then go fuck yourself.

• That micromanaging prick at work who isn't my boss and insists on emailing me about how I spend my time, all the while admitting he has NO idea what I do every day, needs to back the fuck up. I mean, aren't you the one saying you don't know what I do? Right. That means, you don't know how I spend my fucking time. And that letter you wrote to the board of directors, naming me? Oh, how I wish I could ball it up and gag the fuck out you with it. What kind of nonsense is this - do you really have nothing else to do? Blog world can fucking tell you I've been blogging MUCH MUCH less than ever before, and it's a function of all the damn time I'm giving this job. So, back the fuck up before the boiling Rican blood within me insists on spilling yours!
• What's with agreeing to meet for a booty call and then deciding against it and not fucking telling me? I mean, the whole point of a booty call is that there are no strings attached. And when I call you on it, your explanation is that you want more than I'm giving? Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? Nigga, you didn't even have my number programmed into your phone and had NO idea who I was. An hour later, I'm not giving enough? Next time you want more from a man, ask him out - don't offer to help him so he doesn't have to jerk off alone. The latter does NOT convey your desire for some sort of committment. And don't fucking tell me that you really enjoyed my company last time and that you were waiting on me to call YOU. If you're not a go-getter, I'm a get to gettin' ... it's really pretty simple.
• Dear dude on the train petting the seeing eye dog: You're not supposed to pet seeing eye dogs. They're working. And in case you're wondering why the dog's owner didn't say anything, it's because she didn't fucking SEE you - not because it was ok. Seriously, it's NOT ok. Ever. Never, ever pet a seeing eye dog.
• Dear dude who texted me "I'm amazing." When I tell you that you became less attractive when you texted me that, don't argue with me. I don't care if you think that was supposed to make you more attractive, *I* get to decide what I find attractive and I'm telling you that's not it. And don't come at me with some flowery 5-text explanation about how God wants us to be positive and about how we determine how other people see us. I've read your stuff, and I'm far better at putting you in your place by putting shit into words. You crossed the confidence line into cocky and it's not cute, no matter what you say. We can talk this thing to death, but you became ugly to me today. Y YA.

I'm pretty fed up, folks. And as the weather here in Chicago warms, my heart is getting colder. I think I've accepted enough bullshit for 2009. Hereto forward, I'm dishing it out. Come fuck with me - I dare you.

And I ESPECIALLY extend that invitation to the jackhole who is divorcing my lovely, delightful friend. Please - I implore you ... fuck with me.