Fuck Rhode Island.

You know, I’m a fairly easy-going girl. I like most things, and will at least try to like most things. But when I hate something, I hate with the fire of a thousand suns.

And I hate Rhode Island.

Basically, every aspect of Rhode Island, and everyone who lives in it, sucks. I regret that I feel this way, since my state shares a border with crummy RI, and I must traverse this tiny, insignificant state whenever I go visit my Mom. I had to drive through it today on my way to Washington, DC for July 4th. Every minute was horrible. HORRIBLE!

Perhaps I should pinpoint the reasons why I hate Rhode Island so much:

1) I left Massachusetts today and as I crossed the border into Rhode Island, it started pouring rain. And not just regular “pouring rain,” it was dumping buckets so hard I couldn’t see in front of me. So there I was, travelling down I-95, the odometer barely creeping up to 30 mph, hazards blinking, straining to see the road signs, yelling “HOLY FUCK” at constant intervals. This went on for half an hour. Needless to say, it wasn’t pretty. FUCK RHODE ISLAND and its crappy weather.

2) Rhode Islanders drive like douchebags. Now, if any of you aren’t from the Northeast, you probably think we’re alldouchebags when we’re behind the wheel of a car. Not true. A “Masshole” is very different from a stupid Rhode Islander. A Masshole thinks his agenda is the most important agenda of everyone on the highway, and will make you feel like an idiot for delaying his arrival to meet his friend at Dunkin’ Donuts, or wherever the fuck he’s going, by speeding past you and maybe cutting you off. A stupid Rhode Islander simply can’t drive — first they tailgate endlessly, then operate their vehicles like they’re having epileptic seizures, and scare the shit out of you. Why, Rhode Islanders? Why can’t you just back the fuck off and chill the fuck out? Because you suck. So FUCK RHODE ISLAND and its crappy drivers.

3) I needed to take a bathroom break, and I was right near Warwick, RI. Not thinking anything of it, I exited the highway and found the nearest fast food joint, used the facilities, and expected to jump right back on the highway. Nope. Wouldn’t you expect the southbound entrance to I-95 to be near where you got off the highway originally? I sure would. But apparently no one in the great state of Rhode Island got that memo. They make you drive all through their crappy town, get stuck at stoplights, and tailgated by their stupid residents, and twenty minutes later you finally stumble upon the highway, miles and miles away from where you got off. Why?? It makes absolutely no sense to me. So FUCK RHODE ISLAND and its illogical highway construction.

Hmm, I’m on a roll here! Well, I am done with reasons why I hate Rhode Island for now, but there are other things I hate:

1) I hate people who go the speed limit in the passing lane [also called the fast lane, or left lane]. It’s called the “passing” lane for a reason — you should be passing the cars to the right of you, not the other way around. Assholes.

2) I hate people who brake on the highway. If you have to brake because the person in front of you slowed down, that means you’re too close. Back the fuck off. Douchebags.

3) I hate New Jersey. Actually, for many of the same reasons I hate Rhode Island. The one redeeming factor is the Jersey Turnpike — like a not-quite-drunk-enough guy screwing an ugly chick, I can get in and out fast.

4) I hate clowns. They creep the shit out of me.

All this hating has made me tired. [Yawn] Good night!

Drunken Ramblings.

I heard the siren in the distance from the living room of my apartment, and also from the other end of the phone. I called Sunrise Chinese for sesame chicken and crab rangoons. Apparently the restaurant is closer than I imagined, if we are hearing the same emergency sounds. Sipping my third glass of wine, surrounded by jazz, the smell of summer rain and candlelight, I sat alone. Opening Microsoft Word, I thought, ‘If I’m going to make a baby, I better get to fucking.’ That’s an analogy, for sure [not mine, but I have stolen it] – the baby is a book. Or even in the more present tense, just a story. Time to get fuck—I mean, writing.

Sometimes taking stock of one’s life is crucial.

There’s a centerpiece of candles and rocks on a metal tray that adorns the middle of my bar table. I never allowed my ex to light the candles – I always wanted them to look pristine, untouched, perfect. Now, in my semi-drunken state, I want to burn those fuckers. Maybe for light, sure. Maybe for something else. Maybe just to burn something.

Guess I am over my anti-pyromaniac stage from the other day.

He messaged me last night. Don’t know why. I think he might want to be friends, although when we had lunch before he left for Arizona for the summer I informed him that I wasn’t really interested in being his friend, and was unsure if I’d ever see him again. “But we live in the same city,” he said. “Are you going to delete my number?” Trapped, I said no, although I secretly knew I would probably not answer if he called. That’s a big “if.” He barely paid attention to me when we lived together. What would make me believe he’d actually want to keep in touch? Well, besides the obvious – that’s he’s a fucking moron douchebag and obviously doesn’t know shit about shit.

This has gotten really random. Happens with wine in my bloodstream. And Chinese food. Sesame chicken = truth serum.

I have so much to write about. I see everything. My life is a collection of hilarious, heartbreaking, wonderful stories.

Maybe one day all these tiny pieces and particles of stories will form a big picture, like a jigsaw puzzle. I’ll just keep picking up the pieces I find every day, put them in my pocket, and try to make them fit.

I just hope at the end that the puzzle pieces come together and don’t look a mess, like some insane clown eating a puppy.

That was over the line.