One thing that bothers me about Netflix is that they won’t let you let go of your past. The only thing I’m allowed to do to my ex-boyfriend’s (of 3.5 years ago) queue, which was connected to my account while we lived together, is look at it. I can’t remove anything from it. I can’t delete him as a user. I just have to sit there and stare at his inactive list of movies, grayed-out and awaiting a shipment that will never come. I have to endure the constant error message that I will have to “speak with the account owner” if I want to make any changes to this user’s queue. Netflix refuses to acknowledge the possibility that I could be the account owner, looking at the queue of one of my account users, and trying to get the fuck rid of it for good.
How do you explain to a current boyfriend that your ex-boyfriend’s movies are still in your Netflix account? With his NAME at the top? It’s obscene, this last bit of someone else’s life that refuses to be removed from yours. I feel like I have some kind of cyst on my pancreas that modern medicine can’t reach, not even with lasers made by Jesus.
“Oh, ignore him, bunnyface. And ignore his movie choices. I never would have watched that stupid remake of King Kong with him. Or that horrible movie with Clive Owen and Jennifer Aniston. Shh…there there. Ignore him and he’ll go away.”
Another thing that bothers me is that I don’t understand why the toilet in the women’s bathroom on this floor has to be auto-flush. And why it has to be cranked up to the highest flush power, and the most sensitive motion detection. When you sit down to pee, you can’t move one inch, or the demon in the toilet will explode and spray water all over you. When you stand up, you’ve got to run out the door as fast as your pants-around-your-ankles legs will carry you, because the spray reaches all around the stall, spattering walls, seat, and your clothes. And as the stall door swings on its hinge, it sets off the flush at least two more times, causing everyone walking by to wonder just what the hell you’re trying to flush.
I don’t understand why the Ladies’ Only Couture and Luxury Goods Marketing Club thinks it’s appropriate to advertise their club meetings on the back of the stall door, now that we’re on the subject. Luxury goods, indeed. Now you can look at a low resolution image of a Fendi purse while you take a Jamie Lee Curtis, ladies.
I also don’t understand why so many business school students do not know how to write a check that will cash. Or why so many of them pretend to be reading the library’s copy of The New York Times, then shove it under their leather folios and walk out the door all quick and crazy like they’re giving out free tits made of hamburger meat outside. Really? Stealing newspapers? These are the douchebags who will be sticking their dicks in American finance pretty soon. Every time one of them does it, I want to lean out the door and scream “GO AHEAD! WE’VE GOT FULL TEXT ACCESS, MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRR!”
Why is the Dane Cook hairstyle still so popular with guys who are trying to look professional? It’s like a foot tall, asshole. I noticed that you bothered to run a comb straight up through all of the hair on the top of your head, but you didn’t bother to bring a fucking pen NOR a single piece of paper to your JOB INTERVIEW. Which is why you’re standing at my desk, whining like a three year old who’s wanted nothing his whole life but a piece of paper from my printer.