Crushed by Candy

When they inevitably ask me what finally caused me to crack and fly into a murderous rampage, it may very well be Candy Crush level 267.  You may ask yourself “Self, why would someone so brilliant and handsome submit himself to such sweet torture?”  An excellent question!  But this scenario is far from unique.  A cursory review of my life choices reveals that I must have a penchant for colossal amounts of self-inflicted frustration.  Still, failing repeatedly to reach an arbitrary goal by sliding around animated candies is infinitely less frustrating than being in a relationship.  For me anyway.  Cheaper too.

Dear Showtime: when you don’t allow me to skip/fast forward through the trailers you place at the beginning of my Netflix DVDs, the only things I associate with these programs are frustration, anger and broken remote controls. I will however continue to watch Dexter.

I’m longing for the day that we evolve our thinking/attitudes to the point of true color blindness. That way we can recklessly sling insults at each other, regardless of color, without necessarily being labeled a racist. Call me a jerk, just don’t call me a racist jerk.