The Pope has decreed 7 new deadly sins! You know, I think we need to take care of our environment. I am all for putting drug dealers and pedophiles behind bars. I think the wealthy should help those less fortunate than themselves. But to make these things “deadly sins“? Really? I have to give them props though–they added to a 1,400-year-old list, which, for the Catholic church, is moving pretty quickly.
London is testing an idea to put padding around lampposts because people keep running into them while texting on their cell phones. This is a prime example of how we should not protect people from their own stupidity. If you aren’t going to watch where you are going, then you deserve a bump on your head. What’s next? Baby gates at crosswalks?
The following 3 stories are about people killing babies. Please don’t read them if you’re especially sensitive to this sort of thing. I shouldn’t have read them myself. But seeing as I have, I cannot not comment now. Too often I find myself so frustrated with the level of cruelty that exists in the world. I don’t understand how people can do this, and especially to something so incredibly helpless.
I seriously want to kill the overactive sense of justice I have. Isn’t there a pill or something I could take for that?
And lastly, a rant:
I hate people who don’t think for themselves. If this is you, know that I hate you. Or, at the very least, do not respect you. A co-worker found out that I am a writer. This co-worker then made a joke about getting me to write their papers for school. Ha ha, funny funny.
A couple days later I got this email: “Hey, can I get some writing samples from you? I have to write a paper on setting corporate goals for this class and need some ideas.” I ignored it because, a.) I write fiction and none of my samples would have pertained to anything in their business class, and b.) I knew what they were really getting at and fuck that–I’m not writing your paper.
Yesterday the co-worker asked again for a writing sample.
Me: “They’re fiction. That’s what I write.”
Them: “Okay. Can I get something? I’ll just change some stuff around on it.”
[I stopped myself from picking up a stapler and chucking it at their head.] Me: “But I write fiction.”
Knowing it wasn’t what they wanted, I sent them a short story I’ve already had published.
Them: “What is this? I can’t use this for my paper.”
Me: “It’s a sample of my writing. I told you, I write fiction.”
Them: “I guess I’ll just have to write it myself.”
Me: “Well, it is your paper.”