You have to stop this. Please.
Not sorry.
On behalf of life and the universe, and often myself, I apologize or don't. Questions, comments to sorryornotblog@gmail.com.
May 3, 2012
April 30, 2012
GUY WHO JUST SPENT HIS LAST TWO GRAND ON MAKING HIS CAR LOOK EVEN MORE RIDICULOUS
Do you ever wonder why those child support payments are such a pain in the ass? Why you don’t have enough money to pay for your freezer to get fixed so you still don’t have ice for your generic brand Cola that you drink out of the same red plastic cup you’ve been saving for the last seven months?
It’s because you’d rather spend money on making your car look like it’s floating on neon.
I get it. You want to have nice things. It’s just…c’mon. It’s a car. You get in it, and it helps you get places. The degree to which you’ve upgraded your car seems pathological in nature. There is not one element of this car that has not been replaced with a flashier, chromier alternative. You need to get a handle on this shit.
I’m sorry buddy, your car is not your dick. If you’re not thinking that your dick is dumb and stupid, and your behavior with your car is overcompensating for that, then sorry as well. If your car is functioning as a dick-surrogate, I think there’s a serious issue to consider insofar as how you’ve attached sharp-looking spinny things to your dick.
April 24, 2012
GUY READING “HOW SUCCESSFUL PEOPLE THINK”
Just looking at you hurts. Before you even get to redefining how you “think” let’s start with some basics.
First thing: I’d skip the jumbo caramel ice blended next time. I’m certainly not the world’s leading authority on abstaining from overindulgence but please believe me when I say you don’t need it. Maybe just say no to the whip. Baby steps.
Second: no sandals. The only “successful” people who might be able to frequently get away with wearing sandals are professional surfers, and in that circumstance, I might argue that the definition of “successful” might need some further clarifying.
Third: chinstrap. Grow a moustache or shave it off. You don’t have the jawline for it.
Look, guy. Most successful people don’t have any better an idea how they got where they are other than “hard work” and “luck.” I’ll tell you what does not involve either one of those things: inhaling one thousand calories of sugar in this coffeeshop while absentmindedly skimming a book offering general platitudes on success which essentially amount to the “astrology of self-help,” insofar as the techniques that the book espouses are so general that it cannot be said that successful people don’t do those things. Astrology tells me that I’m a Scorpio so I’m passionate and stubborn; sometimes I am those things, so it’s difficult to prove astrology incorrect.
These are all buzzphrases from that book: “Act on Your Good Thoughts.” “Engage in Focused Thinking.” “Repeat the Process.” Well, yeah, that all sounds great, but any of those are as good at describing what successful people do as a fortune cookie is at describing your future: “Soon you will find great success.”
Sorry.
April 19, 2012
SUBCULTURES PREDICATED ON LOOKING WEIRD
I’ve never really understood subcultures that invest a lot of effort into achieving specific goals in terms of outlandish appearance. I get that most people, on some level, put some amount of effort into their appearance, but I’m not talking about groups like backpack rappers, high school jocks, or studious girls. Those are all groups that don’t exactly require a great deal of investment into looking the way it’s generally agreed that people identifying with that group should look. I am talking about liberty spikes and forty pounds of chains, Jersey Shore orange-skin Bloomin’ Onion-heads, furry neon rave vomit, or anything from Tokyo that makes reasonable people doubt the future of humanity. It all looks like so much work.
People that do this: if your idea is that the rest of us are just cogs in the machine, anally systematizing your own appearance doesn’t seem like the best way to make your point. We’re just slaves to “the man,” but you’re the guy who spends two hours every morning applying intricate “death-clown” makeup? Sorry if I don’t take my cues on societal theory from you, buddy.
“HYPOCRISY,” you say. “Mr. Sorry or Not, are just as guilty as hewing to a subculture’s proscribed appearance, what with your thick-rimmed glasses and jeans and potentially amusing t-shirt!”
My response: “You’re so right. Here’s why my way makes more sense: all I have to do is put on some glasses and jeans and a shirt. I’m done. Almost no effort at all! AND, I get to look like the best subculture of them all: functional members of society!”
“I don’t have to walk around all day looking like a total fucking idiot, wearing my ‘understanding’ of the fact that ‘normal people are squares and nobody really gets it’ like some merit badge you got for realizing the pointlessness of everything everyone does. You’re squeezing that knowledge up to your chest, wearing your stupid costume like some fucking teddy bear (using your costume as a shield or comfort,like a child’s teddy bear, and in some particular situations, you might actually be dressed as a teddy bear as well), but if you really want to get to the next level, forget the ridiculous exterior bullshit and just let everything sink deep, deep into your soul. You won’t need the costume anymore! Then, you can save some ‘getting ready’ time in the morning, not have to get weird looks at the grocery store, and still be able to look at the people around you and go, ‘What the fuck is everyone DOING?!’”
Maybe that’s not your reasoning. Maybe I’m overreacting (this is a thought that often occurs to me). Maybe you just genuinely think you look good this way. In that event, my question is this: “What the fuck is wrong with you.” (I guess since I didn’t use a question mark at the end of that question, it’s not really a question both in that I don’t really have an interest in knowing the answer, and in how it’s a statement saying that something’s wrong with you.)
At any rate, sorry you look stupid.
March 19, 2012
DOG THAT WILL NOT STOP BARKING
Dog. Okay.
There’s no other dog, or a burglar, or a tasty piece of human face you want to gnaw off its owner. But you’re a dumb animal, so I get that your overactive sensitivity to threats or the possibility of delicious face may be a little removed from my perception of reality. This brings me to my next point.
It’s been hours. You continue to perceive “something is there” and your crappy little brain continues to tell you that you need to bark at it. Why? Nothing has changed. Your barking has accomplished absolutely nothing. Empirical evidence suggests that you, and your endless icepick-stab-yapping, are useless.
I read once about a type of scientific study (called the “forced swim”) where “scientists” throw animals (let’s call ‘em “dogs” from now on) into a pool out of which it was impossible to climb. They let the dogs paddle to stay afloat, until the dogs could no longer continue swimming, and in that moment where the dogs would succumb to exhaustion and let themselves drown, the “scientists” (you see now why I’m using quotes) would extract the dog. They would let the dogs recover for a little bit. And then they’d throw ‘em back in. They’d do this over and over again, and they’d measure the amount of time it took a particular dog to stop trying to swim, which would serve as an indication of how “depressed” that particular dog was. Another way of contextualizing the results of this test was not that the dog was depressed, but that it had learned it didn’t matter whether it tried or not, because as soon as it stopped trying, it would be removed by the “scientists.”
The precise findings of this test don’t matter. What does matter to me right now is that in either situation, whether the dog is sad or smart (or both, I suppose), the dog learned something. I’m not talking about a dog learning a trick (yeah, duh), because when we do that, we’re makin’ it really easy on those stupid dog brains. The dog’s experience in training sounds like this: “DO THIS MEANINGLESS THING AND GET A TREAT.” No, I’m talking about a dog taking initiative, looking at its context, and drawing its own conclusions.
So, Dog. We know dogs can learn. You’re not changing anything with your barking. So, shut the fuck up.
Stop making me fantasize about you in a “forced swim” test with a Tantalus twist: every time you begin to drown, the water level drops, and you’re forced to keep swimming forever, your stubby, ugly, limbs weakly and eternally churning, just barely keeping you afloat. Sorry I’m not sorry.
March 14, 2012
THESE PEOPLE’S FRIEND RANDY
Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you? All these people can talk about is about how much they hate you, and now I hate you by extension.
This is proving to my own paranoia that it is possible for all your friends to get together behind your back and talk shit about how much you suck.
Fuck you, Randy. I’m not sorry.
March 8, 2012
GUY EXPLAINING HOW THE WORLD WORKS
Nope. I’m gonna show my hand upfront on this one. Not sorry. Definitely not sorry.
It’s a special type of arrogance that leads someone like you to talk to another person as if they don’t wake up and spend time in the same world as you do. To allow you to commit to that thing where you look over the top of your glasses like you’re incredulous that the another person could actually have believed whatever thing of which you’re disabusing them?
“The government? Really? You think the government cares?”
“Listen. Let me tell you about big pharma.”
“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that, but it’s not like that ever happens.”
With all your arguments defending whatever position you’re taking on what it is that makes everything happen ever, you’re definitely proving the way the world works, which is: a person goes through their life not really understanding what anything is, because that is life, an endless series of senseless events, and then assholes like you tell them how they’re stupid for not “getting it.”
Not sorry.
March 2, 2012
PARENTS WHO STILL GO OUT WHEN THEIR TODDLER HAS JUST DISCOVERED HOW LOUD HE CAN BE WITH HIS PIERCING BABY SCREAM
When you made this little piece of shit, you gave up your right to exist in public. He is a menace. It’s bad enough he’s a walking petri dish of bacteria and fecal matter and that he’s spreading it all Contagion-style, touching everything he can find with his useless, always damp baby hands, but for him to be constantly, constantly screaming—
I don’t believe in a higher power, but I would suck God’s dick if he sent a plague of locusts to eat you all alive. I’m definitely not sorry.
February 29, 2012
SAD MAN WEARING STUSSY
You wait for the bus, shoulders slumped, head down, curling into yourself against everything, like a human pill bug.
You’re also wearing Stussy. I’m trying to figure it out; is that the symptom or the disease? In other words, are you sad because you are wearing Stussy, or is the Stussy indicative of something even deeper? For instance: could this be the first time you’ve been outside in fifteen years? That’s why you’re wearing Stussy, a brand that literally not a single human being ever wears anymore? So is that why you’re sad? The world you once knew is gone forever, and there you sit, mourning its passing, reckoning with this new world?
If Stussy is your last cultural touchstone, you were probably a teenager that last time you were outside: skateboards and Nirvana and Oakleys and ska and summer camp and rebellion. Being a teenager then had some degree of credibility, but not as good as the eighties, what with metal and D&D and smoking pot in people’s basements. Now what is it? Black Eyed Peas and Justin Bieber and Twilight and texting your friend pix you took of your gf’s boobs?
Maybe you’re right. Maybe we were better off with Stussy.
I’m sorry.
February 24, 2012
GUY STARING AT ME
Sipping your coffee, arms leaning on the table, leaning forward, eyes unblinking, you stare into my soul. I want to ask: like me, do you think that hell is other people, but a truly worse hell is yourself? Are you trying to imagine what’s going on inside of me, to escape? Are you a kindred spirit? Would you love my blog?
No. When I do it, I glance, and then I use my goddamned imagination. I don’t stare at you like we’re on a raft and you’re turning into a big cartoon chicken leg. You’re seriously creeping me out. Fucking stop it. I’m not sorry.
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