Let’s be honest, Dan doesn’t always write as much as we’d all like him to. And despite my constant love and support (“Make me laugh, Monkey Boy!”), sometimes his creativity is tapped. But it’s not because he doesn’t love this blog. I mean, sometimes you love something, but it’s there every day, so you don’t appreciate it. You stop bringing it flowers. And it’s not the blog’s fault. Like, whatever if the blog doesn’t get dressed up anymore. Who cares if the blog has worn the same pajamas for three days and hasn’t washed its hair? It’s still the same blog. And more importantly, beneath those skanky pajamas are awesome tits. So don’t neglect the blog, Dan.
Anyhow, to supplement Dan’s posts, I’m starting my own column. It’s called 1001 Things I Hate and it’s about stuff I hate.* 1001 things? Well, yeah. I hate 1000 and 1 things and I have a list. (Totally separate from my Blacklist™, which is people I hate.) And now, #1:
Men Who Tell Me To Smile
Don’t do this. Don’t tell women to smile. No woman has ever said to another woman, “Smile!” But yet, countless times, I’ve been told by a man, “Smile!” or worse, “What’s the matter, Sweetie? Smile!” What gives you the right? I’m not a puppy. I know it might make you uncomfortable, Dude on the Elevator. You walked on, saw a chick, made a paltry attempt at flirting, and I didn’t respond. This is so disconcerting. Listen, I’m sorry to disrupt your projected feminine ideals, your stifled two-dimensional characterization. But why do you assume my lack of smile means something is wrong? Do you walk around all day smiling like a fulfilled Playmate? Maybe I’m thinking about war, or scotch, or sex. Maybe I’m thinking about work. Maybe I work. I know this is all too much. And I should just smile. But I won’t because I hate you, Dude on the Elevator. You are on my Blacklist™.
Thing I Love: The smell of coconut.
* Conversation when I sent this post to Dan:
Dan: “Um . . . ok, I’m just not sure I get it.”
Brooke: “What do you mean?”
Dan: “Well, it’s just that . . . I’m not so sure I get the joke.”
Brooke: “There’s no joke.”
Dan: . . .
Brooke: “It’s called 1001 Things I Hate. Not 1001 Things That Humorously Irritate
Dan: “Aren’t you worried it sounds a little, er, angry?”
Brooke: “I am angry.”