I have quite the conundrum to present you with today. What is it about ripped jeans? I mean this seriously. What is it about ripped jeans?
(image from http://badestoutfits.tumblr.com/post/158075665076 // text added by myself // credits to the creator)
Anyone who really knows me, basically a bit more than a handful of people, know that when something bothers me, it bothers me to hell and back. One of the things is ripped jeans. I have no comprehension whatsoever about who what when where why how should they be sensical. (1) They usually cost more than whole, practical, perfect jeans, (2) they’re worn by people who can’t make up their minds, either to show skin or to not show skin, and I just can’t live with their indecisions, (3) and no, they do not look “cool”.
I understand, after having written those down, I might sound so much like an old person. But idgaf. I have moments where my brain refuses to let go of even the smallest things, and I need to express such sentiments until they pass. I’ve been told over and again that I shouldn’t bother myself with such small things, but the fact that they bother me is the problem, and people telling me not to do it doesn’t help the situation at all. Another thing that bothers me is delay. Delay in what? Delay in everything. It was sooooo much worse when I was younger and I turn surly and taciturn the moment I have to wait for more than five minutes for anything that can’t present a sensible and acceptable enough reason for such delay. And in this day and age of the internet, and such reliable Philippine telcos that are surely not run by greedy capitalist bastards, I cannot–CANNOT–stand the sight of those circles. You know the ones. They’re everywhere. In the early 2000s, they were bars that had a smaller bar in it. They neither showed the progress nor the length of time which one still had to wait for whatever it is that’s loading. And I cannot, for the life of me, understand what is so difficult about being upfront about how much longer I’d have to wait for it, and how much it has actually accomplished.
Oh, me… “Patience is a virtue.” What the freaking fuck does that even mean? A virtue of old people who have absolutely nothing else better to do with their days than to wait and wait for things. Well, let me tell you that in this time I live in, time is of the essence ( I don’t really know what it means either, but I certainly relate to it better than the former idiom).
As I try to figure out where to take this post next, I peruse my browser’s other tabs and come upon something else that bothers me all the damn time.
You know what else
I hate bothers me? Repeating myself. Whether it’s because someone didn’t hear me, or having to make my bed despite ending up with it messy again in the next morning or clicking something I’ve already clicked, and having to click it again because apparently, it does nothing. This is even worse than the circles because this indicated that nothing is happening at all, despite me having done something to warrant an action. This also applies to me having done something, yet another thing entirely happens. For example, me typing on my laptop is always a challenge because even after all these years, it seems my fingers still haven’t gauged the distance between the semi-colon the apostrophe, and the enter key. I always always always click one or the other or the other, and have to delete what I’ve unintentionally pressed and type it again, and since there are three of there’s like nine combinations it can go wrong. That is if I’ve not yet lost my temper and just slammed on everything on my keyboard. It’s a genuine wonder that my laptop is still alive, but kudos to Asus for having made a sturdy computer. This, in particular, vexes me to no end because I have ended up embarrassing myself (…or being embarrassed of myself?) because of things I literally go through lengths to avoid doing. I mean, if there’s one thing I have control of in this world, it’s myself, isn’t it? So why in the damn hell can’t I just move in a way that’s productive for everyone, least of all myself?
So after those examples, I seem to have eliminated a common denominator (I have no idea if this is an accurate phrasing because I suck at math and cannot therefore fully understand what a common denominator is even. Fucking hell). I seem to have a lack of wanting for unproductive and impractical things. Ripped jeans are unproductive and doubtfully comfortable. Those loading circles that represent neither how long I’ve been waiting, nor how long I still have to wait, serve no purpose but to annoy me. My clumsy and uncontrollable limbs that will deign to do things once correctly, simply because I will not be bothered to repeat nor make a fool out of myself.
All those, among other things and habits which are far too many to mention, make me wonder if I have more than just anxiety and depression. If maybe I have ADHD as well, or a slight version of autism. And since my family isn’t really the kind that is capable of sending me to the doctor for a diagnosis, it’s up in the air. It’s not like getting a diagnosis makes it any easier. It’s the same reasoning my mom doesn’t want to get herself checked. Because if the doctor does find something (after numerous payments at various points), it will either need to be monitored, surgically treated or medicinally maintained. More expenses than we can afford in all of our lifetimes. Not to mention the time and effort we spend waiting in line at a clinic or a hospital. It seems impractical, too, when we’d much rather go to see a movie, have a family meal at a nice restaurant, clean the house, do the chores, play with the pets, and relax before the never-ending workweek begins again.
It seems, after all of that, the practicality, the productivity, the worth of a thing or an activity is still what we make of it. I can complain day in and day out about stupid ripped jeans, but people will still stupidly buy and wear them. I’ll just judge them silently as I enjoy a good meal (which my brother will never fully appreciate until he grows out of his 3-year-old baby phase, despite being 18, of not eating more than fried chicken and pancit canton–no, not the substantial one, the instant one that’s so bad for you). I will try to contain my outbursts and just shout at the void through these blogs because there really isn’t anything I can do. Ah, to be human and helpless.
PS: it seems I use commas far too often. That or Grammarly has a dislike for the Oxford comma. I apologize for any inconsistencies.
PPS: my distaste for ripped jeans is in no way a form of shaming anyone for wearing exposing clothing. I just really really really hate them, regardless of who wears them, or if they’re being worn at all.
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