Because it's Monday, and I'm cranky, and haters are gonna hate, only in this instance I'm the hater.
1. Typing "d" or "e" for "the".
You give the gods of Not Writing Like a Lunatic TWO EXTRA LETTERS and they will grant you literacy, being taken seriously, and puppies and rainbows. TWO LETTERS. It will not kill you to type like you actually give a shit and have a brain.
Related: "dis" for "this" and other types of this abbrev-speak.
2. Referring to one's husband as "hubby".
This is a complete and utter (metaphorical) boner kill for me. It literally gives me the heebie jeebies. Like if you say it in front of me and happen to be observant: you will actually see a subtle cringe and uncontrollable shudder go through my body (subtle because I'm a POLITE hater, and I'm made to understand that vomiting in public isn't very lady-like).
If I were to promise my future husband anything, anything in the entire world and mean it with all my heart and every fibre of my being, other than to love him forever and all that of course, it would be to NEVER EVER call him hubby, even under pain of death.
Related: being called "babe" (by guys - fine if by girls). I have a weird allergic reaction to most pet names actually. If I was a guy and dating myself I would be terrified to call me anything other than my own name. Which is actually my second name. I don't go by my first name. Yes okay fine after typing all this out I realize I may have name issues.
3. Putting empty ice trays into the freezer.
Why? Why?! I just don't understand why anyone would want to expend the extra effort of putting the ice trays BACK in the freezer if they're empty. Surely it would be less straining just to leave them out on the counter so that someone else can undertake the Herculean effort of filling the trays with water and putting them into the freezer?!
4. Entitled Malay Male Douchebags.
This means you, sexist chauvinist with your logic-defying double standards about how it's fine for YOU to do certain things, but not okay for your demure, ayu wives to do it (polygamy, partying, happy endings etc). This means you, smarmy and perverted probably-UMNO-voting future-Datuk stereotype. You are the epitome of everything that is corrupt and wrong in Malaysian society, and you don't even know it. These people usually "bro" each other unironically and cheat on their wives.
This post was brought to you by menstrual hormones and Monday.
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Former receptacle of epicurean pornography; current font of verbose musings
I don't know how to put this, but I'm kind of a big deal.
The author of this blog is a 30 year old female who is extremely passionate (i.e. gets super worked up - either angrily or excitedly, depending on the topic) about books (especially beautiful fiction), feminism, crosswords, Jeopardy! (and basically all trivia in general), bags, makeup, maps, when Queen songs come on at karaoke, mille crepe cake, FRIED TEMPEH, libertarianism (she almost wishes she lived in New Hampshire so that she too could drive around with the state motto 'LIVE FREE OR DIE' emblazoned on her car's backside), beaches, oxford commas, the colour pink, and random lines from movies and television shows.
She is also extremely hyperbolic (though she prefers to call it artistic license, which in turn is just a euphemism for the unfortunate I-make-everything-dramatic syndrome), verbose (thus the generous use of brackets, which niftily contains each meandering, verbose thought in a little package of its own) and employs too many commas in her writing, creating sentences that keep going as long as the proverbial day. She does not make excuses for her verbosity, and never has, even to her many long-suffering schoolteachers who kept drawing red lines through her essays in desperate attempts to drum into her brain that no one really wants to read everything on which she waxes lyrical.
Obviously, these attempts were futile.
She is also extremely hyperbolic (though she prefers to call it artistic license, which in turn is just a euphemism for the unfortunate I-make-everything-dramatic syndrome), verbose (thus the generous use of brackets, which niftily contains each meandering, verbose thought in a little package of its own) and employs too many commas in her writing, creating sentences that keep going as long as the proverbial day. She does not make excuses for her verbosity, and never has, even to her many long-suffering schoolteachers who kept drawing red lines through her essays in desperate attempts to drum into her brain that no one really wants to read everything on which she waxes lyrical.
Obviously, these attempts were futile.
Oh hey.