I Can't

Let me let y'all in on a little secret:

I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS.

Did you notice? I hope you did. If you didn't, I hate you a lot and you're clearly not an avid Emma's Thing reader. Bitch.

But on the real, folks. These last few weeks have been a whirlwind of shit, vomit, and overall chaos with a few sprinklings of hope and sparkles. Life has been a bit too hectic to sit down and air my grievances of things I can't. You know shit's bad when I don't even have time to COMPLAIN.

So bear with me while I attempt to get back in the swing of not being able to. My sincere apologies in advance for the roughness of this post.

I can't...

with the headache I'm enduring today. This day. Tuesday. I want to blame it on the weather, but with this mutant virus going around every office building in the Americas, I wouldn't surprised if I feel ill. It would be the perfect, disgusting maraschino cherry on top of a subpar last few weeks.

I can't...

understand the logic behind buying bagels in bulk for a morning meeting and providing FLAVORED SCHMEAR ONLY. I'm almost positive I've written about this before, either on here or as a Facebook status (because I'm obnoxious like that), but I can't let it go because it really does bother me THAT much. Maybe it's because I'm a Jewish gal or maybe it's because I'm Jewish (that wasn't a typo). But honey almond, veggie, strawberry, or what-have-you flavored schmears for bagels are unacceptable choices when providing a team breakfast. If you wanna fuck around with douche-flavored cream cheese, do it on your own time. Ain't nobody got time to be so irrevocably disappointed as I am when I am promised a bagel breakfast and am presented anything but plain schmear. It's wrong, wrong, dirty and wrong.

I can't...

eat olives in any form or fashion. I want so desperately to look cool drinking "dirty" martinis, but how cool would it look when I dry heave into the martini glass after every sip? Not very.

I can't...

handle tiny post-it notes. They make me really uncomfortable and angry. I've never felt more in-ept trying to write words on that tiny, worthless excuse for a piece of paper. Big post-its only.

I can't...

talk in-depth about how much I can't with fettuccine alfredo since my best friend's husband seems to love it, but just know... I absolutely fucking CANNOT with that dish.

I can't...

with AT&T. Why bother even giving me the option of setting up internet on my own when you know damn well it's not going to work and you're gonna have to send someone out to me anyway? I mean, what is that? Do you find some sort of sick pleasure in knowing I'm going to fail? You make it seem so easy, something anyone can do on their own. "Self-Installation Internet: So Simple, Even Granny Can Do It!" Then, you turn around and make Grannies across the world feel like fools because the broadband button won't stop blinking red. I HATE YOU.

I can't...

when I see fellow coworkers unfollow me on Instagram. I mean, okay. That's fine. You're entitled to not wanna see my daily displays, but you know I know you unfollowed me, right? And you know I am going to slightly hate you in the pit of my heart forever, right? And, if we're close enough, say something to you and make you feel totally awkward, right? You know who you are.

I can't...

get off ZZZQuil and it makes me sad and nervous. Non-addictive, my ass. If something makes me fall asleep faster and keeps me asleep for an extended period of time, IT'S ADDICTIVE.  I'm a dick, I'm addicted to you.

I can't...

that every single time I go to the grocery store and stock up - like $114 dropped stock up - it never fails that I end up dining out that afternoon or evening. I go. I get everything you could ever possibly need to make lunches and dinners for weeks. Then, after unloading and organizing these said food items in their right place at home, I go right back out and drop a few more dollars on a takeout meal. WHAT IS  THAT. Can anyone explain the psychology behind that to me? I'll lay down on a couch and listen to you, even.

I can't...

deny it - I didn't want to like the quizzes on BuzzFeed, but I do. A lot. Especially this one.

I can't...

that, about a year ago, we had an intern in my office who filled out this "newbie" form and claimed his LEAST favorite statement was, "I Can't." Of course, I thought he meant it the way we say it, so I told him how funny that was and how I'm pretty sure I invented the phrase. He never responded to me. I then realized he meant the stupid meaning of "I can't." Like, "I can't do it." What an annoyingly, positive prick.

OK bye.

xox,

emma