Why I Hate Gotye or the Stalker's Lament, as I like to call it.

OK, we all know that stupid song by Goyte; “Somebody I Used to Know”… This song, annoys me more than just about anything else on the planet. I mean, seriously. This fucking song.

It is really the lyrics that spawned my unequivocal hatred for it. I mean, really this song is 4 minutes of whining about just how fucking broken hearted he is about his loss of a girl.

 I get it… break-ups blow. That’s why it is a break up. And everyone has earned the right to write a hit song about it (Taylor Swift, I’m looking at you) and whine and cry and have your breakdown about it sponsored by Haagan Dazs. I however, reserve the right to hate it—and critique it (see below).

Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
I told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember
I get it. He is lamenting the love. I understand that. Nothing hurts worse than feeling alone, in a relationship. Also, it hurts knowing you thought they were the one, but they are not. Very. Sad. This part is not bad. In fact, it is a somber, contemplative verse—when it could have opened with a wailing “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy…”

You can get addicted to a certain kinda sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end 
So when we found that we could not make sense
Well you said that we would still be friends
But I'll admit that I was glad that it was over
Now, here you can see the start of a downward depressive (dog) spiral. I mean opening the next verse with “addicted to a certain kind of sadness”—pop an Xanax, or do some of my implied yoga. Everyone know when you say “be friends” this means on Facebook… or friend-ly, like I won’t stalk you, break into your home, try to kill your pets, destroy your car and tell all of your friends (and his) vicious nasty un-true things about you. Were you glad, Mr. Goyte? Were, you—if you REALLY were, I doubt this song would exists.

But you didn't have to cut me off 
Make it like it never happened and that we were nothing 
I don't even need your love, but you treat me like a stranger
And that feels so rough
This negates your last bit about resignation and “gladness.” Maybe she had to cut you off. You sound like a bit of a wet blanket. And If you were said blanket, then it might be better that she acted like you were nothing in the end. And I venture to say that even if you don’t “need” her love, you clearly want/miss or are in denial about it.  OH it feels rough?? Well, I guess you are not a Alpaca fiber blanket.

No, you didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records
And then change your number
Guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know
Look, dude… she didn't want to see you, or put up with your wet-blanket- lament, while you bemoan your part in the break-up. And she changed her number to avoid the annoying crying voice-mails you would have left—or did leave, after you realized she changed her number. And sir, she is someone you used to know—used to date, used to fuck.

Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
But had me believin it was always something that I'd done
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know-oh-oh
Ms. Kimbra chimes in here as the Girlfriend. And she firstly states off your parts in the break-up. I guess you thought you did no wrong? AND of course you couldn't let it go. I mean really. You’re writing a damn song about it instead of moving on or into therapy for it like the rest of us. And she can’t catch you, she is changing numbers (and locks I bet) and sending her BFFFE’s to collect her things (NOT leaving shit behind a la T-Swift).

The rest is just about Mr. Goyte whining about how he is just “somebody” she “used to know.” I refuse to post anymore of those lyrics because as I read them, I want to put him down like Old Yeller. I mean, the whole song is one by “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!! *sob* *cry* WHHyyyyyyyyyy!!!!” 

So, If you like this song (in any way BESIDES a break-up guide of how not to behave and/or write a break-up song) you can Go Fuck Yourself.

Un-Seasoned Starbucks Patrons aka Why the Flat White annoys the fuck out of me.

Pumpkin Spice Latte’s are addicting, I know. But that is so last season. We’ve all moved on. But, seasonal Starbucks Patrons (SP’s from here on out) don’t know that – or do, and either way it is irritating. And now let’s all pretend we do not know what a Flat White is…

Starbucks and their seasonal delights are the epicenter of Suburbia. The Mecca for Hipsters, Homeless and the Caffeine addicted (Hi, I am Anastasia Elizabeth and I am addicted to caffeine). This does pose a problem for those of us well versed in the Starbuck-ian culture, custom and language.

I’m in line, and I hear you struggle with the menu. ‘I’ll have a… umm… large? Care-a-mel… latte? With an extra shot? Of ex-press-oh?’ at this I tap my foot and lock my hand on my hip. I am irritated. You struggle—like it’s a foreign language. You fumble for your gift card/debit card/ exact change. I cringe. I want you out of my fucking way, so I can fucking order like the expert that I am. You leave the queue, with your stroller/laptopbag/massivefuckingpurse. I announce (so you hear) “Iced Grande 4-pump Caramel Non-Fat extra Ice Latte in a Venti cup” a semi-complicated favorite of mine. I imagine you look back in awe. I also imagine the barista is thankful for my fluency. I pay—with my card via my phone (iPhone, there is a Starbucks app after all—get a clue). And move on. Please, fortheloveofgod, move the fuck on.

Whilst waiting for my beverage. You drive me further to the brink of insanity. You SP’s mill about, all thinking your drink is next. It. Is. Not. Drinks are created in the order they are made. Unless you do something like a hot or cold House Blend (decaf is for pussies), you fucking N00b. You wait, I claim a coveted table/bar spot near an outlet do plug in my laptop and write things like this (yes about you). All the while, you wait. I divide and conquer.  This is where it gets dicey. I mean, you might have an army with you—your Stroller Brigade, Book Club, Study Group—and I am alone. But again, I have claimed a spot—and you have not.

Now, the baristas as in the zen trance of creating drinks with beatific smiles and the cashier is politely ushering us along—you along, I’ve long since claimed my territory. You get frustrated. Your child is running amuck—putting coffee stirrers up it’s nose and claiming to be a walrus, running around dying and vying for strangers attention—since your focus is on your poorly ordered beverage. Your study group is milling about trying to subtly re-arrange the furniture to accommodate them—you know this is what STUDY ROOMS on campus are for (as are campus café’s).  I assume Book Clubs do not meet at night—you all have families to attend to. I can see you eyeing me—I have no beverage. Yet, I have a spot. You will attempt to ask me to leave/move. I will not. I will politely tell you “I’m on a deadline” in the tone of Fuck You; or if I have my headphones, ignore you—I’m not listening to music yet, it is a prop. I only leave my spot if the call my drink—or my name. Anastasia Elizabeth. You will see me rise, obtain my beverage and saunter back to my prime real estate.

You will marvel. You will cringe. You will be amazed how I knew my beverage was ready after such a “complicated” order. I know, I’m amazing.