You bother me somehow. Perhaps it’s that you litter. Or that you walk in front of me too slow. Maybe you’ve come darting out of a doorway oblivious to the fact there are people on the sidewalk outside. Maybe you spat in my proximity. Or coughed or sneezed without covering your mouth. Maybe you walked diagonally or veered to the left instead of the right. Whatever you did, it bothered me.
It could be the way you stand in front of moving traffic with the attitude. Possibly it was the way you pushed through me to get to the bar. It could be your obsession with designer labels. Or the desperate cry for attention you call fashion sense. It could be that you didn’t say thank you when one was warranted. Or that you failed to say please. Suffice to say, it bothered me.
It may have been the pantyhose on the head with the sideways baseball cap. Maybe it’s because you do not belong in a shirt that exposes your ample midriff. Perhaps you called your son a loser in front of the whole subway. It might have been that you drew a swastika on a wall. Or that when you draw a swastika on a wall, you do it backwards. Rest assured, you bothered me.
Perhaps it was when you cut the line because you didn’t bother to notice there was one. Or it was the wearing-sunglasses-indoors thing. It’s bothersome to hear your phone ringing in the nice restaurant. The kind of restaurant where phones shouldn’t ring. If it wasn’t that, it was the way you were shouting epithets to your friends on the subway platform. Or how you picked up some effete guy’s dollar that he dropped and insisted it was yours.
It could be the hissyfit you threw at the deli because the slices weren’t thick enough. Or that you’re on Prozac yet taking comedy classes. Maybe it was because I could see your penis. There’s a chance it was the lit cigarette you tossed on the ground. Or the open-mouth chomping of the gum, complete with snapping noises. Maybe it’s the rainbow flag waving. Or that you have six kids and no spouse. Perhaps it’s the fact that you couldn’t spell, even if the spelling Gestapo were threatening to ship you off to Spellschwitz. It could be the thoughtless placement of your shopping cart. Or your misuse of the apostrophe. It bothers me.
Maybe I took offense to the way you called your significant other a whore. Or it could have been when you interrupted my conversation to ask for money. The way you decided that jumping in front of me was the proper leaflet-delivery method. Or the issue could be you choosing to ignore my having right-of-way. Perhaps it’s your habit of spray-painting your creative impulse or politics on every surface. And putting your face in your own billboard advertisement… that bothers me.
It could be that you’re rich and make sure everyone knows it. Or that you’re the laziest person I’ve ever seen. Perhaps it’s because you’re completely unemployable. Or it might be that you’re an arrogant sociopath. There’s a good chance it was because you don’t get sarcasm. Or because you swear in front of children. It might have been when you didn’t use gloves to make my sandwich. And you kept touching your forehead. Maybe it’s because you held the subway doors open so you could continue chatting with your friend. Trust me, you bothered me.
It certainly may have been the puddle of poodle urine you allowed to happen in front of my apartment. Or the way you entered the subway car before we exited. Or that you sleep all day. Letting the door close in my face bothered me too. As did the riding of the skateboard down the sidewalk full of people. The 300 Gigawatt car stereo system bothered me at 4:30 in the morning. As did your business-killing smoking ban. The way you lie about yourself in your online personal ad bothers me. As does the fact you use online personals.
It could be the way you talk about therapy like it’s normal. Maybe it’s your insistence that everyone needs therapy. Or your belief that everyone is gay. Perhaps it’s because you’re gay, lesbian, trans-gendered or straight. Maybe it’s that you drive a Hummer. You bother me.
It could be your liberalism or conservatism. Your blind patriotism and your contempt of the homeland bothers me. It could be that you’re obese and ordering a venti mocha. Or it might just bother me that you make up new words when “small, medium and large” would suffice. Or it was how you blatantly stole my cab. Perhaps your clothes being filthy bothered me.
It’s possibly your lewd behavior. Your lousy taste in music. Your failed hygiene. Or how you blanket the entrance to the building with smoke. Maybe it’s that you’re selling drugs in my neighborhood. Or the way you give money to anyone feigning homelessness. Or how you feel the need to fondle your girlfriend so all can see. All of that bothers me.
Your racism bothers me. As does your multi-culturalism. And the fact that you didn’t bother to rsvp to our wedding even though the stamp was provided. It could be that you’re not competent at what you do. Or that you complain every day to the superintendent about fingerprints in the elevator and menus under the door. Telling people you’re an actor when you’ve never made a penny acting bothers me. As does the fact that you can’t seem to run the Post Office.
Your junk email bothers me. The fact that you think I’m stupid enough to provide a Nigerian with my bank account information bothers me. And you can imagine how annoyed I get when you try to kill me because I think differently than you do. I also disapprove of you robbing banks and your adultery. Really, it bothers me.
I don’t like your yipping little dog. Or that you became famous and aloof. It very well might be your purple hair. Or the tattoos. Perhaps it’s that you’re holding Hillary’s book. Or you talk too loud when it’s not warranted. Maybe it’s because you’re an underpaid, undereducated bureaucrat and giving me grief. Or that it takes you 25 minutes to parallel park. That just bothers me.
Perhaps it’s that you’re 30 and still have posters taped to the wall. Or that you’re obsessed with sex. Perhaps it’s because you watch Showtime when HBO is so much better. Or that you honestly believe the earth is only 10,000 years old. It might be your atheism. It could be because you’re a militant vegan. Or that you don’t listen. Or held up the line. Your gum is on my shoe. You dinged my car. Your cable access show sucks. You can’t speak English. You’re wishy-washy. You wear too much perfume. You try too hard. You’re paying with a check. You waste money at deli ATMs with $2.50 service fees. You hate your parents. You only date Jewish girls. You always want to share appetizers. You like jazz. You press the elevator buttons as if that will make it come any faster. You live in a 5th floor walk-up. You declared bankruptcy. You think you’re so great. You’re pretentious. You’re weak. You show off at the gym. You pitch your sob story to a captive audience in the subway. You don’t know the difference. You don’t tip. You tip too much.
I can’t put my finger on it, but something about you bothers me.