Tell me why…

First off, I really do hate myself now. It’s Monday, and this blog is about this Monday and the few little reasons why I am not the happiest of Kevins on this particular Monday. Well, I am saying that wrong, actually, I am a reasonably happy Kevin, but also a cranky one. Because it is Monday and assorted other reasons yet to be touched upon in this blog.
So my title today, obviously, is an allusion to the well known song asking why certain people don’t like Mondays. And I hate that. Not because I don’t like the song, because I do actually like the song, but because it is a song often hummed/sung/tapped out on tables by people who simply don’t like Mondays. And, since very few of those people would open fire on a grade school, most of those people have no business doing whatever it is they are doing to this song.
And since I don’t actually intend to open fire on a grade school myself, I really shouldn’t either. But I did. Hypocrisy, thy name is Kevin.
That said, I would’ve gladly opened fire on a number of people, not least the fuckwad that set my alarm for 6.45 this morning (me), so I do have some right to the allusion.

Anyways, those who know me know that I am more or less non-secretly a person who thinks happiness in life is for me and practically nobody else. Those people whose happiness is not a thorn in my side are a small and personally (by me) selected group of individuals who I deem worthy, by virtue of any number of factors, to be deserving of some happiness themselves. For all other people, happiness just seems... well, wrong.
And never as wrong as when they seem to be getting their happiness from something I get my happiness from.
This morning, walking from Tram™ to Job™ I noticed someone wearing my sneakers. Well, not really, as mine were at that point safely at home, resting in my closet, but the same model converse high-tops in black with red piping and stitching. Now, I understand that they do not wait for me to sell these things to people, nor do they take them off the shelves as soon as I have slotted my bankcard through the little machine, so I am prepared to sometimes see things I have in my closet on other people as well. But it has been happening a little bit too often lately, and the annoyance here is cumulative.
Shoes make me happy, therefore I assume shoes make this other person happy, and he is getting his happiness from MY shoes (well, sorta) Thus, he needs some shooting. But then, it was a Monday morning and my aim isn’t remarkably good with pretend rifles as it is so I decided to let it pass, and just fervently hope he’d run into something big and preferably cement-filled on his way to his Job™
Also, this time it wasn’t as bad as when I’d be actually wearing the things myself, but thanks to Boyfriend’s Adidas-employed connections, I am toting a pair of new and rather cool dark blue Adicolor sneakers, so I am a little more forgiving in my deadwishings today.

Moving on into work, I am about knee-deep in idiot-drool by now, and quite frankly, considering my spiffy new shoes, it is not a place I want to be. Idiot drool doesn’t really stain, but it does get tacky pretty swiftly.
But enough for now, just a little rant to break up the style-sections. I’ll try to keep updating reasonably often.
No longer having stripes,
Grtz,
Kevin