I thought I walked comfortably along the line between good and bitch. Then I began to question these feelings I've been having. They're not good per se, but they're some of the truest I've ever felt. Like, when I see a limb topped with Croc footwear I want to grab a chainsaw. Nothing major.

My only saving grace is that Paul Frank drinks blood off the toes of fragile infants. I have yet to do that so I think it's still appropriate to highlight some of my good qualities.

For example, given the opportunity, I would kick Suze Orman's ass.  Not lightly. I don't even need a big opportunity, just enough to get my foot in the door. As Mr. T (or someone equally 80's) would say, I'd really open up a can of whoopass.

In addition, I would personally cauterize Sarah Jessica Parker's chin mole. She can afford Manolo Blahniks but not a decent mole demoter? If I were her I would splurge and enlist the services of Mount Rushmore's creator, Gutzon de la Mothe Borglum. Mind you he died in 1941 but that doesn't make this matter any less serious. Hand that man an ice pick and a tall iced tea…this could take awhile.

Update: Coincidently, two days after I wrote this suggestion, Parker got the mole hacked. I had no idea how much influence I have in Hollywood.

Lastly, I would put freecreditreport.com songs on the radio. Straight up. Golden ballads of 20/20 hindsight now available on iTunes. Not many people are that jolly about leading miserable lives. We could really learn a thing or two from their glazed optimism.

Although striking, my contributions to the world are all hypothetical imperatives. If I wanted to be a good person, then I would sucker punch Orman, snip Parker, and change the music industry forever.  That poses a problem. My actions have potential but when it comes down to it, I'm obviously a heinous individual. I'll explain but first I have to go wash my cat five times against its will and defile a plethora of salt shakers.

I'll start with the fact that I despise pets that aren't mine.

I believe they poop more, drool more, and severely lack in personality. I can't help that my mouse and beta are so well-adjusted. It really is hard to compare my mouse, Mr. Gibbs, to less talented animals when he does 360's on his wheel…blindfolded.

Dachshund at gunpoint
How to train your pet to accept shitty names like "Chocolate."
My feelings are not unfounded. I spent Fourth of July at the emergency vet soothing the butthole of someone else's dog. Maybe he felt fireworks, but I didn't. We were house-sitting and the dog had been shitting with pancake-batter-like accuracy all over the carpet for days. I guess pooping on tile is not half as fun. I was on my knees for hours–scrubbing. Maybe that's how he likes to celebrate his independence, but I prefer chips, salsa and a party hat. Cheese platters also ring my Liberty Bell.

One time my best friend's dachshund/Chihuahua mix "Peanut" took a chunk out of my upper thigh. Peanuts are tantamount to Macadamia nuts when it comes to danger and betrayal.

I don't really want answers from the furry friendly because I get enough of that from my PETA-loving 9-year-old brother. But tell me, aren't pets like children? Yours can't do anything wrong but other people's are destined for failure. Like, unless I spike my beta's tank with Adderall, it's a pretty mild-mannered fish. What's wrong with the rest?

I don't blame the animals so much as the owners. What do people expect when they name their dog after a Biblical figure, or something Deutsche that translates roughly to "grassy knoll"?

I figured if I'm going to have a kickass animal it should have a kickass name. So at the tender age of 5, I named my first cat Mojo. That was one sexual cat! I got a beta this Christmas. His name is Au Jus Han, after the beef sauce (Au Jus) and my Jewish friend that gave it to me (Hanukah). Needless to say, that fish is cultured, tolerant of all religions, and possessed of an insatiable appetite.

Not only are other people's pets ridiculous, but so are old people who abuse the power age has bestowed upon them. Don't get me wrong, I can't wait to be the shrilly old woman who won't take anybody's shit, but I won't forget my roots. After all, what do they have to be cranky about? Coco's has THE best senior menu. No, no. It's not just a menu, it's a club. It's called "Club 55" and if anyone should be pissed, it should be me!  "Specially selected breakfast entrées, value-priced for our guests 55 and above." They might as well say "better food, better price, and a richer, more fulfilling life." It's a shame a box of heart healthy Cheerio's can't solve all MY problems.

Crocs really do amuse and confuse. I don't follow. "If I can't be barefoot, my second choice is definitely rubber shoes. And personally, I prefer rubber that has been assaulted by a hole punch." Furthermore, should I chose to don a rubber shoe in a moment of insanity, my first instinct wouldn't be to plug up all my ventilation holes with accessories. As if the original Crocs weren't bad enough, they've debuted a high heel option. I do not want to meet a woman who decorates her feet with such trashy/casual elegance in this lifetime. Maybe I'd say hi to her just so it's not awkward, but I refuse to converse with said woman about footwear.

Okay, I guess that's it for now. Disappointedly, I'm not as bitter and heartless as I thought. Now I have to go Nair my Dad's back, thus pardoning all my inhumanities and making me a martyr.

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