It's Official...

I'm an asshole.

Even when I try not to be an asshole, my brain is filled with Assholian thoughts. I know that's not a real word but it should be. You know...the same way people who are from Italy are Italians and people from America are Americans. People who are assholes are Assholians. If you think about it, it's not a bad idea. By calling a group of assholes Assholians you avoid being labeled racist, sexist, or bigoted against any faith or group. You could just call them assholes and be done with it but where's the fun in that? Everybody else in the world has some kind of label, why not assholes? Seems kinda discriminatory not to give them a label too, doesn't it? So let's not simply be assholes, let's be Assholians.

I've decided I'm pretty much an asshole every day. I'd like to think I'm not, but because of the things that go on in my head, I think maybe I was born an asshole. I probably started out as little baby asshole, and rapidly went through the Assholian stages of life, toddler, teenage, etc., before finally arriving at the last Assholian stage of life...crabby ol' woman.

Except I'm not really crabby. I may look crabby because like many others so afflicted, I suffer from Bitchy Resting Face. Most people automatically think I'm angry or don't like them but usually the opposite is true. I pretty much like everybody. It's just that I'm uncomfortable around people I don't know and with the BRF look stuck on my mug...well it's kinda understandable.

Things I say in my head are things that I would never in a million years say out loud. Not only that, I would be totally mortified if someone could read my mind.

Today, for example, I stopped at the strawberry stand on my way home from town. It's run by a little Asian lady who doesn't say much. I don't know if it's because her English isn't great or she's just shy. She, too, appears to suffer from BRF. I could be wrong. Maybe she just doesn't like people interrupting her solitude. But I doubt that's the case because her livelihood depends on interrupted solitude. Then again, she could be a rich woman selling strawberries for fun who only looks like she's not having a good time because she has BRF. Sadly, we'll never know because neither of us speaks...except me..."I'd like three baskets please".  Strawberry Lady stays silent...bagging my berries.

While I'm standing there, another woman showed up at the stand and stood next to me. She looked like an upper middle class "soccer mom" type. See, Assholian impulse...immediately I labeled her in my head. I smiled at her attempting to soften the BRF mug and she smiled back...a big, beautiful smile... with one giant front tooth dwarfing all the other little Chiclet teeth. I had to look away because I was afraid I would stare at the tooth...I mean, it wasn't Stephen King fang-ish or anything like that but it was big enough that it drew your eye to it.

Soccer Mom attempted to make small talk with Strawberry Lady.

SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"
SL: "Yeah, they sweet." (At least now I know Strawberry Lady can understand and speak English.)

Assholian impulse quickly kicks in again...first I question Soccer Mom's intelligence. I mean does she really think Strawberry Lady is going to say her strawberries are sour? Who's going to knowingly buy sour strawberries? Of course Strawberry Lady's going to say her strawberries are sweet. Never have I heard of any recipe calling for sour strawberries and nobody wants to eat ones that are going to give them pucker face.

The conversation in my head is completely different than the one I'm actually listening to as the final Assholian impulse takes control. Replete with Asian accent, this is what goes on in my head.

SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"

SL: "Nooo, here we sell only sour strawberry. You wan sweet strawberry you go someplace else."

SM: "Oh no, that's okay, sour's good. I'll take a whole flat please."

SM's so shocked that SL actually admitted the strawberries were sour that she now feels obliged to buy them. And, not being a member of the Assholian tribe herself, SM is afraid of being labeled a racist if she now tells SL that she doesn't want sour strawberries and to overcompensate she ends up with a whole flat of sour strawberries that she really doesn't want.

Why does my brain work this way? It's the Stoopidist Thing...