Weeds.

I get irritated over the smallest things, among them being people getting their pop cultural references wrong, bad grammar, late periods, Skrulls, the smell of horseradish, toy dogs, eye bags and jets flying overhead my house every now and then. I try my best to restrain myself from showing any irritation whenever situations that tease my annoyance occur, simply because I'm not as smart as I wish I could be; I'm quite sure that I've made slip-ups in the past that the people around me were generous enough not to highlight.

In the past, I've mentioned how the most unattractive girl probably knows almost everything in an attempt to make up for her lack of schwing. In certain regards, I'm the male equivalent. My pedantry knows no bounds, if only because I was never the high school jock. I'm proud to be a geek, though some are still skeptical over my claims of being a borderline pubescent sci-fi junkie.

One trait that I'd love to change about myself would be my desire to inadvertently make matters worse. Pulling out a slightly chipped toenail is not a smart thing to do. Neither is bringing out sore points in your relationship with your girlfriend out of spite because it makes you feel better. And let's not forget arguing with your mother over how anal Catholicism can be.

Oi vey, less than perfect, no? I wish that I had the in-built intuition that so many other people I know have. Sadly, despite years of slugging it out, I'm still not the shiny part of a bald head.

I am you, with your head buried in your pillow as you scream your diaphragm out. Only prettier.