I can't handle it when someone is a swarthy know-it-all when they don't have the grainy knowledge to back up their claims. Artificiality just bugs me. I'm not talkin' about artificial hair color or artificial boobs (which bug me aesthetically, but I believe a person has a right to alter themselves in whatever way they wish)--I'm talking about not having the salt to back up your swagger.
For example, today I went to Changing Hands (used bookstore on 6th & Virginia) and bought an old beat-up paperback copy of Anne Rice's The Vampire Lestat. This is a guilty pleasure book for me and I had the huge imposing hardback version of it checked out from the library and reading it was distracting me. Anne Rice writes some compelling vampire fiction, but it's fluff. I know it's fluff and I want the physical presence to be honest about its fluffiness. That five pound brick with the shiny gold lettering was too pretentious for the meat inside, so I had to buy the paperback. The cheesy '80s paperback with a generic picture of some gnarly tree branches with a house inexplicably in the background is infinitely more real because it represents what's inside. This is how I like my bad fiction--with a bad cover. Something wherein I can bend the spine backwards and spill coffee and shove hastily into my purse when someone I respect almost catches me reading it. Something that is cognizant of its own shamefulness and doesn't try to be big and important.
And I also hate it when pretty people who are not smart think they are. The pretty boy who thinks he's deep when he's daft and dull and self-involved. Ugh, that moment where you realize the package is not at all representative of the viscera within and it hits you like a slap in the face. Afterwards you no longer find them as pretty, and it's like a tiny death, because you always hope against all odds that the drop dead gorgeous ones have a brain...I hate that moment!
And I hate it when people proclaim things with factual certainty because they heard it from someone they know. Critical thinking, people!
I also can't stand it when people describe something that happened to them years ago with lurid detail, as if they really remember it that vividly.
And then there's pretentiousness. That's basically what that hardback Lestat book was trying to be, but also there's just plain human snobbery. Acceptance is way hotter than better-than-thouness, and please don't EVER talk in the third person. You are not that important. I could never be friends with a celebrity because how can you possibly stay "down-to-earth" when you're constantly having your ass kissed? I have a theory about famous people becoming evil that goes with this whole thing, but I'll save the blather for another blog or my zine or somethin'. A few of you have heard this rant already anyway...
Don't be a bad historian of your own life! Know what you know and what you don't know. Question everything! Be truthful. Ok, I'm sounding ridiculous and cliche-y now, so I'm going to stop.