Here’s the thing about me: I am not a nice person. Some, in fact, would describe me as a big asshole with no compassion for other people. And that’s a really accurate description:

I’m the kind of person that will lay on the couch all day and then bitch and moan because the dishes aren’t done.

I’m the kind of person that will yell at you for yelling at me because your day sucked.

I’m the kind of person that will rain on your parade, shit on your daisies, and tell that Double Rainbow fellow to go fuck himself.

I’m the kind of person that only sees your shortcomings and will never praise what you do right.

I’m the kind of person that begrudges other people’s success. I’m also the kind of person that will complain because I’m not successful, yet I will continue to sit around and do nothing. (See: Everyone Else’s Blogs. Also: People Who Get Jobs For Which They Applied.)

I’m the kind of person who wrinkles her nose at your outfit or your hairstyle or your makeup or your kid, all the while knowing that I couldn’t fit in that outfit, my hair would never do that, my makeup is all gone and I don’t have kids.

I’m the kind of person who probably talks about you behind your back.

I’m the kind of person who never asks how you are, but spends 45 of your 200 cell phone minutes talking about why my life is terrible.

I’m the kind of person who doesn’t return books, clothes or wine glasses.

I’m the kind of person that never keeps promises.

I’m the kind of person who couldn’t finish a task or follow through on, well, anything if life depended on it.

I’m the kind of person who pretends to do work all day but instead dicks around on the Internet.

I’m the kind of person who feels entitled. To everything.

I’m the kind of person who doesn’t feel bad because you worked all day in 95 degree heat. Actually, I’d rather know why you haven’t cooked my dinner yet.

I’m the kind of person who never chips in enough money for the group gift.

I’m the kind of person who would rather email you, tweet you or Facebook-message you than pick up the phone to call you.

I’m the kind of person who writes “you’re in my prayers” on sympathy cards but never really prays.

I’m the kind of person who will give you the smaller half of the cookie.

I’m the kind of person who fakes phone calls when you show up in my office door.

I’m the kind of person who will tell you that I hate that shirt/purse/pair of shoes or sunglasses because really I want them for myself.

I’m the kind of person who is taking up space that could be used by someone with a heart.

But.

I am the kind of person who will admit it.