Friday, May 12, 2006

What a week, what a world

Things I have learned in the last week:

1. People are assholes.
2: Cats can puke a lot.
3. People are assholes.
4. People are dumb.
5. My boyfriend is awesome.
6. People are assholes.

OK, so I already knew all of that stuff but Jesus fuck, why must I be reminded in such technicolor fucking brilliance?

The women who's supposed to be training/giving me all of her work because she has new duties and responsibilities is a beast. A downright snarling stinking passive-aggressive dyke haircut but she's not a lesbian that shouldn't be allowed Hawaiian shirt wearing unpleasant to be around beast. And I found out she's been holding out on me but won't tell me why. So for the last 2 months I've been stretching out a whole fucking week with about 4 hours of real work to do and trying to keep myself from jamming a mechanical pencil into my fucking skull when all along she had a shitload of stuff to give me but didn't. Bitch.

Oi with the puking! It's like that pie-eating contest scene from Stand By Me. Every. Goddamn. Day. Sometimes more than once. Both of them. Oi!

I got a letter from the accounting firm that used to do my taxes that they'd filed an extension for me. Exsqueeze me? I already did my taxes this year all by myself thankyouverymuch! Why didn't anyone fucking call me before doing that? So, I called them. And I hardly yelled at all. And the asshole got mad at me for not being appreciative of their favor. Um, hello, dickwad. Filing an extension when I didn't need one, not consulting your client, and setting me up for a possible audit and definate charges from the IRS is NOT A FUCKING FAVOR. Asshole.

The internet and all the freaks on it. Need I say more. No. I didn't think so.

I was home sick yesterday because Boo and I had a really bad night and didn't sleep what with the puking and hot flashes and crawling over my face 100 billion times. I felt like broiled crap and needed a day in bed. Then my tummy got wonky and I e-mailed whitey to please bring me home some crackers and diet Sprite and maybe some chocolate chip cookies too. Which he did. And he even remembered everything and got all the brands right. I loves him.

You just can't go anywhere, talk to anyone, deal with anything, without encountering surly fuckers. Try to shop at the mall, teenage surly fuckers. Try to drive on the freeway, entitled surly fuckers. Call your cable company that fucked up the billing and you ended paying them twice, and a hefty $150 sum at that, bitchy surly fuckers. It all gets so damn tiring. Customer Service departments should be renamed Surly Fuckers. And I still don't have my credit! Fuckers.


In other news, I'm still doing research on moving somewhere in the great Northwest but not putting all my brain power into it since I'm not doing anything with Boo in this limbo state of health. Therefore the panic attacks have decreased which I'm not sure is a good or bad sign because I know something must be done but will I ever have the balls to do it. Meh.

We went to the Del Mar Grand Prix last weekend (which is a horse jumping show for all you people popping a boner over the thought of cars whizzing around a track because, hell,
I don't think so, or for anyone scratching their head saying huh?) It was just an OK night for me but whitey had a great time. The competition itself was sort of dull with no one doing a clean round and some of the crashes were horribly spectacular. A horse actually went down then ran off limping which was one of the most awful things I've ever seen. The rider was better off than his mount and I hope they're alright. And I only spent $80 on stupid shit I won't use which is way better than the $150 I laid down last year.


Conversation watching TV:

him: Man, that Michael Douglas sure is creepy.
me: Yea, he's the kind of guy who'd stick his finger up your ass without even asking.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Reason number four million and two why I'm crazy

I'm thinking of selling my house and moving to another state.

It's giving me panic attacks and stomach distress.