a hate song, or some well deserved complaining

Hate Song 04.08.2011

I hate people who try to burgle workplaces and end up ruining computers.
I hate taking 15 minutes to drive five blocks because of traffic and too short lights.
I hate the Apple store.
I hate cancelled GeniusBar appointments.
And I hate having to wait half an hour for another GenuisBar appointment.
I hate having to wait with my million-pound computer in tow.
I hate the Apple store refusing to hold on to my million-pound computer.
I hate not being able to shop while I wait because of aforementioned million-pound computer.
I hate talking to Apple store employees.
I hate exiting crowded parking garages.
I hate people who cross on red lights.
And I hate cars that stop at green ones.

Stretchy pants are so happening tonight.

{my inspiration}

find your own parking place, stupid

{prelude: One Thanksgiving Emily, Jessie, and I were making chocolate turkeys when Emily looks over at me and says derisively, "You're putting too much frosting on, stupid." Now that term is part of our vernacular. It's one of the most inside of inside jokes. When I use this, I'm not being as abrasive as I sound.}

Josh and I pay for our reserved parking space in the complex. It's right outside the building and should be open whenever we're not there. Because, you know, we pay for it. It's ours.

Sunday night a black sedan was parked in our spot.

Monday night the car was still there. I would have left a note on the offending vehicle but had a 1-percent uncertainty that the carport really was ours. I called the management office yesterday morning to double-check, and I was right.

Then last night a different car was parked in my spot. I was livid.

I left a note on the windshield tersely explaining that this parking spot is reserved and that I couldn't park there tonight because of the offending vehicle. I asked them to move the car ASAP and that if it happened again I would call a tow truck.

What I really wanted to write, though, was, "Find your own parking place, stupid."

wondering?

Wondering how my cake baking is going so far? Don't. Just don't ask. I'm despondent.

an unappreciated patron

I went to Borders today, partly for Christmas . . . and partly for myself. I was having trouble finding a particular title, and after looking for it in the specified shelves without success, I asked an employee for help. Yeah, I get that retail during the holidays must be hellish, but does it really justify the response I got?

Me: "I'm having trouble finding _______ [please excuse the censorship—it is Christmas]. Do you know where I could find it?"

Obviously disgruntled employee: "Well, you have to look by the author's last name, not by the title."

Me in my head: "Did you really just say that to me? I'm a longstanding patron of this establishment and given the fact that I'm 22 and a college senior, I do, in fact, know how to navigate a bookstore. Thanks. Thanks for nothing."

I found the book on my own.

Brief rant

Get this: I am, at the very moment of writing this, in the library finally studying.

I get to the library, find a table, get settled, and then other people sit down and just start chatting it up with each other. Then more people come and join, and I'm just sitting there trying to study 401Ks and the origins of paper. Agh!!!

I move upstairs.

And once again I sit down at a table where just five minutes after getting all my stuff out again people decide to come and congregate and catch up on life. Because it's not like the library is for anything academic, right? It's just a social gathering place, no? And really, it's not like I have midterms or anything.

Just chat away. Really. Don't mind me.

ZT to the max.

ZT

When I was a teenager, my patience level was practically nil; we called it "Zero Tolerance," ZT for short. Thankfully I've mellowed out since my teen years, and things that used to bother me don't anymore, or at least not as much. I'm markedly more laid back at twenty-one than I was at fifteen. So what's funny is that what I have the most ZT for is stupid teenager antics, those teenagers being the age I was when my ZT peaked.

Last night I went with the family to my brother, John's, spring choral concert. I was really excited to see him perform, and he was excellent, but all of the whooping and cat calls from barely pubuscent students just about drove me out of my mind. Behind where we were sitting, standing in one of the entrances to the auditorium was this group of boys (I'm not sure if they were in high school or not--I'm thinking not?); they were loud, obnoxious, and sported vile heads of dreadlocks. They would clap really loud and much longer than everyone else and yelled things into the crowd. My ZT levels spiked significantly. And I can't forget to mention the senior in the choir who refused to put on a '70s costume and wore an "I'm from the future" sign instead or the twenty-five minute awards ceremony when it was already 9:15 or the sloppy layabout sixteen-year-old boys who thought that their long, stringy, unwashed hair was cool.

I loved watching my little brother perform--he makes me smile, and I love him dearly. But the longer and longer I'm out of high school, the more and more glad I am that I never have to go back. Ever.