Slap A Bitch Alert Level: Red

Yesterday’s teeth-gritting rage has settled into a profound and far-reaching disappointment in my fellow humans. I don’t know what it is about folks, but it seems that no matter how low I set the bar, so many still have an uncanny ability—nay, need—to bang their shins against it.

My closest friend local to me has desisted in returning my calls. Sick of trying to figure out what, if anything, I might have done to alienate him or what, if anything, is the matter with him I have decided that I can not really be bothered to care. Shit, usually only people I’ve slept with avoid me like this. If I needed this in my life, I’d go back to having one night stands.

So, THAT annoyed me.

Then, after completing a week of work that was about nothing but trying to contain the idiocy and incompetence of others, I arrived home to care for the beasties and get ready for an evening out. Who then should call but someone from my other job!

Not just any someone, but my least favorite co-worker, the one who talks so much like the Chicken Lady from The Kids In The Hall and who, from all evidence, is actually incapable of doing anything more difficult that exchanging carbon dioxide for oxygen. Dimwit was calling to verify that I was working this evening. I suppose it is as well that she did because I am not, in fact, working tonight. Just. Not. I don’t know why exactly these fuckers are incapable of writing and disseminating a schedule that actually works, but after careful consideration I’ve concluded that it is not my fucking problem. Fuck it, fire me. Please.

The conversation was too ridiculous for reproduction here, suffice it to say that I believe this woman was actually shocked, SHOCKED, that I would have the audacity to decline another evening with a phone glued to my ear, trying to figure out which resident in my lobby needed a bath.

Then. Traffic. Which while it pissed me off, was followed closely by beer and then gin, so that was okay.