Without going into all the gory, whiny-ass details, here are the bullet points:
* It rained, my bedroom flooded, and this will very likely be a huge fucking pain in my ass sometime in the near future.
* My fabu custom boots from Australia? Took a month to get here, didn't fit and smelled funny. Sending them back for another pair. Thin veneer of high hopes over a gaping pit of black fury and bitterness. Yay!
* I'm a fucking jackass who managed to bump a cement column in a parking garage while returning a carshare vehicle, scratching the passenger door all to fuck. No word yet on the damages, but goodbye to a couple hundred bucks minimum, I'm sure. (Hilariously, earlier that day I made a crack about hitting some doofus because my damage waiver was only $500. I should learn to shut the fuck up.)
There are some very good things I'm working on to counteract the steaming pile of shit outlined above...but it's all still in diaphonous process, as compared to the very here-and-now certainty of suckitude that's been parading through my life as if I invited it. Which, you know, on some cosmic level I'm sure I did, karma being what it is. Although, not for nothing, but whose cornflakes did I piss in?!
Meanwhile, here's a little public service message from me to you, jerkoff assfaces of the world: the phrase "sorry if you took it the wrong way" may *seem* like it's some kind of apology (what with the starting with the word "sorry" and all), but in fact, it's not. It's a nonpology. It actually conveys the message: "You're an oversensitive whinyass booby who can't take a joke. You oughtta lighten up and realize that the only reason you're pissed off is because you don't even know what's good for you. Which *I* clearly do, so do what I tell you, bitch!" Yeah, stop saying that, unless you like hearing me say "fuck off."
In other news, I may be making a surprise flying trip to Boston for work, sometime in the next couple weeks - not certain yet, but it could happen (regardless of whether I want it to or not). And that goes along with the fact that here I am, still at the office at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday. Fuck me, I'm going home.
Loud-mouthed liberal feminist. Anarchist knitter. Tequila-drinking artsy-smartsy fat chick. Bluesy folk-rock singer-songwriter. Rebel with too many causes. Quirky eclectic pagan poet. Paradoxical intuitive smartass. Sarcastic brainiac insomniac. You know, for starters.