Psycho busy. Asked possible future team member to do me a favor (that said person can charge me for) because Awesome Competent Guy is on vacation.
It’s not AWC’s job but he gets shit done. Ergo, we are friends.
Prospective person writes back that I can do it my damn self.
As we learned too many times before, you can’t hope that someone will rise to meet everyone else’s road. Most just drag you down their ditch.
And when I get there, Imma beat a motherfucker’s ass.
One thing I do have to say positive about Pinhead …
I thought this was the stupidest person I ever met in my whole entire life. But maybe there is a living brain cell in there somewhere, to be a dick until the bitter end.
I can almost respect that. Of course, like victory, it was probably accidental.
I’ve been trying to exhibit grace and not write about Pinhead.
Let’s say Pinhead is a pus-filled zit that was recently popped. Gushing, flooding, oozing, steaming hot bowl of goo. And realize that is the kindest thing I can say right now.
Pinhead needs somebody to wipe their ass for them at all times. Everyone tiptoed around Pinhead. I tried to pretend Pinhead was a ghost. That was the best and only reaction to a nuisance.
Pinhead is waiting for their final reward for gracing the world with their presence. But lo, Pinhead AS USUAL cannot do what is required of Pinhead to receive Pinhead’s final reward.
(You can see I’m staying gender-neutral here, eh? BOIL ON THE BUTT OF HUMANITY is all you need to know.)
So guess what, we have to bow down and grant Pinhead’s last request. Even though Pinhead has done nothing to deserve anything from anyone.
I’m going back to pretending Pinhead was dead. And trying hard not to marvel that no one — I repeat, no one — would have shown as much grace toward me as as been shown toward Pinhead.
LANCE THAT FUCKER ONCE AND FOR ALL.
I call the shitheads upstairs the Ubangis. As in, they bang-ee shit against the floors a good 14 hours a day, slam drawers and otherwise move shit around constantly.
This is in addition to their blasting of horrible music, their small kids falling and screaming, the couple screaming at each other and other general unpleasantness I hear through the very thin (and bare) floors.
I finally met the fuckers tonight. Although “met” isn’t the right word. It was more like I’d had enough of their shit and I ran upstairs with the intent of glaring at their door until they died from the death rays shooting out of my eyes.
The cops told me they were violent and to not approach them. The guy is a good 6-foot-5, so yeah he could definitely snap my fat widdle neck.
The kids are a barely walking toddler and another girl of about 5. I assumed they were boys because they BANG SHIT OFF THE FLOOR like it’s their job.
The older girl was running and hollering and bouncing off the walls of the hallway. The baby SCREAMED the whole way as they walked to the parking garage.
I went to another entrance to the garage. They park directly above me so I know the spots belong to their unit. They had music BLASTING out of their two cars. The older girl ran up and down the garage floor, bellowing and screaming.
The mother was there. Looking evil. Funny that she probably is the one who stomps around the loudest. I hear her following her husband from room to room, screaming at him.
They stopped yelling over the music to look at me. The husband almost smiled.
I contemplated being friendly so I could talk to them. And the “Fuck It, I Hope You DIE” wave washed over me. I glared at them all and walked away.
They treat this place like a ghetto. I bet the people who live adjacent to the garage didn’t care for their concert. But it only lasted maybe five minutes. By the time I got back to my unit, they started stomping and rolling shit around almost instantly.
You know how people joke that, if they see a spider, they will do the only reasonable thing … burn the house down.
That’s the same feeling they inspire in me.
How can they not know what pieces of shit they are? And just how much would they harm me if I let them know in no uncertain terms?
OMG KILL.
Me to Mom: I was talking to (powerful friend). I mentioned (so-and-so) might contact them for a job.
Mom: What did (powerful friend) say?
Me: That (so-and-so) isn’t smart enough to think of doing that. Also, that they wouldn’t get past the front door.
Mom: No one in their right mind would hire that person. (So-and-so) needs to move out of the state.
First day I didn’t wake up screaming in a long time.
I am very very happy today. 
My new favorite word must be dipwad. Given how many times I’ve said it.
The good news is, I come up with a new word every week. So if anyone ever finds my phone (*gulp*), they’ll think I just know a lot of, um, short-bus drivers who are a couple tacos shy of a value meal because they couldn’t find their ass cheeks even with Siri’s help. Noodles.
So yeah. Look at the pretty photos instead if you get your hands on my phone. But perhaps stay away from some of the videos … 😉
After a day dealing with Convoluted and Combative (same person), I came home to the neighbors pounding on my door and staring at it hatefully when I didn’t open it.
I complained again. What do they plan to do to me if I would open that door?
They are young. Honestly they look to be 19 years old. Like everyone else here. What do they have to be so angry about?
The HOA called their unit owner to complain. I know it’s a “four strikes, you’re out” policy. I think this is my third time getting them in trouble with their landlord.
I hope they can calm down. I hope Convoluted becomes less Combative. But I feel like I have a better chance of evicting the neighbors than the other.
I used to make up nicknames for people.
Now I do entire songs about them.
At my old apartment, I used to adapt Christmas carols “in the key of Dump.” I had dozens of ’em. People knew me because I was always the asshole singing through the hallways.
I sing when I drive, too. When I’m white-knuckling it amid the blue-hairs and wack jobs who got their license out of Cracker Jack boxes.
So now when I sit and sing, it’s my grandest hope that people don’t understand the words.
Or maybe my grandest hope is that they do.
Because, if someone making up lyrics about you doesn’t “learn ya,” I really don’t know what would.
It’s the day my goldfish can swim all through their little plastic castle and I don’t have to hear their gills flapping and their glee at, “Oooh, castle!” every time they whoosh by.
Goldfish are shiny and nice to have around. But that’s their only purpose. Ultimately they have to be flushed away.
I think what separates me from the rest of the fish school is this. While we all make mistakes, at least I keep life interesting by making new ones.
It’s the same ones — that get worse every time — that make me want to rip off their gills and stuff them up their little fishy butts.