The error of my ways
Things started to go down hill around 3 PM when my allergies suddenly went into full drive. Spare me the ‘What the fucks?’ because I don’t even know. Who the hell gets allergies in the fall? FALL. Fall is for happiness and apples, not an allergy to dying leaves and humidity. And then I got all obsessive, natch. And then I went home.
Upon my arrival home I attempted to open the door quickly and in a huff and lo, the door, it was not only locked but dead bolted. While I appreciate the gesture for someone to come through and fix the walls, light fixtures and bulbs in my apartment, I have no dead bolt key. Which as you can see, would be a most excellent thing to have at that moment because no one wants a pissed off, obsessive woman locked out of her apartment. But like I said, I appreciate the very nice gesture of protecting my favorite IKEA mirror and Smashbox eye shadow from burglars. Of course in my haste and generally sour demeanor I called Peg and may have used a few choice words – because it’s all her fault, everything is, even when it isn’t, it is – and then hung up on her.
We are on a roll here people.
Here would be an excellent time for us to play a fun little guessing game: Remember the time that I wrote a few not so nice things about my leasing office? Did I mention that that first paragraph, with much of the not very niceness, was in the WaPo Express*? Did you know that the people who work in my leasing office read the WaPo Express? Did I ever let y’all know that while in San Ho, the head of my leasing office told me that from that point on I could only conduct business with them from outside of their “shabby offices”?
Yeah. Oh yeah.
Did you know that most people on the planet are considerably nicer than I? And that when I called the head of my leasing office – who is very nice and has pretty hair – about being locked out, she was nice enough to drive back to her office at 7:30 PM (DC traffic is also a bitch, and driving four blocks can take upwards of 20 minutes)? Then she was pleasant to me. PLEASANT! While I stood in her office gnawing on my nails and silently praying that she wouldn’t call me an evil whore with poor sentence structure. Then she gave me my keys and I cried. I fucking cried my entire way home because she was nice and I wasn’t and I deserved to be locked out and possibly punched in the head.
Earlier today, I was informed that I can be intimidating and scary. Or at least that’s how I can come off; as if I would jam a pen in someone’s eye. I was slightly taken aback by that statement and became mildly annoyed, though thankfully the person who brought the latter to my attention, called me on my bullshit and I felt sheepish and departed the conversation. What I’m saying is that I can be mean. Really mean and a straight up bitch, especially via the written word. Honestly though I’m not. You can even ask actual real life people who can tell you that I’m not at all mean but instead shy and quiet and rather pleasant and fun to be around. I suppose that now that I know that people think me intimidating and scary, I feel terribly. Especially when those that I’ve made vitriolic remarks towards and/or about are nothing but nice in return.
In short: I suck. A lot. Annnnnnd now would be a fantastic time to head on up to Martha’s Vineyard where I will be until Monday evening. I promise to return a little bit nicer and a lot less bitchy. Well that is if Peg allows me into her house, cause you know I like to share the bitchiness with all.
*It's a shorter version of the Washington Post. It's also free and given out by all of the metro stations. I don't read it, because I walk to work in the morning.