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So think I killed someone recently. It was not my intent to kill them (that would be first degree murder), but rather a course of circumstances that I was involved in lead to their probable death (second degree manslaughter–a far lighter sentence). But we’ll get to that in a moment.
Recently I attempted to sell a mobile phone I was no longer using. A year ago it was top of the line, but I didn’t care much for it and hardly used it (I’m old school: I need a keyboard). I posted the phone on craigslist for $200 because they were selling for about $250 on eBay and I saw nothing cheaper than $240 on craigslist.
Ahh craigslist…it’s a great place to buy and sell goods. Unfortunately, you have to deal with craigslist people. I don’t think highly of craigslist people: you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy outside of craigslist. Sure, craigslist is great when you’re trading with a decent person. But in my experience, 95 percent of craiglisters are illiterate, stupid, cheap, rude, dishonest, or just downright annoying.
Part of it is my doing. I sell things cheap so I’m dealing with . . . . .
One of my job duties as an after school babysitter/tutor is to provide snacks for the children. The logic is that by the time 3:00 rolls around, the little rugrats are jonesing for some nutrients. My job is to provide those nutrients in the form of salty, dry pretzels and sugar-filled Capri Suns.
(Side note: Capri Suns have become much easier to drink though out the years. When I was a kid it was nearly impossible to put straw through the pouch. Back then the plastic was made of some indestructible material that also could be used to protect the gold in Fort Knox. It took a tremendous amount of force to piece the pouch, which–if not aimed correctly–would often lead to bent straws. My mom would often to use a hole punch because the pouches would not welcome the penetrating straw. Heck, often the easiest way to drink a Capri Sun was to flip it over and stick the straw in the bottom [feel free to draw your own conclusion from this perverted metaphor]. Sure, you had to hold the drink because then it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own–but at least you got your juice. . . . . .
I haven’t had much to be proud of lately. I work at a job that suits the financial needs of a teenager. I haven’t had a good haircut since 2008. I’m a burden on society and take more in government aid than I pay in taxes. But I can proudly proclaim I had a gas-free October. I filled up my gas tank on November 2nd. The last time I bought gas before that was September 23rd–meaning I did not buy gas for the entire month of October. Driving a highly fuel-efficient Honda played a big part in that, but I’ve had the car for almost four years and I’ve been getting 35 miles per gallon from the beginning. I was able to go six weeks in between fill-ups thanks to a perfect storm of events that left my car at home more often than not (no, it didn’t break down–it’s a Honda). Since I’m only taken one class, I only go to school once a week. October was filled with rainouts and byes, so I had only a couple softball games all month. And since work is a mere four-minute walk, it’d be wasteful to drive there. I typically go . . . . .
While using a public restroom earlier today, I couldn’t help but notice the, uh, ‘artwork’ that decorated the stalls. Besides the dirty lyrics and phone numbers of girls looking for a good time, there were quite a few penises drawn on the walls. What compelled a man to draw a penis (I’m assuming man–this was a men’s room)? Much like any other drawing, it’s a skill that is perfected and mastered through time. Did Matt Groening draw a perfect Homer first time he sketched with his crayons? Of course not–through practice, he evolved to the point he could sketch the entire Simpson family in about 15 seconds. Same is probably true for the penis-sketchers. They spend their free time doodling ding-a-lings that they can throw one on a bathroom wall in seconds. I find a bit of irony in that. Those who write are walls do so to prove their manhood. They tend to be lowlife scumbags who masquerade in a macho persona. But if you’re a guy who spends his free time drawing penis replications, exactly how manly are you? If anything, that kinda fascinated with male genitals strikes me as a bit gay. But that’s just my take. . . . . .
I had a couple incidents today on the road that made me realize the world is full of idiots (okay, maybe I didn’t learn that today–but I needed something to open this topic). I went to a gas station for a fill up. The gas station was pretty busy and most terminals were full. Two spots opened on the same side of one island. I was behind a woman who pulled into the first spot…and stopped her car. Because she didn’t pull all the way up to the first pump, I had to drive all the way around the station and attempt to back into the spot. This whole thing coulda been avoided if she just pulled all the way up.
I know she had to see me behind her–she had to…otherwise she was completely clueless to her surroundings. Either she saw me or she forgot the whole looking-in-rearview-mirrors-thing they teach in driver’s ed. If she didn’t see me, I don’t wanna be anywhere near this dame when she makes a lane change.
I’m leaning towards she did see me–which means one of two things.
1) She saw me and didn’t think to pull up to the first pump.2) She . . . . .
Been kind of a slow week–two weeks. Nothing interesting happened to me. nothing to complain about. Despite the drought, I still feel compelled to post something. Instead of resorting to reruns, I’ll dig up something I wrote a few months back but never posted. Just ’cause it didn’t happen yesterday doesn’t mean it isn’t interesting.
Who am I kidding? None of this is interesting.
Last night some idiot parked in my driveway. I was angered because it’s a total sign of disrespect. I’m not talking about a designated parking spot with a “reserved” sign. I don’t mean parked in front of my house. I don’t even mean parked in an area that all of my neighbors and I have come to accept as ‘my spot.’ I mean he literally parked in my driveway. There’s no grey area. It’s the spot right in front of my house separated from the street. It has my personal property in front and to the side of it. This arsehole knew exactly what he was doing when he parked in my driveway–it’s not the sorta mistake one can accidentally make.
Imagine the frustration one feels when coming home from work to find a stranger’s . . . . .
I’m getting tired of fighting the good fight. Corporate America keeps screwing up and I’m the one who has to fix it. I’m starting to realize why most folks don’t care–it takes too much time resolve a billing error. Too much stress. Too much hassle.
I can’t even begin to tell you how much time I wasted with my credit card fiasco a few weeks back. Easily three or four hours. Not too mention all the stress it caused me. And for what? It was a situation that was entirely not my fault.
Well no more. See, all the corporations have no problem charging us extra here or there because most people don’t notice or care enough to do anything about it. But not me (I only get dicked over by family). I call and complain and get the situation resolved.
But it doesn’t seem fair. Why should I hafta do this? Why should I have to waste my time to fix your screw up? The companies don’t care about your time–it doesn’t cost them a dime. Well not anymore. An idea came to me this week when T-Mobile screwed up my phone bill: restitution. The way I see it, . . . . .
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