Yes, yes, yes. I know it can. I know that at this point, I’m just begging for it. You know what? I don’t fucking care.
I should have known that this day would go bad when shortly after midnight, I cut off half a mole while shaving my armpits, and didn’t even realize I did it until I went to turn a light off by my bathroom mirror 10 minutes later and found my entire right side covered in watered-down blood. I screamed, and cleaned it up with a washcloth. Problem is, when I screamed, Brian was on hold on the phone, which was sitting on my bed. He heard me scream, and for the two minutes I was cleaning myself up, couldn’t hear anything else. So after cleaning a bunch of nasty blood off of myself, I got to come back to a freaked-out Brian. But a slight bit of reassurance and a band-aid, and I figure everything’s fine.
Okay. So I wake up this morning at 7:00, and I can’t go back to sleep, even I have at least 3 hours with which to do so. Takes me 2 and a half to finally drift back off, and damn near the SECOND I do, there’s a knock on my door.
The locksmith is here, to change my locks. Problem is, according to the letter I got on my door yesterday, the locksmith wasn’t supposed to be there until Friday. Hell, the letter said I couldn’t even pick up my new keys until today, and the rental agency opened about five minutes before the guy knocked on my door.
So he starts changing the lock. Not a problem, say I. I have a few hours before I have to leave. He swears that as soon as I have to leave, I can hunt him down, and he will lock my door for me. This freaks me out, seeing as I don’t exactly appreciate the idea of a stranger with access to my apartment knowing I’m gone, but I see no other recourse.
I go to leave for class. Guess what? No locksmith. I sprint the two blocks to the rental agency and bitch up a storm. God knows HOW it takes 15 minutes to dig two keys out of a drawer, but it did. I run back to my apartment, but by this time I’m late to class, and I’m still a 12-minute walk away from it. Luckily, nothing was stolen, but needless to say I am going to write a scathing letter to my rental agency about this. Hopefully, they remembered to give the keys to the mailman. Last time, they forgot, and my mailmoron, instead of holding the mail at the post office, just sent it back as undeliverable. Thus causing a bunch of people to whom I owe money to freak out. But that is (and was) another rant.
So somewhere in here, I check my e-mail again, and there’s a response from my boss to a favor I asked of him. See, for one of my law school applications, I need character references. Nothing big–I just need to put down their name, address, and relationship to me–not even their phone number. He probably wouldn’t have to actually DO anything. So does he say I can use him? Of course not. Apparently, he’ll give me a fine and dandy WORK reference anytime I need one, but God forbid that he can judge my character just by the fact that I WORKED FOR HIM FOR A FUCKING YEAR AND A HALF! So there goes that character reference. Hell, damn near every person who knows me well enough for me to put them down is already writing me a letter of recommendation. I’m so desperate I’m about to use my oldest friend as one–hell, she knows my character better than the “friends of the family” that my mom is suggesting.
Okay. Flash forward to work, which is fine, other than a stupid neverending paper jam in one of the printers. No biggie. And while I’m surfing the internet, I suddenly get a brilliant idea, which involves ordering something online. Thing is, I can’t get things sent to my apartment. I have no safe place to store packages, and I’m rarely there during the day when things are delivered. So I have stuff sent to Brian’s workplace, and he brings them back to me when he comes up.
Well, first I have a problem submitting the new shipping address. And when it finally goes through, I click on “Update Order” just like it tells me to. On the new order form it gives me, the billing address and shipping address are both exactly as I want them to be. Fine. I click “Place Order.”
Guess what. Shipping and Billing addresses are the same–both mine.
This thing cost me $35, all told. The order form told me I was having it shipped to Brian’s workplace. The fucking confirmation sheet said differently. Fucking BASTARDS. If it’s shipped to my place, it’s as good as fucking lost, and it’s NOT MY FAULT. I sent them an e-mail 30 minutes ago. Have I heard a response? Of course not. Fucking jerkoffs.
At this rate, I’ll end up getting hit by a bus this weekend. But not before I fail my midterm tomorrow, I’m sure.
I’m wondering who I pissed off to deserve this karma.
