Disproportionately irritated
I am not a patient person, or a tolerant person. I try not to use this space too much for ranting purposes, but it's one of those mornings:
Screw you, front desk person at the Hilton, telling me I have a "house" reservation, meaning I get whatever crappy room you put me in, even though my reservation confirmation clearly says "Non-smoking confirmed." And screw you for secretly calling maintenance to remove the ashtray after I showed you my confirmation. I know you totally put me in a smoking room, and I'm writing a letter.
And you, three different people from the same organization calling and emailing and leaving me voice mails asking for my street address, because FedEx won't ship to my P.O. Box, even though I gave you my business card, and always include the street address in my email signature, and forwarded the address after the first email.
And you, cab driver wearing too much cologne and having the radio so loud that you drive me to K Street instead of P Street, because really, they sound so much alike.
And you, Cosi that's actually on K Street, for not having s'mores. What kind of Cosi doesn't offer s'mores at the table?!
And you, Union Station McDonald's, for your ice cream machine being nonfunctional.
And you, Victory 2005 survey designers, for telling the pollster on my doorstep to convert my "I will not be voting for either of those candidates" to "undecided."
And, finally, you, black hole into which so much of my stuff -- including my black dress with the purple flowers, the ring that the Smelmooo gave me for Christmas in 2001, my favorite bracelet from my mom, and Tucker's very sturdy, rainbow-colored rope -- has disappeared.
That felt good. Now I'm done, and will be little miss sunshine for the rest of the day.
Screw you, front desk person at the Hilton, telling me I have a "house" reservation, meaning I get whatever crappy room you put me in, even though my reservation confirmation clearly says "Non-smoking confirmed." And screw you for secretly calling maintenance to remove the ashtray after I showed you my confirmation. I know you totally put me in a smoking room, and I'm writing a letter.
And you, three different people from the same organization calling and emailing and leaving me voice mails asking for my street address, because FedEx won't ship to my P.O. Box, even though I gave you my business card, and always include the street address in my email signature, and forwarded the address after the first email.
And you, cab driver wearing too much cologne and having the radio so loud that you drive me to K Street instead of P Street, because really, they sound so much alike.
And you, Cosi that's actually on K Street, for not having s'mores. What kind of Cosi doesn't offer s'mores at the table?!
And you, Union Station McDonald's, for your ice cream machine being nonfunctional.
And you, Victory 2005 survey designers, for telling the pollster on my doorstep to convert my "I will not be voting for either of those candidates" to "undecided."
And, finally, you, black hole into which so much of my stuff -- including my black dress with the purple flowers, the ring that the Smelmooo gave me for Christmas in 2001, my favorite bracelet from my mom, and Tucker's very sturdy, rainbow-colored rope -- has disappeared.
That felt good. Now I'm done, and will be little miss sunshine for the rest of the day.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home