Brimming

Brimming with anger
Crappy shitty no good day
Has gotten me down

Holy shit.  What a fucking crappy day. Had to endure a fat whale of a client clucking on about random shit that she pulls out of her ballooning head – just to hear herself talk, while I sit there and take it up the ass.  Yep, I'm taking it in the keester, smiling patiently while she rams condescending "Oh, I know it's not your fault, I just wanted to make sure we document each of the 1,298,980 steps we have going forward for this process.. and I would know so because I have a Wharton MBA... evidently."  Just slap me around and stick some needles under my nails or something -- for the love of God, I can't take the bullshit any more.

At some point, there is a limit to my dealing with sad unhappy bitter people who take their misery out on other people by making their jobs absolute hell.

Not to mention that although I really try hard to be a listener to Candice sometimes, most of the time I can't stop myself but be confrontational.  I've gotten better at it though, after our fiftieth fight about "Sometimes I just want you to listen!  And not comment!  Why does everything have to have your opinion!"  Excuse me, but huh, if you want someone to listen, just go record yourself and play it back. Record. Play back.  What the hell do you want me to do?  Sometimes I think girlfriends would prefer it if guys didn't talk at all and just agree with whatever the hell they say.  I must admit I'm getting better at that.   Like this afternoon, when I could have seriously gone off moralizing about the virtues of Judeo-Christian compassion vis-a-vis the atrocious welfare state of the richest most powerful country on earth comparative to the recent Katrina tragedy, I didn't – I held my tongue and let her go on about her crappy day, cause deep deep down, I respect her tremendously for cancelling her flight, going down to Texas and helping out those poor people when she could be living it up in a nice dining compartment in her Trans Siberian Express... she didn't have to go down there and deal with the bureaucracy and the ungratefulness and the unease and all that rot...

But all the while I'm wondering how the hell am I going to survive this fatass client without being squished (or squashed) in the coming months.  That and little dipshits around the office are taking it upon themselves to check up on me .. on my work!  Little dipshits -- on a Friday afternoon.. at 6 pm!  If they can only leave me alone to develop my listening skills with Candice.  Fuck me.

Add to all that rot is the fucking fact that my Ipod has decided not to work.  I spent hours uploading new songs for Candice so she can go blow around the world with gems like "En Vogue" and "Boyz II Men" while adding some stuff like "Arcade Fire" or "Clap Your Hands Say Yeah"... and while her Ipod synched up fine, mine decided to go and play dead.  So I:

• Updated all the new software.  Nope.
• Tested to make sure it wasn't my cable.  Nope.
• Tried to restore my Ipod.  Nope.
• Fuck it.  Tried to restore factory settings.

It worked for a bit before I get the screen of death with the exclamation point and the message "cannot find your Ipod".  Nope.  I'm tech-savvy enough to know that when I see an exclamation mark on the screen, it must mean that 1) some deep shit is going down 2) the machine doesn't like me or 3) it's slightly confused and if I let it nap a little everything will be fine.

I frantically clicked on any buttons to see if it works and thank the Almighty Apollo, god of music and the lyre, my songs were still on.  Finally, one good thing for today. So I:

• Tried playing a song.  Nope.
• Another one. Nope.
• Another another another one. Nope nope nope.
• One more? Oh yes. One song. Fucking Boyz II Men.
• Another one. Nope.
• #$&%!. Fuck fuck fuck!

So apparently the 'restore' has erased part of my Ipod (80%), leaving the song titles still but not the fucking music.  Fuck Apollo, that little whiney ass softie with his golden locks and bitchin sandals..  Apparently my Ipod, beyond being a wicked evil thing, is also incompetent.  It can't even fuck up right.  Now, I can't get anything to sync up.

So off to the Genius Bar we go.  Except I have to make an appointment to see a support dick.  Except appointments fill up quickly.  Except you can only make appointments from 8 am to 2 pm.  Fuck.  Whose genius idea was this, to fucking up reservations online for a fucking question about why my dammed Ipod won't work.

But the stickler is, I don't have my warranty cause while I was being a good little boy by doing some pre-move cleaning, I threw out the Ipod box.  And I only got the thing 8 months ago!  So fucking fucking rot!  Sod to all of them.

And no one is buying my scooter. But you can check out the ad here.

I think I'm going bald.  I can see the horseshoe shape already, encroaching on my temples like barbarians overrunning the empire, mowing down the tangled jungle of my follicles.  Fuck.  Fuck fuck!  I see my head grinning at me.  On certain days, I can totally tell where the hair is thinning.. the clear and concise – mathematical even – lines of demarcation that separates the sides of my head from the patch on top.  Fuck it.  Fuck math.

Mom has diabetes, Dad has coronary blockage and I am getting bald.  But Claudia gave me bitchin shirts today from her sample sales!