Srsly. I’ve been diseased since like Christmas. It needs to stop. I slept like forever today. Isn’t that supposed to cure disease? Rest? I’m sure I heard that somewhere once.
At work, they reset your sick and personal time each year in December. They pay out any unused time and start the counter over. You get all your personal time at once, but your sick time trickles in a few hrs each month. Since I went home early on Saturday, I have like 3 hrs left. If I’m still running a fever tomorrow, I’m going to have to call out and use my personal time which really kind of sucks. Especially with the whole starting a new position and all. Oh, and the being in training bit, which ends this week. I hate being sick. I hate goofy company policies even more, though. Who the hell resets sick time in the middle of COLD AND FLU SEASON. Truly an inspired decision.
I’d rather not call out, but I guess it all depends on how I feel in the morning. I’ll end by quoting myself from a previous post where I quoted the Despair newsletter: “Rock out with your frock out!”
That still makes me laugh. Isn’t laughter supposed to cure disease? Laughter? I’m sure I heard that somewhere once.
So Sharon just found a place where you can send the Google team comments about their photo organizer software Picasa. I would say that I have used Picasa, but that would not be accurate. More correctly, Picasa has used me. When I first got Picasa, I was bright eyed and full of hope. It looked like it would be really good! I had been searching for just the right software to handle my pictures for some time, and Picasa was like Princess Hotness riding to the rescue. I downloaded it and installed it, and that’s when things went wrong. I am considering sending the comments below to Google, so that maybe they can get some help for Picasa. I would hate to see others abused as I have been.
The web form asks: “Share how Picasa has changed the way you edit and share your photos. Send us your story.”
My proposed reply:
“How has Picasa changed the way I edit and share my photos? Simply put sirs, it has stopped me from partaking of either of those activities. I find that when I wish to organize photographs, being kicked in the Mean Bean Machine™ is a strong disincentive to do it again! Also, the prejudicial behavior shown by Picasa towards certain, seemingly random photos, taken with my various digital cameras which cause the program to either crash to the desktop or hang makes me drink to excess, which is clearly playing into Picasa’s hands, as now i am just as drunk as she is and wont mind the beatings so much. And the willful misreading of date stamps? The less said about that, the better. But I am strong. I am not an object to be abused. I have left Picasa, and now live in the shadowy underbelly of the world of digital photos. Sure, I still take new photos, but i keep them in simple directories (My Photos/[Name of Event]) on a hard drive that Picasa does not scan, safe from her prying eyes. I rarely share them, lest her sister, Google Talk, tell her of my infidelities. I most certainly refrain from editing them for that would certainly bring Picasa’s heavy, booze fueled backhand to fly across my face. In closing, i have been deeply psychologically impacted by Picasa and will never share and edit digital photos again. I hope you’re happy.”
Much like the Cylons, I have a plan. It may not end in horrible, horrible genocide, but I will find a habitable place to live. Maybe even a place called Earth. Much thanks goes to my good and dear bestest friend Sharon, who is truly more my family than either of my idiot gene donors. Some say you can’t choose your family. I say that I just did.
“I’m not saying this to be mean, but you’re a complete and total disappointment. I am happy you got your B.S. though! I’m proud of you! But you sit around all day without a job and have destroyed all my hopes.”
This, despite the fact that I have had a steady job for the last 5.5 years at the same place and was just about ready to be moved out in October. Maybe I should just kill myself instead? Seems like it would be a lot easier. Who says offing yourself isn’t an option? Bah.
The sooner people learn to accept that fact, the better my life will be. If you called me and left messages all day (all day in this case being defined as two messages 10 minutes apart) and I didn’t pick up or call you back, guess what that means. Here’s a hint. IT MEANS YOUR CALLS DIDN’T GO THROUGH. It means I was never alerted to the fact that you called me. It means that the little sound it plays when I have a missed call or a voice mail message didn’t play. In short, it means I have no idea you’re trying to contact me. So clearly it must be my fault that you got stuck somewhere. It is definitely completely my fault that my phone didn’t ring. Because I have control over whether I get reception in any given location. You have every right to be mad at me because hey, that’s what I’m here for.
Actually, I’m pretty sure this chick was born stupid. I’m fairly certain that after being born stupid, she was dropped several times on her head as a small child and regularly consumed a diet of paint chips and drank LIQUID STUPID. What chick am I talking about? Why, none other than the mobile road block I work with. She is 350 pounds if she’s one. When she comes barreling down the hall leading to our department for her hourly feeding, she TAKES UP THE ENTIRE GODDAMN SPACE. That is no exaggeration. Normally, two people can pass comfortably by one another in that space. Not so with this mastodonian moron. Why a moron you ask? I shall tell you!
Here is a transcript of a conversation between her and an animate skeleton we have working in our department:
Manbeast (MB): So, who’s having cabbage and corned beef hash tonight?
Skelly the Skeleton (SS): Oh definitely, I do it every year!
MB: Why do people have that anyway? Is corned beef an Irish culture thing?
SS: Yup! Just like the cabbage. It’s traditional.
MB: What’s corned beef made out of? It comes from a pig, right?
Editor’s Note: WHAT THE FUCK?! Corned BEEF comes from a fucking PIG?! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK!?
SS: Er… no, its corned beef. Beef. It comes from cows.
MB: laughs. Oh yeah, beef. I thought it came from pigs, cause you know, the color. Beef turns brown when you cook it and corned beef is pink, and pig stays pink when you cook it so I thought that it came from pigs.
WHY IN NORNAN’S NAME MUST I BE SUBJECT TO THIS!? It should be noted that I almost choked. I was in the corner laughing so hard that I almost died. You know that kind of laugh where you laugh so hard you turn red and get dizzy and your stomach hurts and you’re actually laughing so fucking hard no sound even comes out? That’s the kind of laugh I was laughing. Because really, what the fuck. Pigs. Beef. WHAT THE FUCK? WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT. WTF. I could go on, but… WHAT THE FUCK!? PIGS?! BEEF?! HOW DO YOU GET TO BE THAT FUCKING MASSIVE WITHOUT KNOWING YOUR MEATS?! I mean seriously, this girl has a fucking gravitational pull. Small objects orbit her. Toss a paper clip or post-it in her direction and shit will fall into an orbit around her leviathan bulk. I’m pretty sure she warps space-time around her and light bends in close enough proximity to her. And she doesn’t know what fucking animal fucking corned fucking beef comes from.
There is no end to the stupidity I must face on a daily basis. NO END.
Holy shit. Sometimes, the harshest words of all aren’t so much words, but a single look. A look so eloquent, so filled with almost disguised horror, that it crushes every fiber of your being. Like, omgwtfpwned doesn’t even begin to describe it. I think perhaps I was almost shattered today. Perhaps I was. Only time will tell for sure.
I used to think I had a pretty good handle on being soul crushingly mean, but I think today I was schooled by a true master. I am but a grasshopper cowering from her awesome wrath.
And it has just occurred to me that I may have told her about this site recently. Well. Isn’t that precious?
My sister just asked me what country the Indian subcontinent was. WHAT THE FUCK!?