Long Story Short ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- PMSey thoughts My big plan to start losing weight so I will look less lardy at the upcoming wedding o' Professor K's sister is now buried under a pile of french fries and buttered, fried sandwich. I'm not even feeling bad about it yet. I'm too ragingly PMS-ey to give a flying fuck. A week from now when I STILL haven't started my pretend diet I will blame my Today Self for blowing the whole initial plan. PMS is a bitch, I'm telling you. It has convinced me that my boyfriend totally sucks, my job is stupid, all employees of this facility need to be murdered, and that I should never leave my house ever again. Seriously, though, I probably shouldn't. Have you seen my dog? She's so cute. I should be a stay-at-home dog mom. I have been super anti-productive today. I spent a good chunk of time filling out surveys for MySpace and then deleting them before I could post them. I don't know why I did that. I hate my landlord. Have I mentioned this, by any chance? Here is an(other) example of why he is a fucktard. First, the background: Thursday was trash day. Before I left for work I was planning to drag our ginormous trash can down to the curb. However Mrs. Fucktard had parked her Ford ExpeditiontoHell in just the most perfect position so that the trash can could not possibly fit by it on either side. My options were to (a) attempt to LIFT the giant, heavy, stink-ridden trash can over her car while disregarding both my clean work clothes AND my recent painful back situation, (b) call her from my phone, ask her to move her giant car, wait ten minutes for her to take her sweetass time, and end up late for work, or (c) mutter "what the fuck?" while looking up at the second floor of the house in a frustrated manner, then leave for work. I chose option c. Friday I got home from work and I checked our voice mail. Guess who left me a charming message in his lilting (drunken) accent? Liam the Fucktard, bitching about how we forgot to take the trash out and our garbage smells terrible and please get rid of the trash over the weekend. Like...um..what? Are you telling us to take dirty garbage bags out of the trash can, place them in our cars, and drive them away? Needless to say I deleted the message and the trash remains in its home, eagerly anticipating Thursday morning. Of course the Fucktard did go so far as to move the trashcan from one side of the driveway to the other as it is so unbelieveably offensive. He also seemed to make an awful lot of banging and yelling noises outside of our bedroom window both Saturday and Sunday mornings. What a dickhead. I hate our landlord and his awful family so goddamn much. So much that if I really started thinking about it I would want to go home right now and throw clumps of runny dog poop at his children. Share your frustrating living situation stories with me, please. Because then maybe I will not feel so bad about my own. 1:12 p.m. - 2005-09-20 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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