channonyarrow

"glass blowing seattle" is a very different google search term from "lass blowing seattle".

In case anyone had questions.

SPELLCHECK IS YOUR FRIEND, MOTHERFUCKER!

What does it say about our fucked up, technologically-dependent society when we HAVE tools like motherfucking spellcheck available and no one uses those tools?

It says that we are going hell in a goddamn handbasket and that many otherwise-acceptable human beings will die when capitalist society collapses and food fails to fall into their mouths!

I can come up with no other outcome for such amazing laziness. Jesus Christ.

If nothing else I am getting paid a lot of money to learn that people are stupid.

- Phone calls

There is no such thing as a "wrong number". The preferred way to deal with the person who answers the phone, assuming the idiot has done the dialing, is to insist, insist that they be able to give you the directions to South Seattle Community College, because, when someone explains patiently that this is actually a wrong number, belonging to a desk in a Renton-based corporation that has nothing to do with SSCC, having a phone slammed down on you is fun.

There is, in addition, no reason at all that some total stranger might dial your number incorrectly and fail to leave a message. (This is actually logical, when you consider that the dictionary (the big book of words you don't know) defines a stranger as someone you don't know, so it sort of mystifies me what sort of message you would leave for a stranger.) The problem here arose when the cell phone industry, the industry of the damned, decided to make caller ID standard.

All of this goes some way to explaining why, when I dialed what the phone book assured me was Joann Fabrics in the Renton Highlands at 7:40 this morning, I hung up when I got a message stating that I had reached a Sprint PCS phone, which I'm pretty sure wouldn't be the message I wanted.

It fails to explain why the owner of the phone called me back. As I pointed out, "Lady, I dialed a wrong number due to a mislisting in a phone book. I didn't leave a message because I don't know you. If you don't recognise my number, it's a good chance we don't know each other. And you've already failed a sanity test by calling back a phone number that you don't a) recognise and b) have a message from. Good bye."

Which leads me to my second point.

- Sex

It is not a point of pride that I finally snapped last night and screamed over the courtyard the immortal words "ARE WE SUPPOSED TO APPLAUD NOW?" at the culmination of, approximately, the sixth night in a row of someone else's Orgasm Olympics. I don't mind sex. I don't even mind overhearing sex, as long as I don't actually know the participants.

I do mind the dumb cunt in the condos across the courtyard from my building, who has never, ever learned that you don't live your life at max volume where everyone can hear you. She moved in this spring and has not stopped talking yet.

Seriously.

I am - some of you will know how close to justifiable homicide I was - seriously missing Larry. Larry was the not-identified-during-his-tenure Shouting Guy. Seriously. I would rather have three hours of "cocksucker" or three hours of grunting, or three hours of, really, any of the many and varied obscenities and insults that Larry managed to produce. Because Larry had a schedule. And Larry was predictable. And Larry didn't sound like Elaine from Seinfeld. And Larry never, ever, ever filled his three hour timeslot with sex.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I suspect that when you watch the "Seinfeld: Seattle" episodes scheduled to air fall 2007, you will find, in one scene, someone shouting "ARE WE SUPPOSED TO APPLAUD NOW?"

And you know what? There's a simple solution. SHUT. THE. FUCKING. WINDOW. And yes, I can shut mine, except that my apartment is hot enough to die in with the windows closed in the summer, and I don't actually know when you're going to be done barking like a dog, so I really don't want to get into opening the window and doing sound checks every ten minutes while I sweat. If you're going to insist on being into sex, not into gags, and not into being QUIET, YOU can shut the window, dammit, because *I* DISLIKE HEARING YOU.

Actually, that scene from Forrest Gump is playing through my head, and I swear to god if I ever find that bitch, not only will I chase her down the street moaning like her (and I have a choice between "solo" and "with help", aren't I lucky?) I will also shout snippets of some of the really, really stupid conversations she has at high volumes at her.

And now, it turns out, I forgot to pay my insurance, so I need to go do that. Also, I got a book on chain mail yesterday and am going to Shipwreck Beads tomorrow, there to inform them that their stock is inadequate and I will be going to Fusion Beads, which has the advantage of not being fifty miles away. Anyone who spells it "chain maille" or "chain maile" will get beaten.

Am still considering buying a condo. Am still sort of freaked out by that. Am in need of paying student loans. Am starting to see the reason to marry.