Still life porn, hard poo, cold soy, copy jam, the list goes on.
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Here are my rants for today. They can be used tomorrow, the next day, and the next. They are my life.
1. At 5 this morning, I took a sip of water from the glass on my bedside stand. When I moved to place it back I missed. This would not be so bad if I had a bed frame. The water rolled under my box spring. I had to get up and pull the entire mattress and spring to the other side of the room, which in fact is right below my window that faces Fell street. Do you know how loud Fell street is? Let me illustrate for you “HONK,” “HONK” “HONKKKKKK!!!” No way was I f-ing going back to sleep. I had to mop up the water with my clothes because my as* munch roommate used all of the paper towels and refuses to allow kitchen cloth towels in the house because and I quote, “It just does not make sense. A kitchen does not need towels. We already have bathroom towels. Does every room need towels? Are we going to have bedroom towels next?.” (What? WTF?) My reply is the standard, “Technically you already have a bedroom towel because you’re non-sex-getting-as$ needs a jizz towel for all those lonely nights.”
2. Everyday when walking to the M line in the morning and leaving the M line in the evening I have to pass a stand full of daily newspapers and smutty magazines. Fine, I appreciate porn, but not when it is still life and not when the last time I had sex was over a month ago. So I walk by, Bi*ch, Hus*y, and Playboy twice a day thinking about how these dirty biatches are getting dick and I am not.
3. My damn non-kitchen-towel-believing-bedroom-jizzing-towel-having roommate informed me that he is so happy because he trimmed his ass hairs. He says that sh-tting is so great because it is a clear path to the bowl. He says that finding clumps of dried poo in his as$ hair is not an issue anymore. (What!? No! Don’t tell me that!)
4. I guess my job title has changed to Paper Jam Expert. I am not sure when that happened or if my salary will increase, but every time the copy machine, printer, or fax machine jams, instead of taking the misfed paper out themselves, everyone comes to my cubical with a blank look and says, “H---- there is a jam in the {INSERT ANY MACHINE IN THE WORLD HERE} can you please get it out?” I say, “Did you open the machine up?” They reply, “No, but can you find it? I can’t” (WTF look for it you stupid f-ck! Look to find. Must look to find.)
5. My latte. I pay $2.95 for a freaking drink that in actual value, including, cup, lid, sleeve, soymilk, and shots is worth about 85 cents. To top it off, the drink is served warm. Not hot, mildly hot, or semi-hot, but just warm. Warm, as in, about-to-be-cold-in-five-minutes warm. Then to make matters even more pissful, the “coffee expert” does not give me any foam. I asked for extra foam. Where is my foam? So let’s review. I pay $2.95 for an 80 cent drink, no 75 cents because I put the sleeve back being the drink was WARM, that is made with soy that has clearly been sitting out for an hour and is now cold and never had foam. I think I was f-cked over. (“H---- there is a jam in the printer again. I think it is in the same spot, can you get the paper out?” AARGGHHHHHHHHH)
6. Where the F is the cent key? There has to be a cent symbol on this mother of all keyboards. Where the F is it????
7. That stupid bi+ch in the cubical next to me. That non-paper-jam-looking woman five feet away for some reason feels the need to speak at top of her lungs when answering the phone and somewhere in the 30 years that she has existed on this Earth she has not been able to let go of her baby sounding voice. She sits at her desk talking to god knows who, in what language I do not know, in this voice that sounds like a f*cking 3 year old. To make it even stranger, this woman is the fattest f&ck you will ever meet. The fact she can shove such large quantities of food into her mouth, yet produce such a small voice fathoms me.
8. The fact that I sit in a freaking box ALL DAY LONG, 40 hours a week. What is that? Why is it that in Holland, every employee, BY LAW, is required to have a window. Yes, that is right, all people working in Holland have their own windows. Where is my window? Last time I looked at the 3 walls of my barf colored cubical there were no windows. Oh wait, I speak too soon. The missing cubical ceiling and missing forth wall must be considered some sort of window to fresh air. Or maybe it is so that I can hear the baby-talking-food-stuffing-fat biatch better because it is really important for me to attend to her daily, hourly, minutely paper jams in the fax machine, printer, and copy machine. Should I also get into the fact that, BY LAW, people in France can only work 35 hour weeks? No, let’s discuss that on another day.
9. Have not been laid in a month. Do I need to elaborate?
10. The fact that my rant does not matter because it is not about fat bitches.