It's The Little Things That Make Me Hate Everything

I don't really want to use this blog to bitch about acquaintances of mine that annoy me but I'm going to anyway.

 I don't like anyone I work with. That doesn't mean that I hate them, it simply means that I don't want to have to interact with them. I don't want to talk to them, or be friends with them, or get to know them, or have to give a shit about anything going on in their personal lives. I think I get along with everybody well enough, I mean nobody wishes death upon me, as far I know anyway. I try my best to be friendly and shit, and I certainly don't wish them any harm, but deep down I just don't care.

I'd call myself mostly indifferent with the exception of one particular woman. Said woman is carving a gaping hole in my my sanity and soul with every unbearable word that falls out of her god forsaken mouth. Now you might think that sounds a little harsh and I guarantee you it is. I meant it to be. That's what I was going for when I wrote it. You must understand that there is no big obvious feature of her's that stands out that I can directly and aggressively hate. No, instead this woman is the embodiment of everything that irritates me. She is the most annoying, exhausting human being I have ever met. Now, I'm not going to go too far into the reasons because it's all little things and there are about 4 billion of them. Simply thinking about her wears me out. But I will tell you this. She doesn't know how to shut the fuck up. She is constantly talking. I don't know how she manages to breath with the way that those useless words tumble out of her horrible mouth. The best part of this being that about 70% of this nonstop chatter is made up of complaints. Complaints about everything. Everything is the hardest thing in the world for her to endure.  She makes me want to throw up all over the place. Not because she makes me sick but because I want to force her to clean it up. Which would make her sick and really I just want to cause her pain because she's never really experienced it. Oh, she'd tell you ALL about how she has, but no, no she hasn't. Although cleaning up puke is more icky than painful to your average person she's such a whiny little drama queen that it would be excruciating for her. It would be like someone digging out her insides with a rusty spoon.

What am I getting at? Oh yeah.

This post is actually not about all that. I just needed to get that out of my system. (Thank you for letting me share.) What I would like to tell you about is actually one of the smallest, most insignificant things that this woman does that, at most, simply causes me a few seconds of slight confusion.

I work in custom framing which, at times, has the potential to be a pretty okay job. Unfortunately this woman, whose mere existence completely and utterly offends mine, also works in custom framing. Worse yet, at the same place, and sometimes, with total disregard for my mental health, at the same time. The thing she does that I originally intended to write a few simple sentences about (I was even contemplating just updating it on twitter) is.... Whenever she writes a customer's name and/or order number she writes the letters S and M in front.

S/M Johnson, Bill 22786

Be it on the orders that are waiting to be completed, the frames she checks in, the hundreds of notes she leaves that are as pointless and rambling as herself...everything. This doesn't really bother me. It sometimes makes me think for a few second that the customer's name starts with an "S" but that's it. It doesn't make my job any harder and it doesn't cause any problems so the only reason I care is "Why?" I asked her about it once and she said it stands for "BLAH BLAH who fucking cares!?" I'm paraphrasing here because I don't remember what she said because she is painful to listen to. What I managed to retain was that it is apparently something they did at one of her old jobs when they checked in whatever the hell it was that they were checking in.

"Well it's not something that we do here. We have our own system. So, you don't need to do it because it doesn't mean anything to anybody else."

She still does it. Every time she write a customer's name. S/M without fail. I find this rather bizarre. Why does she so adamantly continue to do something so pointless? It's not really because it's a habit that she can't break as she claims. She does it with obvious intent. The best I can figure is that she does it because she thinks it makes her interesting. It's something quirky to set herself apart. This thought makes me sad.

An Epic Laundry Tale

My apartment complex is huge. It takes up an entire street. Fortunately for me it has 3 laundry rooms spaced appropriately. Each apartment has washer/dryer hook ups but I posses neither, so these laundry rooms are very important in helping me not have dirty, smelly clothes. But they recently replaced all the super convenient, perfectly functional coin operated machines with ones that you need a preloaded card to use. Then just to upset me they put the magical-laundry-card-money-loading-machine in the laundry room at the other end of the complex/street. I have to use a debt or credit card to put money onto my new shiny laundry card and I can only do it in $10 increments. So fuck that! The apartment gods however, graciously left two washer and two dryers of the coin operated sort for us rebels who refuse to conform to their new evil ways. I found out there are quite a few people who have joined me in the laundry resistance. So those two washer/dryers are always in use. Last week one of the washers broke and has yet to be fixed, I found out today, leaving only one. Whenever I do my laundry I try to be gracious and take out my clothes as soon as they're done so that one of my comrades my then take part.

"Where is this going?" You ask.
"Why are you writing about laundry?" You ask.
Well you're the one reading it, so who's stupid now? If you had exercised a little patience we would be there already.

Ahem. Today I went to go wash my white work shirts only to find both machines ocupado. So I returned to my apartment in defeat but determind to return. I let a couple hours pass before my return. Upon said return what should I encounter? The same motherfucking clothes in the machines! That cunt faced cunt! So I humbly retreated once again, let a couple more hours pass before my next attempt. This time I had made preperations. So with a look of determination in my eye, armed with a bag of dirty clothes, dergant, some quarters and a note I made my way to the lauindry room. To my pleasnat surprise I found one of the machines to be vacant. I put in my 4 quarters and selected the "whites" cycle.

FUCK! this is the broken machine. I swear I saw clothes in here earlier. Twice! It was whites along with one yellow shirt and they were wet. Why did the laundry gods favor them and not me?
I proceeded to hit the coin return button repeatedly with no results. This is where my before mentioned note comes into play. It simply explained that I needed to use the machine because I didn't have any money on my card and that her neglected clothes were in the dryer. I'm paraphrasing, I probably didn't call her clothes "neglected" even though they really and truly are. I opened the sole remaining brother of the poor fallen coin operated washing machine, same clothes still inside, most of which was women's underwear and proceeded to fearlessly transfer the wretched clothes to the nearest dryer. Triumphant, I put my white shirts in and reached for my quarters.

FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!

Only 3? THREE!?!?!
I raced back home and scrounged up the needed quarter. Finally! I put my detergent in and closed the lid. Now all I need to do is  retrieve my shirts. I will hang dry them and all will be right with the world

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Quick follow up: The dryer that I transferred the hated clothes to was running. Maybe lot's-of-underwear-owning-bitch will realize that there are other people in the world. People who need to wash outerwear.