Friday, January 16

Beware, the bitching hour is near
If I am going to allow the bookstore to rape my bank account, the least they could do is do it quickly and efficiently. This means that, during the first week of school, when the parking lot is full and there are wrecks out on the street because people are pouring into your establishment to buy books their professors insist they must have in order to pass a class they paid in excess of $300 for, YOU SHOULD STAFF MORE THAN ONE REGISTER! And, if you're feeling particularly generous, you should probably stock books. Or at least the books I'm coming in to buy. I know that's a tall order, but I figure if the professor wants me to have it, and I can't get it at Books-A-Million, the bookstore better fucking have it.

And hey you, Phillips Bookstore, how 'bout considering getting a parking lot for students so that if they're going to come in and waste $400 (for a $50 return later in the semester), they don't have to park 8 miles away and wade through the masses just to lug two bags of bullshit back to their cars. Oh, I forgot. There are those seven or so metered spaces that are never available during the first week.

And for all of you drivers who cleverly sport those idiotic Jesus fish -- get off your goddamned cell phones and pretend to be courteous drivers for once. That goes for you, with the "Jesus is my best friend" bumper sticker, too. I know it might seem like that little message to the world will protect you from evil, but it might not do you any good when my road rage gets to me and I plow over your Honda Civic with no remorse.

I spent two hours on the road and came home with no books. Two hours. No books. No fucking books. I spent two hours!

And one more thing. I have never felt the need to abuse animals before, but let this serve as a notice to the pit bull in the apartment below me. If you ever, ever wake me up at 6 a.m. again with your incessant, bored barking, and proceed to bark nonstop until 7:15, like you did this morning, I swear to g-d I will peel back my carpet, drill a discreet hole in my floor/your ceiling and drop some rat poison into your food bowl. And when I hear your muffled dog gags wafting up through my vents, I will celebrate. And when your owners, who so callously brought you to a tiny apartment when you belong in a big, suburban yard, find your lifeless body, I can only hope that they will realize their mistake and apologize to me for depriving me of those few precious hours of sleep.*

*Jesus, people, I would never hurt an animal, but I will tattle to the landlord if this shit doesn't stop. This is a formal warning.


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