You see, it all started a couple of weeks ago, when I got a fail notice from one of my teachers, saying that I was shitty at his class (in my defense, the class is shitty in itself, so all that really says about me is that I'm shitty at being shitty) and that I was likely to fail the class at the end of the quarter, UNLESS I busted my ass and banged out a sick project. He gave me the option of withdrawing or trying to bust out said project, and being ever a trooper (for God knows what reasons) I said [to myself] "Self, let's show this piece of shit class what a real man's project looks like!" and proceeded to break my balls coming up with shitty ideas for this shitty class.
Along the way I stopped to do unshitty in my classes that were likewise unshitty. I also took time to go to the bookstore and buy myself a copy of Camus's The Stranger because it's the best fucking book ever, and it always makes me feel less shitty, and my copy was still with Lazer. Unfortunately, the school bookstore didn't have a copy of it (and only 1 of 3 people working there had even heard of it) so I made this one guy order a copy for me. The trip wasn't an utter failure, though, as I bought myself a copy of the Communist Manifesto, and the last copy of this wicked
On one of these little lunch breaks (if 10 p.m. counts as lunch - and it does) I happened to forget my check card at the counter. Obviously, I didn't know it at the time, and it wouldn't really prove to be a problem because one of my roommate's friends told him that she had it. Anyways, back to the matter at hand: Yes, I slaved my eyes out on this shitty project, and I failed. The teacher told me to withdraw, so I threw the shitty project in the garbage and left. That's the end of that class. I left straight away, though, because I wanted to look for my card. I went home and had my roommate call the girl who supposedly had it, and that's when she told him that she in fact DID NOT have it, and that she left it at the store and that they were holding it.
That, too, is not really a big deal, but I did walk to said store and asked around for the card. After being talked down to like a child by the manager - who is obviously pathetic because he was at least forty and still in charge of a sandwich shop in the basement of a college - and having to stand around for 15 minutes or so, they tell me they don't have my card. They said that it would be with campus safety, and so I go to campus safety. That is also not really a big deal, except that it's out of the way, and it's late and cold, and I should have had my card back by now. Anyways, I get to campus safety, get treated more like an adult, but to not much avail, because they don't have my card, either.
Real fucking great, I know. I failed out of a shitty class and lost my only source of money in the course of two days. As far as I know, I've got $20 for the rest of the week[/quarter/year?]. And it doesn't get better.
Of course, I call the bank, make sure there were no fraudulent charges made, cancel my card, and order a new one, which should come in 5-7 business days. Next day, after one of my classes, I stop into one of the computer labs to withdraw from the class (I chose to stop in the computer lab just because it was on the way) and at the end of the relatively short process, I get a little message saying that I should receive a notification in my e-mail. Just for poops and giggles, I check the account that I use primarily for school and have 3 unread messages. Unsurprisingly, the first is a notification that I've withdrawn from [Shitty Class]. The next TWO (yes, not one, but TWO) were from none other than the ALMIGHTY LORD GOD HIMSELF that read: "I HATE YOU, AND HOPE THAT YOUR LIFE IS A SHORT AND MISERABLE ONE! I REGRET EVER HAVING CREATED YOU, AND IT TORMENTS MY EVERY WAKING THOUGHT TO KNOW THAT YOU EVER EXISTED."
Honest.
That's fucking VERBATIM. Capslock and everything.
Actually, the first one says something along the lines of "Lost Property of Yours Was Turned in to Public Safety"
I don't even need to open that one to know it's my card. Yeah... the one I canceled not 12 hours prior. FUCKING USELESS.
And here's the real clincher:
E-Mail #3 reads something like: "The Book You Ordered has Arrived at the Bookstore."
Again, I don't even need to open it to know that it's taking about The Stranger.
BUT WAIT, THERE'S STILL FUCKING MORE.
Oh yes.
Much more.
You don't really think that I'd kill myself over that little shit, do you?
Yes. Although I did slit both my wrists in that computer lab, I still dragged myself back to my room and booted up the computer. There have been two pages in my bookmarks that I've checked pretty much daily (if not more) for the last couple of weeks. The first being a Fandango page for Across the Universe, so I can buy tickets as soon as it comes to the theater in Rochester. Not only does the movie look visually stunning, but it sounds pretty epic, like story-wise, too. And my interests in seeing it, I admit, were not entirely altruistic... but that's another story. One you're not going to read any time soon. The other was a Streetlight Manifesto-Suburban Legends show in Buffalo on November 7.
Well guess the fuck what?
BOTH went on sale that very night.
And THAT, my friends, is the exact moment in time when I - quite literally - ripped my own head from my shoulders, and threw it against a wall until it was an indistinguishable mass of bloody pulp.
So, yeah. I'm writing this from Hell. They got a SHIT load of computers down here, too, and decent wireless. I've noticed that all the computers are Macs, though... Not because they're terrible, but instead because it seems that a large majority of the occupants of this inferno were employees of Microsoft at one time or another... Coincidence, says I. Also, it seems like some sort of - pun intended - hellish web-blocker has been put on that only allows users to access shitty blogs and angsty LiveJournals. I can imagine that it sucks pretty bad, but it works out well for me, since my bank account is still accruing mondo bucks every time you click one of those Google-Sponsored links.
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