Your days of reading The Penal Gallery may be numbered dear readers (I know you're both devastated), because my days may be numbered. Finn's batshit crazy ex-girlfriend, Crazy, is coming to visit this weekend. This means two things: 1) there are people crazier than me and 2) they are coming to visit. Presumably to see the kittens, sleep with Finn, and kill me. Probably in that order. Expect to hear from me barricaded in my room Sunday night with my dresser pushed in front of my door. (Anyone want to take me out of the house on Sunday night? Anyone? Bueller?)
On a related note, don't drink and text. You ever get drunk and forget? It happened to me. I returned home from the bar(s) on Wednesday night (don't judge me) and got drunk with Finn while we discussed my imminent demise and my apparent inability to give it away. (For the record, he is amazed and saddened by my inability to close the deal. In my defense, I've been thwarted by circumstances outside my control). I sent a cryptic text message regarding my imminent demise. I never even got a "you're nuts" message back. You would think I'd learn, but if you thought that, you probably haven't been reading all that long.
For those who doubt that God likes to mess with me, reference the hour I spent lined up with 3 out of the last 5 men I've hooked up with at a school event. It was not a fair, it was a parade of all my drunken escapades. My friends laughed at me and none of them knew why. Thanks, God.
I'm rambling, which is a good way to avoid the things I should be doing. I should be finishing a memo on adverse possession. Lame. I should be redacting my writing sample so I can get a job. Tedious. I should be applying for jobs. Scary. I should be reading for class. Boring.
I have three binders worth of cite-checking assignments on the desk right now. I am staring them down, hoping that they will compile themselves if I look at them the right way. I somehow doubt this is going to happen. This post has not had the requisite amount of snark; so, I'm going to make up for that by complaining right now:
I wanted to be as clear as possible and give as much direction as I could to the incoming staff members who were anxious as a whore in church about their assignments. We had the managing department send out a spiffy checklist detailing exactly what they were to do, we held cite-checking class, I sent the world's longest, most detailed email about the particulars of the assignment and several members of the e-board donated a block of three hours to answer questions at a help session. Of course, most of the staff was freaking out anyway, like we were going to torture those who forgot to put BlueBook rules in the margins. Except for one person, who apparently knows how everything should be run anyway. I'm not sure that she knows that I was the one giving out the assignment, or maybe she thinks little things like tact are beneath her because she complains, in the office, in front of me, in this nasty condescending tone: "Yeah, this entire assignment was an exercise in confusion." Like we didn't know what we were doing and fucked up the instructional process. I'm sorry, maybe your uppity ass could have come to the three hours' worth of help time where someone could have shown you exactly what to do. Or, you could have emailed for clarification instead of taking no iniative to figure out what you were doing and then bitching that you didn't have somone holding your hand.
I kinda hope she fucks it up so badly that I have to email her and ask her why she didn't come in for help since she clearly had no idea what to do.
Superman gets brutally defeated.
39 minutes ago