A Little About Me...

I'm just a 31 year old chick from Rhode Island, married to a Canadian, tattooed, childfree, and a World of Warcraft addict. I fancy myself a photographer, or an artist, but who am I kidding - I count pills and sell drugs to junkies.

Disclaimer

I write about everything. If you don't like it, if it's too personal, if you don't want to hear it, if it offends you, if it's about you, I don't care.

I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control, and at times hard to handle, but if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.

The Rock is not attractive.

We just got done watching The Scorpion King. We had fun pointing out wrestling moves.

We’ve also decided that I’m going to quit this week. I nearly broke down in the kitchen tonight because I just can’t deal with the bullshit in the office anymore. By 9am I had already been yelled at twice (once for not making notes explicit enough in the computer, and once for not “anticipating the customer’s needs” and offering to send him free butane before he complained he wanted to be compensated for the inconveniece of problems sending his lighter to him), and my shift starts at 7:30am. By noon I’d tacked on another bitching-out onto the tally, this time from a guy who was chewing me out because FedEx lost his lighter whien we shipped it back to him. After I’d told him he was going to be getting a new one, he proceeded to rant and rave at me over something I had no control over, and then emailed us through the handy-dandy and way to convenient contact page on the website, which prompted me to get bitched at a 4th time because I’d offered to send him a free can of butane.

The deal that Eddie and I had made was that I’d try to go back to school, and that once I found a way to pay for it, and was ready to go, then I’d quit. However, I know I’m not going to come up with the cash for school before I either (a) go insane, resulting in me pulling ever last hair out of my head and curling up in the fetal position under my kitchen table bawling, or (b) go insane and kill someone in the office, preferably the bitchy old hag. So, I’m going to attempt to make it through the rest of this week and send a lovely “YOU SUCK, I QUIT” email for Monday morning.

Or I could just call in dead tomorrow, and head down to the shopping Mecca of Rhode Island, Route 2, before they decide to pin the two missing jewelry repairs on my head.

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