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Art Colony: don't tread on me
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
› by victoria
Oh, ye olde american colonies: what good slogans you think of.
for real.
shit is for real.
Fed up with people treating requests like shit, ridiculous amounts of begging and Please will you fill out this form and she doesn't. it's literally 10 or 12 numerals, that's all we need. If you treated your patients this way, Biff's Mom Ms. E.R. nurse, you would dose them up with air freshener. this is now the time where the raging bitch within slips loose of the collar and prowls around in my brain, just waiting to snap on somebody. If it were entirely up to me, I would write you an email like this:
Dear Biff's Mom:
Your incredible incompetence has come to our attention and admiration. It can only be described as decision-making judgement similar to that of the Chinese Empress who used her people's public funds to build a gigantic Stone boat in the summer garden of her palace instead of building a navy; the medieval peasants who decided that cats were the cause of the Black Plague and full of witchcraft, thereby deciding to kill most of them and allow plague-bearing rats to scamper about without fear; and anyone who decided to invest their funds in the "anglo-bengalee disinterested loan and life assurance company," a decidedly shady scheme. I can't get over the fact that you refuse to send us the brief, BRIEF information that we need so badly, when it would take you maybe 5 minutes and then we wouldn't have to run around like chickens with our heads cut off. As it stands, however, currently we are left groveling at the feet of the financial aid people, hoping that mercy will be shown towards Biff so that he can go back to school. There are some insects which seem to take better care of their offspring than you do, seeming as it currently does that you do not care to assist in any way in helping your son go back to school, or indeed, helping him at all.
Sincerely,
ME!
Ah, that felt better.
Seriously, though, I think today will test my patience. All I want to do is sit quietly, have this financial aid crap be finished, and relax. Instead, I will be pushing a heavily loaded cart all across campus (cursing my aching back and wanting to lie down and let the cart run over me) while all the while being stressed-out as hell about what's gonna happen.
I need a hug and a tray of something chocolate. Fuck this shit. ARGH!
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