Oh goodness. I wake up today, frisky and alive to type out my
transcription work, sexily assigned from the West Coast about art or
some such thing, and Verizon sucked proverbial ass and finally shut my
phone off. Whoops, unpaid since July, I admit. It’s all my fault, and
I, being somewhat sick of being poor, have realized that I would have
cut me off long ago. So while calling to try and cancel my account, I
suggested they take my security deposit, apply it, and send me a check
for the difference (somewhere around 50 some odd bucks). The bill was
under 200 and they used to actually have a heart, or maybe inept
workers, and I could let that shit run six months before someone would
shut it off. Oh well. So while calling to do this, these customer
service reps were almost all unhelpful, transferring here and there,
unable to see my deposit, some of them, other ones just hanging up in
frustration. I don’t yell, usually, mostly because I have had that job,
been that person, seen the strife, and had to swallow the customer
dissatisfaction something feirce when things would go awry. But when
they start transferring you back and forth from the same place, my
little bullshit meter goes off, and I start using words like fuck alot.
Why can’t you fucking people get your shit together, there is no
streamlining of information between departments so that you guys really
know who does what in your organization? What the fuck is wrong with
this situation, me trying to call and get a situation resolved and you
people keep transferring me back and forth to each other? Why doesn’t
someone take responsibility for this situation and resolve it, lest I
bulldog you all into having to hear my raging asshole phone calls over
and over again? But there is no rhyme or reason within these call
centers, intermittently dispersed throughout half of the midwest,
rooted soundly into the red states, full of the dimly lit fucktards who
vote republican and have nothing to really explain that line of
thinking under.

Oh my. My mother taught me the customer service rage. People would
shrink in fear when she went to return something and they told her she
could not. She would lash them with words like incompetent, ridiculous,
thieving, you know, those key words that make people think, oh, wow,
look at this. This woman is fucking crazy. They would often look
sympathetically at me, with one of those acknowledging reassuring
looks. You know, the kind where they immediately get down praying that
god has saved them from being bred under her roof. It’s not a good
quality to adopt, per se, but it certainly works well if you don’t like
to stand up, bend over, and be anally penetrated by bullshit policies.

My digital camera eats batteries like a motherfucker. Lasting, on
average, 100 pictures, then it says no, no. No worky for you. And I,
having somewhat of an environmental concern,  pictures the
mountains of batteries sunk cleanly in the ground because I just HAD to
make art, had to do it. Oh well, fuck that. I have no babies, so I have
yet to donate 500 pounds of shit soaked diapers to the wet hole in the
earth. Though I still find it strange.

But no, the point is, without the distraction of the online world to
lead me on wild and unsatisfying adventures in communication, my book
will be better.

Oh my. I have phone calls I gotta make to candypants girl in Hell’s
kitchen. And maybe one or two lucky others. The headhunter, of course.
Getting paid a decent check for 9 to 5 whoreness, while sounding not so
exciting from the onset, might solve this insane poordom that I am
faced with. Maybe 300 a week I make. Expenses are like 1100 to bills
and such per month.

The math makes no sense, given my penchant for
coffee and falafels from the corner store.