Still in a hellaciously bad mood. It would help if my partner in crime, Sara, was feeling up and happy, but, alas, she’s at the intersection of Shit Street and Fuck it All Boulevard like me.
So, a few random things to note before I dwell back in my self-imposed misery. None of these items are really related to each other.
First, I almost got run over by a bitch in her piece of shit car today. She ran the stop sign at the infamous New Hampshire and S intersection, almost ran over me and the dogs, had the nerve to scream at me as if I didn’t have the right of way, and was on her cell phone without an ear piece. Where were the cops when you needed them? At the opposing stop sign with their windows open, and other pedestrians screaming for them to do something about what happened. You know what they did? What D.C. cops usually do. If you guessed nothing, you are correct. Your prize is that I’ll share some of my Prozac with you that I found in my medicine cabinet from my days of living with the ex. Which brings me to my next item.
Second, AtlantaBoy begged me to send copies of pictures of us from our relationship together to him. So I did. I went out of my way to collect all these duplicates, pack them up and priority mail them. And you know what? Saturday morning I fucking woke up to find that package on my door, marked “Return to Sender, recipient moved and left no forwarding address.” So I sent that bastard an instant message saying that he either gave me the wrong address, or, if he’s not on the lease then there’s no way they would sign for it because they don’t know he lives there. That was Saturday afternoon. He hasn’t written back, despite the fact that he’s been online uninterrupted since that point in time.
Third, I repeat my mantra, “It doesn’t pay to be nice.” Some of you who were with me may remember the hit and run incident in Adams Morgan where we left the note but not our phone number. We had a conversation at that time about how that would backfire if I was actually nice enough to leave my own phone number to be a witness for the poor schmuck whose car was belted. Well, today at Safeway, I am second in line behind a lady who was nice enough to scoot her groceries down the conveyor so I could dump my armful of food down. Then she offers the guy behind me a chance to go in front of all of us because he only had one item. He gladly agrees. Well, the cashier was briefly talking to another customer while he was getting out his money, then he started screaming “HELLO!!!” to get her attention. After all the screaming, he fucking forgot his damn ice cream or whatever and had to come all the way back to get it. What an ass, he’d still be in that damn line if it wasn’t for the nice lady in front of me. I told the cashier it doesn’t pay to be nice. And you know what she said? “I witnessed a hit and run one day on Corcoran here from my register and I left them a note and they had the nerve to accuse me of being the one to hit them.” Christ almighty, point taken and proven time and time again. People suck.
Finally, I got a bug up my ass, thought about this for exactly 4 seconds before I picked up the phone and called MotorcycleInstructor, if only to make my peace. Here it goes:
MI: Well hello.
Me: Hi. I’m calling to make peace.
MI: I called and called. I sent text messages. I was thinking about you yesterday and I was wondering why we couldn’t still be friends.
Me: I don’t know. I just got tired of the shit.
MI: I was busy and I couldn’t see you and you got mad.
Me: That’s not exactly how I remember it.
Me: Yes, you promised to spend last Friday with me, and then you bailed. Then you promised to hang out with me last Saturday and you bailed on that too. I got tired of it.
MI: No. That’s not how it happened.
Me: Ok, sure. Well, look, I’m just calling to be nice.
MI: This is nice?
Me: It’s the best I can do.
MI: All right, let me call you back in one minute when I get back to my house.
Let me tell you that my sister in law and brother like MotorcycleInstructor for some reason and when I told them I called, my sister-in-law yelled, YAY. I don’t know why. Ok. I know why. I think it’s a selfish reason. There is a very specific reason my parents wouldn’t like him. Very specific. Read: Racist Greek Parents. There. ‘Nuff said.
Well, MotorcycleInstructor did call back and we talked for a few minutes. But, I think that there’s no going back. And I’m still in my anti-dating mode right now. I thought about going online again to see what’s out there. (Notice I say “what’s” instead of “who’s” out there?) But, I’m not sure how I even feel about that. I’m so disgusted with this whole ridiculous situation. Where the FUCK is that Prozac???
Help! Save me from myself. I’m fucking up – Stacy