When I'm frustrated, the word motherfucker comes out of my mouth a lot. It's not a word I use in normal conversation, but if I'm cranky or frustrated then it shows up in my vocabulary. If you hear me utter motherfucker a lot, stay out of my way.
Today I think I wore the spots off of the word.
If you're a regular reader of my LJ, you know that I found out today that my refrigerator would be out of commission for the next two weeks. You also know that I got a brand new, wicked expensive camera lens.
With the refrigerator dead, I decided that I'd find a cheap dorm fridge on Craigslist, use it for a couple weeks, and then sell it for what I paid for it. I scanned ads, found someone nearby who had what I wanted, and sent him mail. Then I packed up, grabbed the lens, and headed out of the office. Just as I got to the elevator, the phone rang. It was Mr. Fridge. He still had it, I could come by in the next hour to pick it up, but after that he was leaving. I grabbed a post-it from the reception desk, wrote down his address, then grabbed the lens and headed out of the building.
Next stop: the ATM at the corner. Set the lens down, grabbed cash, grabbed the lens, and headed for the garage. My phone rang, and I chatted with a friend while I set the lens down, paid the parking fee, grabbed the lens, and got in the car.
Just as I was getting onto the bay bridge I realized that the lens was nowhere to be found. MOTHERFUCKER. I rewound the sequence of events, and came to the conclusion that I'd left it sitting on the ATM. MOTHERFUCKER. Nothing like leaving brand new expensive camera gear sitting on a busy streetcorner. I did doubletime, hit Treasure Island, made a U-turn, and flew back to the city as fast as traffic would allow.
The lens was not on the ATM. MOTHERFUCKER. I dashed into the garage, and it wasn't there either. MOTHERFUCKER^2. OK, maybe just maybe I left it in the office. I went upstairs, and spent the whole elevator trip doing the closest thing to praying that I ever muster. The door opened, I dashed out into the lobby, and there on the reception desk was the most beautiful white box I've ever seen. Hallelujah!
I headed back to the (illegally-parked) car, and back onto the bridge, then over to the guy's house where I picked up a small 'fridge rather uneventfully.
Tonight I puttered, then realized about 10:30 that I was starving and there wasn't much in the house that I trusted to eat. Plus, the cat was in imminent danger of having no catfood, so I decided to make a quick trip to the grocery store. I grabbed my car keys, headed for the garage, and went to unlock the car. Shit, no remote! I'd accidentally grabbed my motorcycle keys instead of my car keys.
No problem, right? Wrong. The only key to my loft is on the ring with the car keys. MOTHERFUCKER.
I called the one person in the building who has a key to my unit, but she wasn't home. I tried to credit card the door and came very close, but wasn't able to do it. I have lock picks, but of course they're inside the loft.
After about half an hour of screwing with it, I went down to the mailroom, grabbed a phone book, and called a 24-hour locksmith. 45 minutes and $125 later, I was back in my loft. Did you know locksmiths don't ask for any sort of proof that you're supposed to be somewhere? I could easily call a locksmith and have him let me into your house. Amazing.
Oh, and I broke a fingernail. MOTHERFUCKER.
I hopped in the car, headed for the grocery store, and got there five minutes before they closed. WTF? I thought this was a 24-hour store. Guess not. I grabbed catfood and milk, then headed out.
I was still starving. The only reasonable option was Taco Bell. I despise Taco Bell, but whatever. I ordered three soft tacos, got them, drove away, and discovered when I got home that they were crunchy. Motherfucker.
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