Aside – Page 236 – Amanda Unvarnished

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· 4 Av 5765 (Tuesday 9 August 2005) · 1 minute to read

I just looked at my paycheck online. I only got paid for 64 hours. That’s a little over a week and a half. Fucking Cornelius! Why does he have to be so
incompetant? The little shit probably keyed in my hours incorrectly, *again*, because I know I was there, and worked, for 80 hours within that pay period.
Fuck me! And given the supervisor changes going on, I’m not sure who I’m supposed to go to about this. If I go straight to HR, they’ll just tell me to
go to my supervisor. I hate that fucking job! Why can’t I just go in to work sedated, or drunk? I mean, it would be easier to deal with it that way. I
thought about going for benefits, but why would I want to do that when they keep fucking up my paycheck, and I have to make some serious rearrangements
just to get my fucking bills paid? GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!

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Amanda CAARSON

· 1 Tevet 5765 (Monday 13 December 2004) · 7 minutes to read

I had hoped I could come up with a cool subject line, but that looks like it’s out of the question for now. This is going to be long, but I have no intention of cutting it. Why? Well, for one, I’m just not that considerate right now. My level of consideration for the feelings of others has been stretched to the limit, and if you don’t want to read about why, then you can just use your down arrow key to scroll past it, or your mouse, or whatever works, but whatever you do, it’s not my problem. I hope no one takes this personally. It’s just part and parcel of the rant.
As I have stated in this space before, I have an unwanted roommate. For a little while, it looked as though things were going to work themselves out. She was supposed to move back out, and I was supposed to get my life back, and start setting things back in order. And then, a little over a week ago, things went wrong. The roommate walked in, with one of her ditsy little friends, and informed me that she is staying here permanently, and that if I have any questions, I can call the manager. By Sunday, she had arranged the apartment so that the couch is now in the middle of the living room floor, with the coffee table in front of it, leaving just enough space to walk between it and the stand with the TV and DVD player on it, which, by the way, she feels is communal property, along with the XM radio, and so that means she can use them whenever she feels like it. All of this was going on while I was fighting a really bad cold/flue thingy, so it was a surprise when I walked out Sunday to get some food, and was told that the apartment had been rearranged, again. No asking, just telling. She’s a fucking pig, and she brings strange people over, lots of them guys, and she’s loud, and just generally stupid. My house is a disaster, and there are fucking roaches everywhere. I hate it. I can’t fucking stand it. She leaves food out. Yesterday morning, when Andrew came over to pick me up for work, he saw a glass of liquid, (in her case, probably Pepci), with pieces of meat floating in it, as well as half a spam sandwitch left out on the counter. Fucking spam! She used my fucking frying pan to cook the shit, and then used my dishes to serve it. And, how the hell do you manage to end up with pieces of spam in your drink? That shouldn’t be a possibility, if you’re civilized. Fucking Gentile heathen! And then, wonder of wonders, she has the chutzpah to bitch about the bugs! So she came up with the brilliant idea of bathing the kitchen in Raid. Oh! And when I mentioned that the couch needs to be put back where it was, due to the very small and insignificant fact that its current placement renders it, along with the coffee table, a safety hazzard, I was told that it can’t be moved back much further, because of the bar stools. When I suggested putting the bar stools back where they were, I was told that “it looks cute,” and how she had done such a good job redecorating the living room, and then the matter was dropped. For those who haven’t put it together, that’s an attempt at a subtle way to tell me that I can fuck off. I refuse to live like this. My kitchen is practically unusable, if you have any concern about preparing your meals in a clean environment, because it’s been infested with roaches, and then bathed in Raid, but not cleaned up after the bath, and it just wouldn’t be a good idea to make a meal with that kind of risk. My apartment’s been completely overrun with ghetto trash. In January, another one is moving in. The roommate overdrew her checking account by over $200, and can’t figure out how she did it. And even when you add up all the NSF charges, you still have $25 or so you can’t account for, and she isn’t that worried about not being able to account for it. She’s worried about not having money to spend on her birthday. No worries about bills, unless you count the cell phone bill, and that’s because she stays on that damned thing constantly. Well, I’m not going to fucking babysit. I didn’t create the drama, and I’m not going to be responsible for holding things together. I’m going to leave, in whatever way necessary, whether that be by subleasing or just moving, But if I just move, and the complex wants to give me hell about it, I’ll go to the media, and raise the issue of picking on the blink. I don’t usually play that card, but I will if I have to. Everyone I’ve talked to agrees that they would have never moved someone in on someone who is sighted, without their permission, and then come out and said that if they expected their rights and needs to be respected that it would be best if they moved. And that, my friends, is discrimination. I am not going to live in disgusting, dangerous conditions. I don’t work my ass off at Convergys only to come home and get more of the same crap. And, by the way, I got written up last week, again, this time for missing two days for having a really bad cold. Far be it from Cornelius to think, “Hey, maybe I should exclude some occurrances, since she was very obviously sick.” No, that just makes too much fucking sense. There’s that fucking L word again, and we all know how bad that is. The roommate situation makes me want to go out and purchase home protection pieces, (for those who don’t know, that’s a nice little term for guns, which probably sounds more palatable to liberal ears, coined by my friend Andrew, who likes weapons a lot despite his liberality), and come and test them on the apartment and everything and everyone in it. I don’t want to come home and hear ghetto music blaring, or stupid people talking, or anything like that, and I shouldn’t have to. I didn’t tell the little whore she could move in, and I’ll do everything in my power to get the fuck out, if I have to. I don’t want to hear about the latest condom and Ky jelly purchases, (I’m sorry, but if you’re as young as she is, and you need KY jelly, then that means you’ve really been around, hence the whore comment), and I don’t want to hear how good spam is, and I don’t want to smell the shit. I want my fucking life back, and the prospect of peace and quiet to end my day. Is that too much to ask? really? I mean, come on!
Everybody feel free to comment. Yeah, I know the begging was harsh, but like I said, it’s nothing personal. And, believe it or not, when you guys comment, it makes things a little easier. At least then, I know someone’s being entertained. I’ll keep you all posted on this situation.