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I’ve finally finished posting this week’s updates, as well as some from the last couple of weeks.
One of the good things about the CMS I’m using is that it allows me to backdate entries.
The most recent entries list includes, but is not limited to, the following:
Final Approach
Legal But Illegal Break
Where Is It 5:00?
Trainer John
Flapjacks With Your Documents
This Week On "As The Claim Processes"
Since I've Got Time To Burn …
It's Like The Hourglass, But Worse
Wooden Holocaust
Stop And Smell The Mail Order

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It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and, since there’s a break in the chaos, I figure I’ll take advantage of it.
I’ve had this weekend off, and spent yesterday doing pretty much nothing.
There’s been some drama going on with the transportation situation.
I’ve started taking the PATS (Pitt Area Transit System) service to work because Andrew has early classes, and his mom doesn’t want that much wear and tear on the vehicle.
Well, apparently, they have their own time scale, we’ll call it PATS Standard Time, otherwise known as PST.
If I were into conspiracy theories, I’d blame this on those out in Lost Angeles and beyond, (PST is also Pacific Standard Time, and since the two systems both employ the same acronym, they just have to be similar, grin). I’ll leave that one alone for now, so Joy and Don you get a break.
Anyway, I schedule a 07:30 pick-up, since I start working at 08:30, and that gives them plenty of time, in case they’re running late.
Apparently 07:30 their time is 06:56 my time, which puts me in the position of having to get up no later than 05:00 in order to get ready for work, and that doesn’t leave any time for clearing my brain of the sleep-induced fog by administering caffeine orally.
The problem I run into is that if I schedule the pick-up any later, they have me to work late, which is not a good thing for either the attendance record or the paycheck.
I’ve changed residences, which is a very good thing.
My new place is very nice, and I’m doing my best to make it as homelike as possible.
I’ve acquired a nice bed, (it would be queen-sized if not for the fact that it’s missing about two inches on either side), a washer and drier, a recliner that’s nice-sized, and an end table.
My computer desk is a card table, and I have a folding chair to go with.
I also got a microwave, and a coffee pot, and a tea pot, and a crock pot, thanks to my mom.
That’s where the bed, recliner and end table came from as well.
I’m very happy with the place.
It’s just me, all by myself.
I can leave the crap at work.
Well, and on the PATS van.
Speaking of PATS, can someone please explain to me how the hell you can manage to sing, shout, dance and drive all at the same time?
Almost all of the PATS drivers are gospel freaks, and they love to make a public display of their religion, for all the world to see and hear, and I get treated to daily “praise” sessions.
Weird.
The Medicare project came back to Convergys, and we lost AT&T, as well as gained CustomerService.
They’re going to have all of us trained by the end of the summer to be taking Pharmacy Helpdesk calls as well as Customer Service calls.
More work, no more pay.
I’ve decided after some thought to turn customerservant.com into my personal blog.
I’ll most likely turn it into a syndicated account over here, because I can generate an RSS feed, and it gives me more freedom as far as what’s displayed, and it also gives you guys the ability to rate entries.
The CMS I have is really simple, and really neat.
I don’t know if I’ll update both journals, but once I get it syndicated, you all can add that to your friends pages, and/or go directly to the site, and add your comments there.
Also, I’m running into the problem of needing to put all the blogs I watch into one place, so there will be a page with links to all your journals, as well as the ones I watch from other sites.
This will also be x-posted to Customerservant.com , so if you want to comment, you can leave it there.
That’ll be it for now, but I’ll try to keep you up to date more often.
Everybody take care.

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It seems to me that the only thing good about Good Friday is that lots of pharmacies will be closing early, which should keep the call volume low. That’s good, because I had to deal with a roommate blaring music all night long, in the livingroom, and consequently, didn’t get much sleep. What does one do when unable to sleep? Catch up on the friends page, of course. I spent about two hours catching up on everything. Surprisingly, I actually have something good to say about work. They’ve implemented a new raise plan. In short, if you work all forty hours in a given week, and have good quality, you get a four percent raise in your salary. Not bad. At this rate, I might actually make it above $9. I think we should sue Mars Corporation for false advertising. I eat snickers bars on my breaks sometimes, and none of the great things you see in the commercials happens to me. The good thing about snickers bars is that they keep you going. That, along with caffeine, almost makes the work day bearable. Yesterday they had a hot dog sale at work for the March of Dimes. I like it when they do that, because that means I can get lunch for really cheap. They also had the company Easter egg hunt yesterday. BeingJewish, I obviously didn’t participate.I really wish they wouldn’t keep it so cold in here. I sit on the

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OK, looks like we have our Nachap Award recipient for this week. It’s a pharmacist named Care from CVS. She demonstrated her suitability as a Nachap member in the following manner. Carey called in to ask for an override. When I asked what her criteria were, she told me that although the doctor had prescribed one drug, when the pharmacy ordered the drug from the manufacturer, they sent the wrong drug. Instead of contacting the manufacturer to give them the “Screwed up man,” (Ray, you should get that one), speech, the pharmacy took the liberty of changing the prescription, since both drugs were generics, and both did the same thing, and both were the same price. For those who don’t know, what makes a generic drug generic, (other than the name), are the fillers that are added along with the active ingredient, or the ingredient that is the acting medication. Some people are alergic to the fillers in certain generics, so they have to take the brand. Well, after Carey explained to me that she had changed the prescription, she told me that the member, (who might as well be a god when it comes to my line of work, along with the pharmacist and the insurance company, or benefits administrator, with the client, Express Scripts Inc. being the ultimate, untouchable, unknowable Supremevery Being of this twisted pagan pantheon), said that she couldn’t take the generic drug, and that she had to have her brand. I asked why the member couldn’t take the drug. I can only issue an override in this kind of situation if the member has some sort of reaction to the drug. The pharmacists are supposed to know this, because the rule hasn’t changed for a very long time, for at least as long as I’ve been doing this. This is where the nachapity comes in. When I asked Care, our friendly pharmacist, why the member couldn’t take the generic, if there was some sort of medical reason, she said she didn’t know why, but still continued to ask for the override. I told her that I couldn’t just issue an override without some sort of definite reason. She whined about how the two drugs do the same thing, and how they’re even the same price. I repeated that I couldn’t just issue an override without a definite medical reason, and then muted the phone, and said that in that case, there should be no reason why the member couldn’t take the other drug. To conclude, Carey gets the Nachap award for this week due to her incomprehension of what the rules are, and further incomprehension after an explanation. Great job, Carey! We’d give you a gift certificate to a steakhouse or something, but we’re too poor to afford that. So you’ll just have to be consoled with the knowledge that you are are among a group of truly illustrious people, and leave it at that.

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Can somebody please tell me why the ghetto music has to bump and thump on pretty much 24 hours a day?
Not only do they have to blare it on their own radios, they have to blare it on the TV, or, more accurately, by putting CD’s in the play station.
And why do they have to speak their “ebonics”, or, to be less politically correct, why is it that they have to be extremely ignorant, and trashy, and keep their constant messes, and be stuck in my hair?
Apparently today, I should count myself blessed.
They only have one radio blaring.
Yesterday, it was the TV blaring, all day.
I can’t wait until I move.
I hope it happens soon.
I applied at one apartment complex, and have been given the run-around, and denied by them.
I went yesterday to look at more apartmenst, and found a nice one, whose application process doesn’t seem to difficult, and actually seems promising.
I really hope something works out soon.
My sleep schedule is all out of whack because of all this, and there’s very little to no peace and quiet.
The only time that happens is when the roommates aren’t here.
Obfiously, the roommates refuse to be considerate, and the apartment complex refuses to do anything in my favor.
Hell, when Andrew found one of their bowls and a lighter in the livingroom, and we called the office to let them know, all the managet did was to come down here, and tell them to hide their weed next time.
This whole thing is fucked up, and I’ll be glad when this episode’s over.

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I would really appreciate it if all of you would take up a collection, and purchase some weapons of mass destruction, so I can use them on the apartment.
The roommates are really getting on my nerves.
They’re blaring their music as usual, I haven’t been paid for the bills, the whole place smells like stale pot and cigars, , the apartment complex refuses to do anything about it, and I don’t want to have to deal with all this along with what I have to deal with at work.
Maybe some nuclear weapons, or just some grenades, yes, grenades would work nicely, and a launcher.
I hate fucking ghetto music, and ghetto people, and just plain trashy people, and their messes, and the havoc they reak.
On a lighter note, I’ll be posting some entries from yesterday, which will be dated for yesterday, in a little while.

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This is in response to something posted in Ray’s
journal, concerning the Terri Scheiavo case. I said I
wasn’t going to get in to this, but here goes anyway.
I’m not going to give my oppinion on this, because,
quite frankly, all the oppinions have been punted back
and forth like a stale hamentashen
for the last however long, and it’s really getting
annoying. I mean, I hate to come off callous, but
really! I’m beginning to think that, if Americans,
of every persuasion, right or left, don’t have some
major media event at least once a year, then they start
to go through withdrawal, and so someone has
to create one before they have to take the measure of
setting up a hotline to deal with the crisis. If I have
to go to work one more time, and walk into
the break room to get some caffeine, and hear Pat
Robertson screaming about how this is judicial murder,
I’m going to murder someone. I think whoever’s
responsible for drumming up the media storm has acted
very immodestly to say the least, and I have to agree
with Ray’s question: Why does this case merit
so much attention when this kind of thing happens all
the time?

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I’ve figured out how to get the hand-held client to work, and it’s great.
It looks easier to backdate from this client than it does from the client on the PC.
I think the coolest part is that I can manually enter the time and date in.
That’s what makes backdating so much easier.
I should be posing more often thanks to this.
Happy reading.

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The potluck was a complete disaster.
I spent all that time and trouble making sure I brought
what I was supposed to bring, and not a soul touched it,
or even acknowledged it was there.
That’s the last time I make the effort.
And, to tell the truth, I’m highly offended.
I mean, I didn’t bring anything weird.
I brought French bread because we were having spaghetti,
and everybody knows you have to have some kind of bread
with spaghetti.
What!
Was that not country enough?
Team indeed.
Well, I hope they don’t expect me to play any more of
their Convergys games with them.
I’m not pretending I like these people, only to be
snubbed like that.
Oh, and here’s something really sick.
Convergys is launching an add campaign starting in
April.
The new slogan is: “Convergys: Outthinking, Outdoing.”
There’s even a promotional video for clients and
share-holders.
It makes me want to puke.
It says something about values, and providing twenty
years worth of top-notch customer care, human resources
and billing solutions.
It’s like the Wal-Mart commercials, except much worse.
We’ll probably be forced to wear badges with the stupid
slogan on it.
I hate corporate America.

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This is completely not worth my time!
Work potlucks, or work gatherings, or mandatory work
get-togethers, or whatever you want to call them, are
bullshit!
I have a ton of other stuff to do tonight, and the last
thing I want to do is bake bread for these stupid
fuckerrs who I can’t stand in the first place.
And to make matters worse, I walked away for a bit too
long, and consequently burned the bread.
So now, I have to go back to the store, pick up some
more, and do this all over again.
I could really give a shit less about team unity, or any
of the other morale-inducements that go on at work.
And, for fuck sake, would somebody please stop the
ignorance of the roommates?
If I have to hear somebody yell “You ain’t my daddy,” or
“You ain’t donate no sperm,” or any more hip-hop talk,
which some of my politically correct acquantances like
to call Ebonics, I’m going to shoot somebody.
OK, I think I’ve ranted enough.

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I’m having an interesting problem with the new client I’ve downloaded for handhelds.
I’ve entered the password I use for Livejournal, and it tells me that it’s invalid.
Would any of you who visit hotspot locations have any input?
I’m using the client for Pocket-PC/Windows CE devices.
Thanks for any help you can give.

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We’ve been abandoned again!
Noooooooooo!!!!!!!!
Not Again!
I just looked at Jimmy Buffett’s current tour schedule
for 2005, and there are no North Carolina stops.
And here I was, willing to do whatever it took to make
sure that both myself and Ray went to that concert:
Lie,, steal, fake severe illness, fake a death
certificate of a close relative if necessary, anything.
But no, the Almighty Parrot-head abandons us again.
You’d think he would have learned after the last time.
I’m so crushed.
It would have made working at Convergys meaningfull.
It would have meant that I don’t work in vain.
I would have worked as much overtime as needed to go to
that damned concert.
Now what am I supposed to do?

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Today seems to be going very well, despite the rain and general gloom outside. We’re barely getting any calls, because the training class for the new customer service project has been brought out on the floor to help. Forty-eight people makes a huge difference. I’m hungry. I think I’ll get a snickers bar on my break, along with a soda.

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Here are some problems philosophers never seem to ponder, but probably should.
What exactly is the purpose of Human Resources, if not to screw up life for the people they manage to turn in to resources?
I looked at my pay check this morning.
Granted, it should have been missing about ten hours, due to an absence I took because I was sick, (which I got written up for), and a tardy I took because my transportation slept in one morning.
So I was expecting that hit.
But it’s missing nine extra hours, which means that my stupidvisor forgot to key in some hours.
there has to be another way to do this.
I can’t keep relying on my stupidvisor to do this kind of thing, because he’s incompetant, irresponsible, stupid, ignorant, and a whole host of other things.
It’s great that they have this wonderful time keeping technology, but they refuse to work around it.
I’ve brought up the possibility of my keeping a time card on paper, which gets the “no, we’re sorry, can’t do that” response.
It’s like, it’s either their way or the highway.
Checking with my superior to make sure my pay check will be accurate isn’t supposed to be part of this job description.
Is it too much to ask for things like this, which shouldn’t require a whole lot of ingenuity, to just go right, you know, that state where I don’t have to babysit my superiors, who will end up getting paid like they’ve actually done the work, while I get to be part of a continuum that shouldn’t even exist, but does because it’s all about the bottom line, so they force cue to make the numbers look like they’re supposed to?
For those who don’t know, the powers that be have decided that 100 percent service level, which means that all calls are being handled promptly, and there are none waiting in cue, (in other words, all the customers are being taken care of, and nobody’s having to wait, and we’re on top of it), is a bad thing.
Service level, according to the powers that be, should be no higher than 85 percent.
So, what happens in order to keep it there?
People get sent home, (VGH, or voluntary go home), in order to force a cue.
Why, you ask?
Because, we must do all we can, no matter what or who gets to take the brunt, as long as it’s not us, to make a profit.
And they wonder why we get angry.
Two weeks ago, they staffed 12 people.
12!
And what was the cue like?
Murderous.
And all in the name of making a profit.
Sick, completely sick.
And the only consolation we get is “Well, that’s the nature of the business.”
And this came from our local, politically informed liberal.
Go figure.

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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.

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I’m finally starting to get over this cold/flue virus thingy I’ve been battling for the last week. I went to the kitchen to grab a sub sandwitch I had in the refridgerator, and found that the roommate had eaten half of it, and didn’t even wrap the other half up properly. That’s just fucking inconsiderate and rude. You don’t touch someone else’s food without permission. I feel like I’ve been put through the ringer twice, and I’m getting ready to work an eight-day stretch. Not cool. I’m waiting for the laundry to finish drying, but I really don’t feel like putting it away. Found the menorah, and it’s burning in the window right now. More later.

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I’m finally starting to get over this cold/flue virus thingy I’ve been battling for the last week. I went to the kitchen to grab a sub sandwitch I had in the refridgerator, and found that the roommate had eaten half of it, and didn’t even wrap the other half up properly. That’s just fucking inconsiderate and rude. You don’t touch someone else’s food without permission. I feel like I’ve been put through the ringer twice, and I’m getting ready to work an eight-day stretch. Not cool. I’m waiting for the laundry to finish drying, but I really don’t feel like putting it away. Found the menorah, and it’s burning in the window right now. More later.

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Well folks, it’s been ages since I’ve posted, and it’s about time for another one. It’s been so long since I’ve posted that I don’t remember what I posted about. Suffice it to say that work’s pretty much just the same crap, different day. I have a new roommate, who was moved in without my knowledge, and is here to stay permanently. She, and all of her friends, are Convergys-quality people, and by that I do not refer to the few people at Convergys who are hard-working. In short, they’re extremely trashy, people nobody with any sense would want in their house. And this one lives with me, and she brings all her friends over. They stay over till all hours of the night, and I don’t trust any of them as far as I could kick them. Thank G-d the bedroom door has a lock, because there’s no way in hell my ass is going to sleep with a bunch of strange guys in the house. I’ve been sick for the last several says. I worked a half-day today, and came home to try to get a little rest while the roommate was at work. Her sister, and her sister’s boyfriend are over here now. The sister’s about 16. The roommate’s 19. She periodically rearranges my living room at will. Yesterday, I got lucky enough to receive a warning that the living room had been arranged. All her and her friends do is blast ghetto music, and generally act retarded, like trash. They’re moving her best friend in next month. I’ve seen her too. She’s just as retarded. I have a really bad feeling I’m going to get seriously fucked because of this whole arrangement. ze’evi said he bought one of those bird grenades, the little grenade launcher that can fit in the back of a truck. I wonder if he’ll let me borrow it. I could come home one night, open the front door, and just start lobbing concussion grenades in to the place, and run them all out. Yeah, it’d destroy a whole bunch of shit, but what the hell. “I just want my life back!” It’s the night before Hanukkah, and I can’t find the menorah. I can’t think straight enough to try to figure out where I put it, and that’s assuming it wasn’t in one of the living room closets, and thus has been moved. I can’t wait until I can move.

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I’ve had a very strange weekend.
I walked in to my apartment Saturday night after work to
a bunch of strange people who had absolutely no business
being there.
There was ghetto music blaring out of my TV, my books
were all over the place, and my apartment was in the
process of being rearranged to fit somebody else’s
likes.
When I opened the door, (which was unlocked), the
intruders even had the nerve to try to joke around with
me, and tell me I was at the wrong apartment.
I thought the same thing myself, due to the fact that
the place didn’t smell like my apartment usually does,
(besides the familiar smell of the place, I had some
apple-cinnamon Glade plug-ins, and it kind of smelled
like incense, since I burn that a lot, and it smelled
like books). I’m sure when you walk into your home
after a long time away from it, you recognize familiar
smells that identify it as your home, as opposed to
someone else’s.
Well, every last bit of that was gone when I walked in
Saturday night after work.
I got no notice from the apartment management that they
wanted to move someone else in, and they have my number,
because they gave it to the woman who’s my current
roommate.
This new person isn’t a roommate, she’s an occupier.
From the information she, her mother, her aunt and some
guy who I, (and Andrew from looking at the kid who was
with him), assume is her baby’s daddy, despite what they
all say about him being just a family friend, there was
some sort of “altercation” between the invader and her
former roommates, and she got locked out of her
apartment.
No violence was involved, no threats were made, and,
according to all of them, she wasn’t the offender, and
she didn’t do anything wrong.
Yet someone decided that the situation was of emergency
importance, so much so that they had no problem telling
some strange people to just go right ahead and move into
my apartment, because this poor 19-year-old girl
couldn’t figure out how to deal with her roommates, and
because she’s alergic to cats, and because she wanted
her other roommate, who she got along with, to have a
chance to move in with her.
All of the above is absolutely not my problem, and I
could care less.
They said there was another apartment open.
Let her move into that one, after the people living
there have been notified.
It wouldn’t kill her and her friendly roommate to have
to deal with the inconvenience of walking less than a
block to be able to hang out.
Or better yet, she can grow up, and learn to resolve the
dispute with the other roommates.
I didn’t create the drama, and I shouldn’t have to bear
the consequences.
I sure as hell am not going to put up with someone
coming into my apartment, without my permission or
knowledge, and taking it over.
The contents of my cabbinets have been
rearranged, my refridgerator has been rearranged, my
stove’s in pieces, my books are all over the place.
Their excuse: “We just wanted to clean up a little.”
First of all, my apartment wasn’t dirty.
Yes, it needed to be straightened up, which I am quite
capable of doing myself, and had set aside for my next
day off.
Secondly, even if I wanted someone else to do it, I’m
quite capable of asking myself.
But that’s beyond the point.
They ended up making more of a mess than straightening.
My place is now a disaster area.
Sure, they mopped the kitchen floor, and wiped down the
kitchen.
But that’s it.
Everything else they wanted to do is just a list of
ideas, and, as I said, her shit’s all over the place in
my living room, along with my books, and the trash can
from the kitchen.
Apparently, she likes her trash can better.
I’m going to the office later today, and going seven
levels of postal.
This is completely unacceptable.
Furthermore, I’m not going to put up with it.
She is going to get the fuck out, and I will expend
every last bit of effort I can muster to get her out.
23 November 2004
It’s Tuesday now.
I went to the office yesterday afternoon.
After they gushed on about how they understood how much
of a shock it must have been to find several strangers
in my apartment, and then further to have them try to
convince me I was at the wrong apartment because they
thought it might be funny, and still further to find
that everything in my cabbinets had been rearranged, I
was told that, if I really expected my rights and needs
to be respected, then it would be best if I moved,
because this complex doesn’t cater to mature adults.
Well, that’s perfectly fine with me.
If they think I should move, so be it.
I’ll be out of here as soon as possible.
Since I started writing this last week, things have
changed yet again.
The head manager’s gotten involved, agreed that it was a
bad move on the part of the assistant manager to move
the girl in without letting me know, and has prepared a
list of apartments for her to look at in order to find a
permanent place to live, permanent being relative to the
length of her lease.
So that means she’ll be out of here soon.
That’s good, because the only praise from her mother
I’ve seen her live up to is the part about working.
Im yirtza Yehovah, this will all be over soonn, and I
can get back to my life before all the upheaval.