There's a reason I'm not butch
I threw a car tantrum over a print cartridge tonight. It has left me on edge; I feel as though at the slightest peep from my goddamn HP PrintFuckButthole I may burst into tears.
I have my agoraphobic days. Consider today, when the very thought of leaving my apartment and interacting with a sales associate over a #92 black inkjet cartridge turned my stomach all pins-and-needles-y. I convinced myself it would be fine. If blonde roommate can replenish her inkwells at Wal-Mart, goddammit, I carry around heavy techno-ful cameras all the time... it'll be fine.
It wasn't. I went to FIVE FUCKING STORES. Five. One had a sign for my cartridge and a nice, low price, but they weren't in stock. Two were closed. One had it-- I was caressing it myself, but it required the magical touch of a sales associate to liberate it. A discussion with the tiny girl doing something with a cart was more than I could face, so I left empty-handed.
As I drove between stores, Jason Robert Brown sang to me about how he'd be my prince, he'd be my saint, he'd go crashing through fences in my name. And I shrieked at the top of my lungs that I don't give a fuck about fences, but if he'd find me a fucking print cartridge I might try to hold my vomit while sucking his dick. This was no average screaming fit. This was a hands shaking, voice cracking, complete hysteria tantrum.
I worked up my courage to visit the final store, only to discover the friendly sales fuckmonkey couldn't tell a print cartridge from a box of film. My ink supply still dry as the desert, I left to calm myself by reciting every food I could remember from the cruise ship's buffet.
Mmm, cruise food.
I hate technology.
I have my agoraphobic days. Consider today, when the very thought of leaving my apartment and interacting with a sales associate over a #92 black inkjet cartridge turned my stomach all pins-and-needles-y. I convinced myself it would be fine. If blonde roommate can replenish her inkwells at Wal-Mart, goddammit, I carry around heavy techno-ful cameras all the time... it'll be fine.
It wasn't. I went to FIVE FUCKING STORES. Five. One had a sign for my cartridge and a nice, low price, but they weren't in stock. Two were closed. One had it-- I was caressing it myself, but it required the magical touch of a sales associate to liberate it. A discussion with the tiny girl doing something with a cart was more than I could face, so I left empty-handed.
As I drove between stores, Jason Robert Brown sang to me about how he'd be my prince, he'd be my saint, he'd go crashing through fences in my name. And I shrieked at the top of my lungs that I don't give a fuck about fences, but if he'd find me a fucking print cartridge I might try to hold my vomit while sucking his dick. This was no average screaming fit. This was a hands shaking, voice cracking, complete hysteria tantrum.
I worked up my courage to visit the final store, only to discover the friendly sales fuckmonkey couldn't tell a print cartridge from a box of film. My ink supply still dry as the desert, I left to calm myself by reciting every food I could remember from the cruise ship's buffet.
Mmm, cruise food.
I hate technology.