Un-Fucking Believable
A day, what a day.
First off, it's fucking hot outside. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
And because someone ELSE is on vacation at work now, I have to run a mail-route this week too. And as I have already mentioned, it's fucking hot outside.
So I get back to the mail office and get infuriating news.
Apparently, the roster I had worked on for 2 weeks, compiling names, assigning them to boxes, inputting combinations, removing old students, adding new ones, and then going through the whole thing and attaching email adressing to... well, it was sent to Residence Life, whose head decided that he was going to change it without notifying us. And the changes he made, they made no sense. Returning students were given new mailboxes, students living downtown were given lakeshore boxes, incoming students were assigned two boxes, several names were repeated, several more omitted, etc. This should take about two weeks, just to fix someone else's fuckup of MY work.
Who was tasked to fix this problem? Me. And when I'm done, who shall I send it to?
Residence Life. The same fuckstick that fucked it up in the first fucking place.
Fuck.
So I get off work and go straight to the darkroom. I am there from 6-12. I had calmed down in this time, made some fucking awesome prints, gotten ahead of the game, etc.
I leave, start walking home.
I'm walking down Sheridan, and who do I see?
It was him. I swear it was him. It's so fucked up that he was there:
The Jamaican that harassed me on the train, stumbling, head down, dreads bigger than before, wearing that same ratty-fucked-up shirt that he was wearing before.
Luckily, we passed each other without incidence. He didn't recognize me. But don't take that to mean that I walked a hell of alot faster once I passed him.
First off, it's fucking hot outside. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
And because someone ELSE is on vacation at work now, I have to run a mail-route this week too. And as I have already mentioned, it's fucking hot outside.
So I get back to the mail office and get infuriating news.
Apparently, the roster I had worked on for 2 weeks, compiling names, assigning them to boxes, inputting combinations, removing old students, adding new ones, and then going through the whole thing and attaching email adressing to... well, it was sent to Residence Life, whose head decided that he was going to change it without notifying us. And the changes he made, they made no sense. Returning students were given new mailboxes, students living downtown were given lakeshore boxes, incoming students were assigned two boxes, several names were repeated, several more omitted, etc. This should take about two weeks, just to fix someone else's fuckup of MY work.
Who was tasked to fix this problem? Me. And when I'm done, who shall I send it to?
Residence Life. The same fuckstick that fucked it up in the first fucking place.
Fuck.
So I get off work and go straight to the darkroom. I am there from 6-12. I had calmed down in this time, made some fucking awesome prints, gotten ahead of the game, etc.
I leave, start walking home.
I'm walking down Sheridan, and who do I see?
It was him. I swear it was him. It's so fucked up that he was there:
The Jamaican that harassed me on the train, stumbling, head down, dreads bigger than before, wearing that same ratty-fucked-up shirt that he was wearing before.
Luckily, we passed each other without incidence. He didn't recognize me. But don't take that to mean that I walked a hell of alot faster once I passed him.