… because too many people in this world are moron, and those morons seem to be the ones tasked with making sure things don’t fall apart.
Yes, my closet is still subject to a huge water leak from the floor above, the Housing Office people remain idiots — and potentially larcenous idiots, given how they went through the apartment above looking for loot to steal (to the point of unwrapping a present left on the counter), the old, junky washing machine ruined a shirt I’d just gotten and had worn twice — because it’s so old and crappy that the bleach never rinses out on the first cycle — and I’m feeling just about ready to break something.
But hey, maybe the housing office will actually come and try to fix this goddamned mess tomorrow. Then again, maybe they won’t. Or maybe they will, but they’ll also dig through what was left around, to see if they can find something nice to take home. Or maybe they’ll piss all over the bathroom and not clean up after themselves. It’s a coin toss, when you’re dealing with the campus plumbing corps. Seriously!
And I have tons of work to do, and not an iota of motivation to even start in on it today. (And it’s 6:30pm.) I think I understand why the kings of old had whipping boys–human beings to beat the crap out of when things were not going their way. I think I understand that better than I ever imagined I would.
You wanna break the King of France’s nose (just as I want to break the nose of the plumber who didn’t bother to tell me what was going on, but tried to just go home for the weekend), but you can’t. Here’s the whipping boy! Take it out on him! It’s horrible, but I understand, now.
And no, I won’t be whipping anyone. But what I will be doing with that pent up anger, I don’t know. What would make me feel better would be to find a way to fix this bleached-out spot on my nice, new shirt. Or to blow up their office. Either one.
Use the shirt to wipe up the piss and take it to the office to present to them, illustrating two complaints with one, er, stone.
Maybe if I use the shirt in the neck of a molotov cocktail?
Huh, I called the department secretary to ask why they weren’t working on it this morning, since I saw them in the building. She said, “It’s not a short problem.”
“I know, that’s why they need to start now!”
And to top it all off, the morons pissed in the toilet, with the water shut off, so it can’t even be flushed. How f*cking retarded can people get?
Sorry for the trouble you are having. But one thing I learned in my five and a half years in this university is don’t count on the administrative side to do anything. Some people do try to be helpful, but overall, I found that the less I have to deal with them, the easier it is to retain what little sanity I got left.
Q: “How f*cking retarded can people get?”
A: about X^1000000 where X equals a 10 point drop in IQ.
And are you surprised at any of this? You know well enough that the only way to get them to do anything is to be loud or embarrassing enough that they can’t ignore you anymore.
Anyway, sympathies.
Borbetomagus says it best:
Junsok,
Thanks for the sympathies… I wish I could minimize my dependence on that office, but with no housing stipend, it’s just uneconomical to live off campus. Luckily, the higher-up guys in that office showed up today and discovered… oh, well, I’ll just post a new post about that.
Rhesus,
Not really surprised. Bureaucrats are bureaucrats. I guess I was loud enough, but I’ll save that for my post too.
And though I’ve never heard Borbetomagus, that music expresses how I felt this weekend perfectly! Thanks!
(PS I can’t believe I’ve never listened to them! What a find!)