I’m experiencing some irritability. (Run! Hide! Save yourselves!)
I just took a walk with my dad, and boy was I mean to him. I have no clue what went wrong. When we left the house and stood on the porch and he was lighting his cigar, he asked about the tracking information of the cigars I ordered for him yesterday. This guy I hate, Stevil, our nextdoor neighbor, was listening to us while unloading his car, so I said, “They haven’t mailed your cigars yet, so I sent them a threanening email. They’d better send them already.” (This was true. They put a label in the system yesterday with no evidence that the USPS has received the package.)
So we started on our walk, and I just got angrier and angrier. I trash-talked the manager at the restaurant who put up the mean sign about me last summer. Yeah, this one:
And my dad kept making excuses for him, and saying he’s probably learned his lesson, and I was just like, “You know what? He’s on my radar until he apologizes to me for it.”
So then my dad acted all victimized about how he always has to “clean up my messes,” like last year with the vets who didn’t appreciate my review. This was after I begged them to euthanize my violent dog, and they got really mean about it.
The vet treated my dad and me as if we didn’t know how to use internet (because we didn’t have cell phones with us). She was like, “You open a browser and type www-dot…” Yeah, for real. So I don’t think she expected the immediate bad review I left on facebook as soon as I got home, dangerous dog still in tow. So the vet’s office and I got into a social media back-and-forth, which made them angrier, so they called my dad, and apparently, they asked him if I take medicines. And he said, “Yes.” And then they weren’t mad any longer.
So, what’s their excuse? Exactly. They don’t have one. I’d rather take medicines than have no excuse.
But as I started remembering how shocked they were by my internet review, seeing as I didn’t know how to use the newfangled internet [snort], that made me feel better. They really didn’t see me coming. And that’s the major mistake most people make about me: let’s piss her off. She’ll lie down and take it.
No, I won’t.
My dad was near tears, or so he said. I told him I wanted the manager of the tavern to either apologize to me or otherwise suffer for how he treated me. My dad somehow managed to convince me that the guy probably has seen the error of his ways. After all, last summer, I stormed into the bar and asked for his email address, saying he’d put up a mean sign about me. Several servers were like, “What? He wouldn’t do that.” And I pointed outside and said, “Have you read it?”
This is why you never have to make up stuff about people to get others to see how awful they are. All you have to do is throw their own actions into their faces.
So, then, right at the end of our walk, my poor dad was begging me to lay off the manager, to which I casually replied, “Oh, by the way, I have PMS.”
He started thanking God.
But then we saw police cars in our alley. “Here’s the good news,” I said. “I had nothing to do with it.” (Whatever “it” was.)
There were police business cards all over our front door. So my dad went around and talked to them. Apparently, the local teens have gotten out of hand with alcohol, and the police made them circle back and clean up their mess. Beer bottles, and such. Those bad teens. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile. They’ve also been breaking into cars and staying in our garage overnight, or something…? More details later. I’m not sure right now.
So, anyway, I’m trying to be very kind and loving toward myself right now. PMS is difficult, and of course I’ve been stressed to the point of irrationality over the scary virus. Other people get depressed, whereas I come unhinged. (Not to minimize depression, but sometimes I’d rather be depressed than irrational. Living with an irrational side makes me aware that I could do something awful at any time and get myself arrested, or that sort of thing.)
I’ve thought of something, though. Here’s the thing. That vet was really mean to us last spring. She treated me as if I was making up Sammy Samson’s rage disorder because I was tired of dog ownership and I just wanted to take the easy way out. Um, no. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m finally going to contact the rescue organization who took Sammy and just ask them what’s become of him, and if he’s hurt anyone. If he has hurt anyone, that’s not bad karma for me. I tried to put him down.
That vet will be hearing from me.
Of course, I hope Sammy hasn’t hurt anyone. But it angers me that I tried to do the right thing and got shot down by a vet who treated us as if we don’t know how to use internet. It probably gave her license to be a [bleep], because she had no clue I’d go home and review her on social media. After all, I can’t type in www to access a web page, and here I am on social media? Snort. They never see me coming.