So they're here again... my pre-flight jitters.
WTF?
It's not like I fear the plane going down or anything (no, I only get that very real fear in London/England. That place is windy/scary as fuck... in the air, of course. Once there, I'm completely smitten with the place), I just hate everything I have to deal with.
Some passengers make me want to rip my hair out (like the ones that keep alarming at checkpoint, but don't take anything off when they're about to cross again... so they alarm again),
a lot of airport employees make me want to cry (there are SO many rude people at airports... I hate how condescending they are, as if I'm supposed to be born KNOWING how their lame ass airport works. I don't give people shit for not knowing/understanding calculus... something that seems pretty damn logical to me... so I shouldn't get shit for thinking an airport is confusing as fuck),
the altitude makes my ears and tummy hurt (yeah, so what? I'm weak),
I have this dumb fear that my luggage will get lost (they lost my sister's when she got back from Spain in May, so I KNOW this can happen)...
eghh... so much crap.
I'm also pretty freaked over what I'm going to do once I'm in San Francisco. I'm supposed to stay with Pacemaker, one of the girls involved in August's Colossal Mexico Argument... and I'm SO scared I'm going to be getting less-than friendly treatment from her family (Pacemaker's dad is the uncle of the chick that got most offended in the argument)... like... terrified... to the point where I have my aunt's number speed-dialed on my phone in case I need to leave that house and head over to auntie's house who lives half an hour away.
...
We'll see what goes down.
My money's on "upset... she's gonna cry a little."
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Monday, September 15, 2008
Friday, July 6, 2007
Stupid Azz Shoes?!
There's definitely something on me that says: talk shit about me, to my face preferably.
Why? Because today, while in the midst of my Mexico shopping (someone kill me now! I'm going insane with all this bullshit. I didn't have lunch today until 10:30 PM!), some ghetto hood rat bitch heifer talked shit about my shoes--my favorite ones, as a matter of fact!
It wasn't like she was trying to be discreet about it, either.
Ghetto Hood Rat Bitch Heifer's equally ghetto bitch friend (who was Hispanic, around 17, and was the mom of a kid around the age of one and a half. She then had the nerve to call me Ma'am... Bitch, am I holding a kid? Do you see a ring on my finger? Fuck you, hoe) stopped in front of me as I was looking at some stuff, pointed at my shoes, and said "See, those are the type of shoes I have to wear to work."
I sat there... since I saw these two ghetto hoes get in my face, and let them both gawk.
Yes... I grant you the privilege to stare at the wonderful beauty of my fantastic shoes!
I guess only normal people like my shoes (they were flats!! Fucking flats!!--the brown ones with the cute belt buckle in the front!), because her bitch ass heifer friend went:
"Eghhh! Why da hell you have to buy such stupid azz shoes?!"
Which made my jaw drop.
Wha...what you say, heifer? I couldn't understand through your wigger accent!
I dropped the clothes I had in my hands, and of course, turned hood-rat Mexican on them.
I did The Rock eyebrow... looked the dumb ass up and down once (not the Ghetto Momma. I respected the fact she was carrying her baby in her arms. Who fights with a lady carrying a baby?)... then stopped my gaze at her shoes (what else? Err Force Ones!)... then looked her in the eye.
No words.
No need... because her Ghetto Momma Friend started stuttering and trying to fix what her dumb ass friend said.
"I like 'em!! I'm just sayin'... I can't find any... I mean, they're nice."
That's when Ghetto Hood Rat Bitch Heifer started stuttering as well.
"Your shoes are stupid too. My shoes are stupid. Shoes are stupid..."
Yeah, bitch, that's what I thought. Next time, talk shit about some chick who's at least two inches shorter than your stumpy ass. Biiiiiiiiiiatch!
Seriously... these are stressful times... why the fuck does some imbecile, who's probably 17, think they can play with me like that?
Yeah, I'm a good girl... I rarely fight... but when I've been out since 10 in the morning, I've been to the gym and back, I haven't had a single bite to eat since 12 in the afternoon, and it's already 9 PM, don't fuck with me.
I won't be nice, I won't let shit slip. Well... maybe if you're a five foot six Latina or taller... or a very angry black woman. I don't even argue with either of those groups of girls.
(Ha! And to kill it, I finished my day by grocery shopping at 9:30 PM and I had this long ass conversation with this Iranian guy and his wife about Habanero chiles. At least this time it wasn't a ten minute conversation on how to properly roll up a burrito... and which flour tortillas work best. That shit's annoying. Just because I'm standing by the Mission Tortillas stand doesn't mean I work for them... or that I even know how to prepare award-winning tortilla dishes. Pop 8 of those bitches in a microwave for 2:22 and you're good. That's the best I can do)
Why? Because today, while in the midst of my Mexico shopping (someone kill me now! I'm going insane with all this bullshit. I didn't have lunch today until 10:30 PM!), some ghetto hood rat bitch heifer talked shit about my shoes--my favorite ones, as a matter of fact!
It wasn't like she was trying to be discreet about it, either.
Ghetto Hood Rat Bitch Heifer's equally ghetto bitch friend (who was Hispanic, around 17, and was the mom of a kid around the age of one and a half. She then had the nerve to call me Ma'am... Bitch, am I holding a kid? Do you see a ring on my finger? Fuck you, hoe) stopped in front of me as I was looking at some stuff, pointed at my shoes, and said "See, those are the type of shoes I have to wear to work."
I sat there... since I saw these two ghetto hoes get in my face, and let them both gawk.
Yes... I grant you the privilege to stare at the wonderful beauty of my fantastic shoes!
I guess only normal people like my shoes (they were flats!! Fucking flats!!--the brown ones with the cute belt buckle in the front!), because her bitch ass heifer friend went:
"Eghhh! Why da hell you have to buy such stupid azz shoes?!"
Which made my jaw drop.
Wha...what you say, heifer? I couldn't understand through your wigger accent!
I dropped the clothes I had in my hands, and of course, turned hood-rat Mexican on them.
I did The Rock eyebrow... looked the dumb ass up and down once (not the Ghetto Momma. I respected the fact she was carrying her baby in her arms. Who fights with a lady carrying a baby?)... then stopped my gaze at her shoes (what else? Err Force Ones!)... then looked her in the eye.
No words.
No need... because her Ghetto Momma Friend started stuttering and trying to fix what her dumb ass friend said.
"I like 'em!! I'm just sayin'... I can't find any... I mean, they're nice."
That's when Ghetto Hood Rat Bitch Heifer started stuttering as well.
"Your shoes are stupid too. My shoes are stupid. Shoes are stupid..."
Yeah, bitch, that's what I thought. Next time, talk shit about some chick who's at least two inches shorter than your stumpy ass. Biiiiiiiiiiatch!
Seriously... these are stressful times... why the fuck does some imbecile, who's probably 17, think they can play with me like that?
Yeah, I'm a good girl... I rarely fight... but when I've been out since 10 in the morning, I've been to the gym and back, I haven't had a single bite to eat since 12 in the afternoon, and it's already 9 PM, don't fuck with me.
I won't be nice, I won't let shit slip. Well... maybe if you're a five foot six Latina or taller... or a very angry black woman. I don't even argue with either of those groups of girls.
(Ha! And to kill it, I finished my day by grocery shopping at 9:30 PM and I had this long ass conversation with this Iranian guy and his wife about Habanero chiles. At least this time it wasn't a ten minute conversation on how to properly roll up a burrito... and which flour tortillas work best. That shit's annoying. Just because I'm standing by the Mission Tortillas stand doesn't mean I work for them... or that I even know how to prepare award-winning tortilla dishes. Pop 8 of those bitches in a microwave for 2:22 and you're good. That's the best I can do)
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Must... get... away.
So... so freakin' tired.
My eyes hurt.
My brain hurts.
I've barfed.
I'm in a shitty mood.
I'm practically barking at people.
I'm tiiiiiredddddd, damn it!
(and now, I must stop typing like this, because I'm starting to feel like I'm writing Rosie O'Donnell's blog)
I can't wait 'till finals are done.
Till then (and I'm still fucking doing it!), I'll have to entertain myself by looking at funny pictures of "celebrities":
Oh, Nash, I had just told everyone how badass you are...
And, shit, I couldn't be any more right (that loss to damn San Antonio probably added to my bad mood today)!
Look at that dance move right there...
Hollaaa! Cool cat right thurrrrr! (granted, this is a couple of years old, but still)
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
It's not permanent... yet.
How am I feeling the day after receiving the life changing news? This sums it up pretty damn well:
Although I'd have to wedge "Fucking" between the "Don't" and "Panic" (and I know that would infuriate some die hard HHGTTG fans in the science department) to stay true to myself.
(To sum everything up that occured today/late last night in a nutshell: my parents are disappointed in my score, and I just don't give a flying fuck anymore. There's no damn way to please these people. No damn way.
"Why didn't you inherit my love for school?! I was almost a prodigy!"
I was seconds away from screaming "You two only went to sixth grade! Of course you did well and loved school! I did too at the age of twelve!" But no, I bit my tongue because it's holy week... and only because)
Wasn't I just talking about ugly tattoos the other day?
Although I'd have to wedge "Fucking" between the "Don't" and "Panic" (and I know that would infuriate some die hard HHGTTG fans in the science department) to stay true to myself.
(To sum everything up that occured today/late last night in a nutshell: my parents are disappointed in my score, and I just don't give a flying fuck anymore. There's no damn way to please these people. No damn way.
"Why didn't you inherit my love for school?! I was almost a prodigy!"
I was seconds away from screaming "You two only went to sixth grade! Of course you did well and loved school! I did too at the age of twelve!" But no, I bit my tongue because it's holy week... and only because)
Wasn't I just talking about ugly tattoos the other day?