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Am I the only one who wishes Roseredliverpool would stop whining about not being able to attend the NYC Rammstein show? I understand being disappointed; if I hadn't scored tickets, I would have sulked and stropped for a long time. I would even have posted my displeasure volubly on my LJ and would have made a post or two on the forum. I am regrettably human.
I would not, however, have spent a month whinging interminably about the unfairness of life to anyone who would listen or hijack any thread about the upcoming show to beg them to come back to Liverpool because I made the decision to miss their previous shows in the UK. Nor would I constantly wallow in my A-1 emo and inform the world that life had no meaning because I couldn't afford to see the show. It's melodramatic and ridiculous, and a woman in her forties should know better.
In truth, I suspect she suffers from some level of depression. Hence, I have quashed the uncharitable impulse to tell her to shut the fuck up. It would be satisfying, I confess, but ultimately fruitless, and besides, I have no desire to either endure another barrage of holier-than-thou demagoguery from Beekay or wade through a barrage of self-pitying apology posts and sniveling PMs.
My creativity is at a standstill. Not only has Rammstein devoured most of my brain, but now, on the cusp of a mountain winter, the elderly heater has breathed its last. Of course it has. We suspected it was on its last legs as far back as last summer and sought out an estimate on what it would cost to replace it. I couldn't afford six thousand dollars then, and I can't now, and so when I get my next infusion of cash, Roomie and I are going to price window-mounted heaters. We have one in the bedroom, and it keeps the room toasty. We're hoping one can do the same for the living and sunroom.
Speaking of Rammstein, my novice travel agent still hasn't forwarded me the confirmation emails from Amtrak or my hotel. So I wrote a list of questions and emailed them to him, and if he doesn't answer them to my satisfaction by Tuesday afternoon, then it will be time for another round of angry phone calls.
If I had known going through a third-party was going to be so maddening, I would have just demanded the money from the bean counters in charge of my father's trust and made the arrangements myself. Live and learn, I suppose.
I would not, however, have spent a month whinging interminably about the unfairness of life to anyone who would listen or hijack any thread about the upcoming show to beg them to come back to Liverpool because I made the decision to miss their previous shows in the UK. Nor would I constantly wallow in my A-1 emo and inform the world that life had no meaning because I couldn't afford to see the show. It's melodramatic and ridiculous, and a woman in her forties should know better.
In truth, I suspect she suffers from some level of depression. Hence, I have quashed the uncharitable impulse to tell her to shut the fuck up. It would be satisfying, I confess, but ultimately fruitless, and besides, I have no desire to either endure another barrage of holier-than-thou demagoguery from Beekay or wade through a barrage of self-pitying apology posts and sniveling PMs.
My creativity is at a standstill. Not only has Rammstein devoured most of my brain, but now, on the cusp of a mountain winter, the elderly heater has breathed its last. Of course it has. We suspected it was on its last legs as far back as last summer and sought out an estimate on what it would cost to replace it. I couldn't afford six thousand dollars then, and I can't now, and so when I get my next infusion of cash, Roomie and I are going to price window-mounted heaters. We have one in the bedroom, and it keeps the room toasty. We're hoping one can do the same for the living and sunroom.
Speaking of Rammstein, my novice travel agent still hasn't forwarded me the confirmation emails from Amtrak or my hotel. So I wrote a list of questions and emailed them to him, and if he doesn't answer them to my satisfaction by Tuesday afternoon, then it will be time for another round of angry phone calls.
If I had known going through a third-party was going to be so maddening, I would have just demanded the money from the bean counters in charge of my father's trust and made the arrangements myself. Live and learn, I suppose.
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