Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Phone Company BULLSHIT

Over twenty-two minutes on the fucking phone with the stupid fucking phone company just to cancel my wireless Sprint PCS Vision. First, there's the automated bullshit of speaking to a computer: state your name, state your phone number, state your business. Of course, it doesn't understand "cancel pcs vision". It sounds like you want repairs! NO, Mr. Computer. It doesn't understand "CANCEL". It also doesn't understand, "fuck off and die -- get me a motherfucking human being on the phone."

So of course, I have to go through verifying my name, rank and serial number with some woman who then transfers me to some guy named JOE who also needs to verify my name, phone number, and address (did I not just do this? What the fuck? After verifying all of this with the woman who transferred me, did I hand the phone to some nefarious entity who doesn't know my name, phone number and address? I don't think so.

So since Joe wanted me to repeat everything I already told the other woman, I made sure to tell him EVERYTHING I told her, including, "I know it's not your fault but that automated system is really annoying and didn't understand the word 'CANCEL' *plus* it's really annoying that after verifying this information with one person, I have to go through it all over again with you." I can tell Joe thinks I'm an unreasonable bitch. So now Joe says, "and I see it's been a year since we've verified your credit information. What's your work phone number?" I'm like, "why do you need to know this?" Whatever, I tell Joe I work for myself. He wants to know the phone number. I tell Joe he already has my phone number since I work at home. Joe says, "no I don't!" Yes you do Joe. You have my phone number right on your fucking screen and I've verified it with you fuckwads twice already.

Then Joe wants to know what I do. I tell him, "I'm a pornographer." He pauses. "You're a WHAT?" A pornographer Joe . . . and a sex worker. Joe donned a bitchy voice, "well if that's what you do, that's what you do." Yes it's what I do moron, and it's none of your business. Then he needs to know where my boyfriend works and what his phone number is (and he totally didn't seem to believe me that his phone number is the same as mine).

Of course, I couldn't get off the phone with Joe until he tried to sell me on a new long distance plan, DSL, and DirecTV. He scoffed at my choice of internet service provider, and must have thought I was lying when I told him that we don't WATCH television. Then Joe and I argued some more about the ridiculous nature of all of this bullshit, and what I think is so fucked up is that these people will DEFEND the corporation's ludicrous methods of invasive harrassment when you're just trying to cancel a simple service. A call that should take two minutes suddenly is almost a half hour. That is FUCKED UP. And people complain about porn sites being hard to cancel. BULLSHIT. These automated systems, crossells, and information collecting things are just BULLSHIT. It makes me just want to unplug from the world and all of it's fucked up nonsense. I've been paying my bill with this phone company for fourteen years. They do not need to know what I do for a living, and they should believe me when I say I don't want to buy anything else today I just want to GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE. Joe was a monstrous little prick and I hope he has fun in the break room talking about what a bitch he had on the phone today. Face it, Joe -- your job sucks ass.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Crusty Cast Iron

I fucking hate washing cast iron frying pans. I hate scraping, I hate the grease that runs off them to coat the sink, I hate the whole "to use soap or not to use soap" dilemma, I hate the curing and the bullshit and that they are TOO FUCKING HEAVY FOR ME TO LIFT with my weak little pansy-ass wrist.

They look so quaint and rustic, but I have no more use for them in my life. I wonder if my boyfriend would notice if I threw them away while he's gone?

I suppose the main issue is just that I hate most types of manual labor and resent every second spent doing something so mundane and repetitive when I could actually be doing some kind of work that actually gives me pleasure and produces something different than the last thing I produced. When you finish with the pots and pans? Anticlimax. And the depressing awareness that they will just get dirty again and that it's a thankless fucking task you only do to prevent yourself from winding up in squalor, filth, and mold without a clean thing to eat. I fucking HATE it.