Diana's Diary

2001-08-12 - 3:46 p.m.

Everyone's a Goddamn Bitch

I'm not in a good mood at the moment.

10 o'clock this morning, I get a call from a realtor, asking if she can show the house at 1 o'clock. Gnih. I say fine.

11 o'clock, I call JB to see if I can hang out with her while I'm kicked out of my house. I've mentioned before that JB screens her calls. So this is how it went:

JB's answering machine: "Please leave a message."

Me: "Hey JB, it's Di, just calling to--"

JB: "Hi. Let me call you back. I need to keep the phone free."

Me: "Okay, but--"

[click]

The bitch hung up on me! She better have a very fucking good excuse. Of course, it's almost 5 hours later, and I still haven't heard back from her. I am so fucking tired of this bullshit. Whenever she needs me, I'm right fucking there, but if I ever need her, that's just too damn bad for me. I am not calling her until she calls me. Enough of this one-sided friendship bullshit. Fuck.

So, even though I'm not supposed to be walking (or driving, really), I had to find something to do out of the house while people were looking at it. So, a little bit before one o'clock, I took off. Walked around Long's and Mervyn's. Didn't buy anything. Didn't need anything. Grouchy. Other drivers were pissing me off.

Get back home at two o'clock. Drive around the block once first to make sure the realtor is gone. She is. I go inside the house. Sit down at the kitchen table and start reading.

2:15--Doorbell rings. Bitch realtor and her bitch clients are over an hour late. They're annoyed at me for being in the house. Shit--I left for an hour. If they'd been on time, there wouldn't be a problem. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

They leave after fifteen minutes or so. I finish my book. I come up here to write out my frustrations.

As soon as I get into Diaryland, the doorbell rings. Another bitch realtor, only this one didn't even bother to fucking call first. I hobble down the stairs on my fucking sprained ankle, and get to the door just as she opens it herself.

(By the way, Bitch Realtor #2 and her clients are still in the house.)

"Oh!" she says brightly. "Can I show your house now?"

Like she was giving me fuckin' choice. She brought a damn family of 4 with her. What, I'm supposed to turn them away after she's already opened the freaking door?

(Sorry for all the swearing. I'm really unpleased at the moment.)

Gahhhh!

I hate all realtors. That's what I've decided.

This morning, when I went to throw away my muffin wrapper, I discovered empty soda cans in our trash.

We recycle.

Okay, so maybe people brought their own sodas into our open house. Even if they did that, that's pretty damn rude. The house is for sale, and they're trucking a soda all over the place? What if they spilled?

Except...

The soda cans were Diet Cherry 7-Up. It's almost impossible to find Diet Cherry 7-Up. And we had a quantity of that particular soda in our refrigerator. Which, when I opened the fridge to check, seemed less full than it had before I left yesterday.

Some asshole came to look at our house yesterday, opened the fridge, and helped him or herself to what was in there!

Can you believe the fucking nerve?!

Good. Bitch Realtor #2 and her clients just left. Goddamn 'em all.

Very unpleased. Everyone sucks.

Bastards.

-Diana

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2003-12-16 - Ow! My Nose!
2003-12-15 - 'Tis the Season...For Moving
2003-11-17 - Rush, Rush
2003-11-03 - Apartment Hunting Sucks
2003-10-22 - Apparently, "nauseated" is a good look for me.

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