I. CAN'T. DEAL.
Jan. 9th, 2009 03:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
agilebritSo, I'm looking through the mail today and find out that BoA has decided (without consulting us) to "upgrade" our card to a Signature Visa (whatever the hell that is).
This, naturally, entails giving us a new number.
Understand that we got a new number last year when terrorists stole our card number, which was all kinds of jolly fun. So I had to go through the hassle of figuring out who had the damn card number and updating the info with them.
And now I get to do it again. And I get to memorize a new card number. AGAIN.
This, on top of the CD drive thing and a few other things (do not get me started on politics or the fact that they're building a twenty-foot tall sound wall right behind my house so Trax doesn't disturb us when it goes by every twenty minutes or the fact that Da Boy asks me for help, I give him help, and then he says "but that won't work" without even trying it to see if it will) that have me ripping my hair out by the roots, has me screaming "Bring me something fried in deep fat and covered in chocolate!"
Because nothing says "I'm stressed the hell out" like blowing my diet.
Which is, you know, already blown. A big "fuck you" to the scale, while I'm at it.
This, naturally, entails giving us a new number.
Understand that we got a new number last year when terrorists stole our card number, which was all kinds of jolly fun. So I had to go through the hassle of figuring out who had the damn card number and updating the info with them.
And now I get to do it again. And I get to memorize a new card number. AGAIN.
This, on top of the CD drive thing and a few other things (do not get me started on politics or the fact that they're building a twenty-foot tall sound wall right behind my house so Trax doesn't disturb us when it goes by every twenty minutes or the fact that Da Boy asks me for help, I give him help, and then he says "but that won't work" without even trying it to see if it will) that have me ripping my hair out by the roots, has me screaming "Bring me something fried in deep fat and covered in chocolate!"
Because nothing says "I'm stressed the hell out" like blowing my diet.
Which is, you know, already blown. A big "fuck you" to the scale, while I'm at it.
