wickedflea | (no subject)

And then there are those people whose whole purpose in life is complaining. If you're working on a difficult project, she's working on a project that's in eight different languages by thirteen different authors, six of whom have major disagreements, and the rest of whom are dead, but their wills legally require us to do conflicting things. If you have the measles, she had the measles last year so frackin' bad that they had to graft new skin onto her entire body, and her body rejected the skin, so they had to have synthetic skin crafted in New Guinea by an autistic witch doctor with a bad attitude. And it still doesn't quite fit right, and it itches incessantly. If your car breaks down, she's got a rusted-out moped from the Ukraine that runs only on yak spit and won't start in cold weather. And she's gonna tell you about it, by god, and if you try to walk away from her she'll tackle your ass and scream in your ear about the time she had to stand in line at the DMV for eight hours on Thanksgiving Day and she got so famished that she had to eat her own sweatsocks.

I never complain, of course. I'm above all that.