PlazaJen: Passion Knit

I have a recurring theme in my life, which is brought about by two great personality traits (flaws)reaching a confluence within me: A) a white-hot rage that gets stoked every so often, and B) a tendency towards absent-mindedness, which only seems to increase the older I become.

What happens when these two converge is that I blithely continue doing whatever it was I was doing, but with a vague sense of...uneasy. Irritation. Like a small child with peanut butter all over his hands, tugging at the hem of your skirt. Finally the irritation becomes so persistent, I have to ask myself, "Now, what was I mad about?"
Which always seems to be filled with great irony and amusement, because if it was worth being mad, I would still remember it, and the attempt TO remember it is only prolonging the unpleasant. However, in today's case (Pissed off at Amazon Prime, how dare those fuckers give me a free trial which is akin to dusting my toes with powdered sugar & licking them, and it gets me thinking just how fan-fucking-tastic Amazon Prime is, getting books in a mere day or two, instead of Free! Super! Saver! Shipping! and waiting for two weeks. Those fuckers. They gave me a free trial and then I ordered some books and now it's going to be THREE weeks before they get here! It's enough to make me kick them in the face. Given that they're already down there and all (the confectioner's sugar toes, remember?)) Where was I? Yeah. In today's case. It was NECessary to remember why I was pissed, so I could unleash my Holy HellRage on them and maybe get my damn books here a little sooner. So I tried their "We'll call you right back" feature, which is awesome! Awed by the technology that allows me to enter my phone number, and immediately have my phone ring - them calling me back! - I wasn't even troubled the first THREE TIMES the line then went to "Busy". By the fourth attempt, I could have gotten frownier, but I'd have looked as though I were related to a shar-pei. The only recourse left was a gigantor email, and I even apologized for being such a beyotch, but all the same, WHERE'S MY STUFF.

OH mah god. I'm surprised I don't have white spittle on my shirt from being in a frothing rage.

I wonder how I'll feel in ten minutes. Probably wondering why there's spit on my shirt.