The greatest thing about having a cellphone is the ability to pull it out and call the police on drunk drivers, or call the city about morons parked in front of fire hydrants. Ahh, the petty thrill of revenge.
The sweet taste of revenge is the subject of an article in the NY Times today. It's interesting to think of it as a biological imperative of sorts. I know it drives my husband crazy at times because I have to find some way to bust the asses of people at work sometimes. But part of me goes insane when I see Carmack skipping and sniping his way through the queue. It's not right, and I feel unable to let it be.
The guy came out to move his car while I was standing there on the phone reading off his license plate. He came out of Mr Ghetto Fabulous' place, which just reinforces my feeling that Mr Fabulous is a dealer. The guy parked in front of a fire hydrant looked like a methhead, in his stained wife beater and with that tweaky bug-eyed expression. Come to think of it, it probably would have been a more sensible idea to call from inside.
We had pecan praline cake at work today for my supervisor's birthday.
Alan is working on his computer, adding a fan and batting to cushion various parts so as to reduce vibrations.
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