I hate not blogging but I hate blogging when I don't feel like it. It's a lot like eating cake when you're taking a shit. You're just not feelin' the cake at that particular moment you know? Unless it's tres leches cake, THAT I will eat off a dirty street in Calcutta. But you see the point I'm making here (and the subtle hint that maybe you should bake some tres leches cake and FedEx it to me stat.)
So what's been going on that made it feel like I've spent a week in the crapper taking a shit bigger than viking hubby's head? My condo of course and the annoying process of leaving "our first step towards a home" that turned into something akin to the La Brea tar pits - leaving us paralyzed and trapped. I began the process of becoming unstuck which required me to do some - le sigh and fuckity frack- PAPERWORK!
I just deleted about half of this blog because hateful bile began to spew forth from my fingertips, directed at my mortgage company who really is nobody in particular but this bottomless pit that's sucked up all our money. Going off on them doesn't make me feel any better. Its like cussing out the disembodied peen that pokes out the glory hole in some random restroom and hits you in the ear while you're doing your business. In the end, no one is going to make you feel better for what just happened and then you wonder if there was something you could have done to prevent it. Were you tapping your foot in an inviting manner? Maybe you shouldn't have gone into a questionable restroom in the first place? You didn't really have to go, you could have waited. All this mental torture doesn't change the fact that your ear just got violated and now has an odd mushroomy smell.
I really don't understand where my mind goes sometimes but thanks for following me there anyways. I'll pitch in for your dry cleaning.
Anyways, long story short - amidst this mountain of paperwork that was asked of us to provide, our mortgage company also asked us if we would sign a promissory note basically promising to pay the difference if our property doesn't sell for what we originally bought it for.
Huh? Wha did you say o' evil mortgage company? I couldn't hear you with all the ruckus I was making while wiping my ass with your 'promissory' bullshit form. Please note that the skid marks on your form is our official reply and suggestion to please go fuck thineselves in the ass with a splintered stick. Amen.
I'm so glad I shortened my story about my pure and concentrated hatred for my mortgage company. Their inability to act when I asked them for help a YEAR before all this mess, the fact that I've been transferred to 'customer service reps' halfway around the world who had scripted answers, none of which answered my questions and how they demolished our once stellar credit to, what I imagine is now, a two digit number, and just thinking back on how badly they handled this entire situation exhausts me. I hate to talk about it or even dwell on it. However, lately, I've noticed that my very controlled and censored hatred has a way of letting itself out in the form of creative ideas for revenge.
One recurring idea is to shit in the middle of the living room and shape it into a middle finger before I leave. But then I realize there is no way I could ever eat enough cheese to make my shit be pliable AND sturdy like clay, my quality of crap would never hold up if needed for a sculpture. So then I thought, what about our dog's logs? Its large, there's a lot of it, I could make a poop middle finger mosaic in the living room! Then my ideas take on a much grander scale (because I know I won't actually do it. You probably thought I would huh? I see what you think of me! Not that I can blame you...) crap mosaics are soon coupled with shit wallpaper, poo dioramas, maybe caca brownie squares. Basically my hate just wants me to defecate on everything....in an artistic manner of course. It would be downright vulgar to just crap every which way with no purpose.
But in the end, there is no revenge against the man. The head honchos and shareholders at my mortgage company could give a rat's ass if my entire condo was covered with chum and bum excrement. They would never even get a whiff of it. They'd hire some poor sap to clean it up before they sold it again.
However, if I happen to get my hands on any of these shareholders addresses, I don't think a bag of flaming poo would hurt anything. ;D