Do you know what I have in my hot little hands? A transcript! An unofficial transcript (which is why I'm viewing it), complete with grades, GPA, and all kinds of personal information... NONE OF WHICH IS MINE!!!

What crackhead sent me someone else's transcript?! That's what I'd like to know! I've been eagerly awaiting the arrival of my OWN transcript, one of the last loose ends I need to gather in order to send off my application to EATM. Now I'm thinking I ought to open one of the official ones I ordered, just to make sure those are actually mine (I ordered a few, just in case I'd need them). I assume they'd be identical, but damn, maybe not, you know?

The Good News is that I faxed authorization for my mom to pick up some unofficial transcripts for me, which she did today. I should have them Tuesday. But when I called Mom tonight to tell her about this other person's transcript, we both worried about the possibility that the transcripts handed to Mom and subsequently mailed to me may not actually belong to me. I sure fucking hope that's not the case, but I guess we'll find out on Tuesday!

The Bad News is that the fuckweasels that work at my old college may be sending out MY social security number, home address and grades to other random college students. Jesus H. Christ. I mean, really. What the fuck?

Of course, what really puts the icing on the cake (mmm, cake) is that I got this other student's transcript right after the amazing Ice Capades. That is to say, I went back to my former place of employment this evening to pick up some pay stubs and received the world's iciest reception. What is that about? It's not like I told them all to go fuck themselves and left. I just quit. What's the problem here?

You know what's weird, though? I was standing there in the store, looking at everything: all the mirrored walls, the glittery jewelry, the pink tee shirts with ties on the sleeves, the sheer black shirts on a few of the employees. I was surrounded by pink, sparkly, fuzzy GIRLY CRAP, and all I could think was, "I used to WORK here??" That's not me, y'all. Not by a long shot. I don't do frilly, ultra-feminine, sparkly anything. Nor do I do sales, period. So, anyway, I'm very glad not to work there, anymore! I can't believe I ever did. It's no fun feeling pressure to constantly be something you're not.

AND, it's no fun working with cold, catty, bitch-folk, either. I mean, if they'd been overtly rude to me tonight, I could have been all, "Motherfuckas!" and left. Or, if they'd been jokingly rude, like, "Well thanks for abandoning us, bitch," I could have been all, "Come on, baby! Where's the love?"

But no, they asked me how London was, then smiled and nodded as their eyes glazed over, seeming really impatient for me to shut the hell up. So I summed up London in thirty seconds instead of a few minutes. The best was when I wasn't even really done chatting with them (or so I thought), and my former supervisor just said, really abruptly, "Well, bye!"

OKAY! Point taken. Damn. Brrr.

So, yes. Not the most pleasant of evenings, really. I think that's about all the aggravation I can manage for now. So, I'm going to go watch me some TiVoed programs, and hope tomorrow will bring shinier treasures than today. But nothing too shiny. Or else I may have to hurt someone.