New love must run its course

I have recently discovered the wonderfulness of Craigslist. In the past, I have used it and found it useful. But for the past week, I have been somewhat addicted. Unlike other things in my life, this is just a phase and it will soon pass. But for now, I must obsess.

Yesterday, I got a free TV/VCR combo from someone who was moving and getting rid of stuff. It wasn’t supposed to be free, but he ended up just giving it to me. This means I have to “pay it forward.” But since I sought out the TV as a favor to help someone else out, I preemptively paid it forward. I think.

Since our encounter, I feel like I got away with murder or something and want to ‘pay’ the guy for the goods. I have thought about sending him an Amazon gift certificate or making a donation in his name. I can’t just let someone do something nice because I feel indebted to them somehow until I can do something for them. It’s a complex, I know.

Now, I am working on getting a fire-proof safe from someone else who is moving. Ever since we got the house, we have not found a proper place for the closing documents and deed. Seems pretty important and safe-worthy.

Oh and I also posted my very own ad. Selling old collectible stuff for some cold, hard cash is a good thing. I hope I find a taker. But if there was an award for the most organized, thoroughly anal seller, I would win it hands down. I rock the spreadsheets!

So now I am checking my email constantly to see if people wrote about things I am trying to acquire or cull. Craigslist has really reinforced the saying, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” At least this time, I am not the trash/treasure as I was referred to the first time I had heard this statement.

It’s been

Less than an hour and you have emailed me eight times about the fire in your ass that I need to put out. Yes, I got it the first time you sent it. No, you don’t need to come over here across five feet of carpet and ask if I got your email. When your presence beats my preview pane of new emails, we have a problem. Fucking count to five before getting out of your seat after hitting the “Send” button. Or just fucking tell me; don’t email me and then talk to me about the email before I have a chance to actually read the email. Standing there behind me while I read your email is not a highlight of my day. Just like when you watch me do my work from your desk or come by and inspect what windows are open in my task bar before delivering a bullshit excuse for why you came by are no picnics either. Actually, no. Don’t tell me. You repeat yourself a thousand times. Like your emails, I got it the first time. Save my time and my continual repetitions of “Uh-huh,” “Right,” and “Got it.” I’d rather type things like “Fuck off” and sent it in white font in my reply. That brings a millisecond of vindication. Yes, I understand things are urgent and that people want things “Yesterday.” It’s not my fault you sit on things after other people have already sat on them. My coming in early, staying late, and not taking lunches has conveniently gone unnoticed. But the one day when I am seven minutes late, you email me asking me if there was bad traffic or if I had car problems. Next time, I will call you when I am going to be one minute and 41 seconds late so you will know and you can calm the fuck down. But too bad my call will not beat your email that will be waiting in my Inbox.

I need a new job.