Universal Management

I really wonder if there's an elf somewhere that listens to my complaints and coordinates responses from the Universe. As I was watching TV the other day, I was bombarded by ads informing me that the iPhone is now available from my no-contract cell provider...something I believed would never happen. Needless to say, it brought back my Apple addiction with a vengeance. I am now disgusted with myself.

My Apple addiction is the result of purchasing a Macbook a few months ago, and loving the sleek design and intuitive movements. I dare not praise it too much, as all the men in my life disparage Apple (for the same reasons, hah).

Aside from the Apple Issue, I do legitimately think that this elf listens to my complaints, or at least passes them on to the appropriate department in Management. In the past year, I've noticed that when I finally spend some time bitching (pardon the language, but there's really no other way to describe it) about something, that something is immediately solved, or I am given new information about it.

For example, when I wondered if the Study Abroad office at my overseas university had lost my application, I received an email congratulating me on my acceptance. When I complained that I wouldn't know about my overseas housing until I arrived, I received an email from the director of housing offering me a place. When I feared that my Visa application had been incorrectly filled out, a day later I received the Visa. Doesn't this sound like the intervention of Universal Management to you? I always knew that cursing a computer gets it to boot up faster (at least with Windows it does), but this seems counterintuitive. We are taught as children that hard work and faith, not whining, produce results.

Yeah, that's not what my experience is telling me. So I guess I'm still a child. A very whiny, but highly gratified child.

Mwahahaha.
WolfGrrl

Incubating Death

My RA just popped in looking for the source of a loud and suspicious noise. It wasn't emanating from my room, but as she was leaving she noticed the sign I'd posted on the door.

"What does that mean, incubating death?" she asked, worried and a bit confused.
"Oh, I put that up because I'm sick," I replied, trying to achieve a matter-of-fact tone that didn't seem to work.
"Haha, overdramatic much?"

I shrugged. For the last two days, when I've been awake I've pretty much felt as though I'm a walking corpse. Perhaps it is overdramatic; then again, I normally don't sleep fifteen out of every twenty-four hours.

Obviously, I have neither plague nor meningitis. I have a cold. Colds are the most irritating illness to have because you feel like crap and get no sympathy from the world; it's not as interesting as saying "I have a poisoned spleen," or "My leg is haunted." I chose to highlight the drama of my misery and "incubate death."

According to one of my friends, I'm not allowed to incubate death. My boyfriend took the more succinct route:

"If you die, I'll have no one to visit and will have flown thirty hours for no reason."

That put me in my place.
WolfGrrl

A Down Day

...was unexpectedly brightened by this: