A pointless tirade. 
All this Minotaur-activity has got me all riled up. She is pissing me off. I really do not understand how something so small can make so much fucking noise. The only thing that is masking her stomping is Wu Tang Clan cranked up to eleven. Every time she moves, I crank it up. Not like I expect her to make the connection since she clearly has no idea that she is so goddamn heavy-footed. I’ve talked to her about it. She seems apologetic, but short of going up there and saying, “Excuse me, but you are walking ALL WRONG!” I’m going to have to wait until the landlord makes it rain over her heavy-footed ass. She’s supposed to get carpet. Biebs help her if she doesn’t get carpet. This shit is bananas.
Oh, I think she’s listening to Morrissey. Pffft. I love Morrissey and the Smiths, don’t get me wrong. But Morrissey vs. Method Man? Ninja, please.
At any rate, if you can’t tell, I’m losing my mind a little. It’s almost three and I haven’t eaten yet. I’ve just been yelling at the ceiling all day. I figure if I’m going to continue yelling at the ceiling well into the night, I’m going to need energy. So I just ordered a pizza and a pear and gorgonzola salad for lunch from Z Pizza. Yum.
But, I have a question: What is the deal with people who can’t write down 10-16 numbers without interrupting each set of numbers with “uh-huh.”
Looky here. If you call me to give me a phone number, just give me the damn phone number. All ten numbers. I can take it. Whatever is going to come out of your mouth can only be one of ten digits and I’m pretty familiar with those numbers. So, I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever you’re planning to throw my way. You want me to write down a 7 and then a 9 and then 2? Done. I can do that. Or, a 593 and then a 3398? Easy peasy. All I ask in return is that when I am calling you and ready to tell you what my phone number and/or credit card number is, is that you fucking keep up!
Is there anything more annoying (besides lots of other things) than starting to give your phone number — straight through with no pauses — and having the person on the other end of the line say, “uh-huh” right after you’ve given your area code and are charging through, well into the first three digits of your actual phone number? And then what happens? You have to go back and say the numbers again because the stupid person on the phone was too busy saying “uh-huh” to be able to hear what you were saying. Hey person! QUIT TALKING OVER ME. I’M GIVING YOU MY PHONE NUMBER HERE.
And sometimes, something worse happens. The person on the phone says “uh-huh,” thereby establishing “uh-huh” precedent. So after you’ve backtracked and restated the first three digits of your actual phone number, you pause, waiting for the inevitable “uh-huh.” BUT IT NEVER COMES. Because this person is now trying to adapt to your “uh-huh”-lessness.
It’s madness. This is how entire civilizations have broken down.
Even worse than the senseless “uh-huh”-ing is when the person repeats everything you say. Hey buddy, I’ll just give you the numbers, and at the end, you can repeat them back to me if you really aren’t confident in your abilities as a scrivener. In the meantime? Shut your yapper.
We need a streamlined system. Maybe there needs to be some sort of negotiation beforehand. “Listen, I want to order a pizza, but before we get into this, I need to know one thing: Are you going to fucking interrupt me with every set of telephone or credit card numbers I give you? Or can you handle writing down a series of no more than 16 numbers without interrupting me? I just want to know what I’m getting into here.”
As y’all well know by now, Angry Black Lady is a communist pinko social librul terrorist sympathizer. She likes hanging out with 
