things that rage me: when a shitty day gets worse because of beyonce

Today was Hunter College’s day of CPE testing. What’s CPE? Yeah, I don’t know. But it meant that I had to get up at 7:30am (read: hit snooze until 8:15), on a fucking Saturday when I could have slept in with my girlfriend, gone to a homemade brunch at our friend’s house, and fucked around the rest of the day. But nuhhho.

I was told to be at Hunter by 9:15. When I arrived, I was told to wait in line. The line I got on had been wrapped around a few corners by the time I joined it, and inching forward at a snail’s fucking pace. After 20 minutes of standing there, juggling my bag and a decent sized package that I had to bring to Brooklyn for B, some testing aid comes around and says, “THIS LINE IS ONLY FOR LAST NAMES A-K.” Well fuck me flying! My last name starts with an M. Do you think anyone could have told the hundred students standing on line for the past half hour that there was a whole other line somewhere. Nope. That’s Hunter. A bunch of winners work there. So when I find my line, L-R, I see that it has its own wrap-around waiting train. Glorious. Because I want to stand in line for another 30 minutes. When I reached where the end of my line was, I turned around and said to the girl behind me, “They couldn’t have told me this 20 minutes ago?” – expecting a laugh or some sort of solidarity, right? Instead, she just fucking stared at me, my last sentence hanging in the air, repeating over and over again in my head, sounding more stupid each time. Bitch. Then, I stepped out of line for a SECOND to get some service on my phone, and the bitch cut me. FUCKIN CUT ME – like we were in 1st grade or something. I wanted to shove a screwdriver through her nose.

When we finally get our seats, in the auditorium, the same girl decides the second she sits down that she needs to get up and go to the bathroom. BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T STANDING IN LINE FOR AN HOUR DOING NOTHING, that you need to go now and climb all over me and my bag and my box. Did you think I wouldn’t save your spot in line? That I’d cut you like you did me? For fuck’s sake, honestly? On her way back from the bathroom, she bumps into the shakey arm rest of my seat and knocks it off, it hits the ground, and echoes for all to hear.

As the proctor starts handing out the tests, he feels it necessary to say to us, “Today is a day for success, folks. Today is the day!” alternating with “It feels like a good day for success.” I can still here it now. I wanted to turn around and say to him that today, for me, felt like a good day to fuck you up. But I probably would have knocked the handle off my seat again and it would have ruined the cinema-like appeal I wanted it to have. Next time.

Finally, I get my test. It’s a fucking writing prompt. Really? Because how old am I that we’re still doing this shit? So I start on it, you know, whatever. Then I realize that I have some lovely phlegm in the back of my throat. So I try to clear it. Nothing. Again. Nothing. This always happens to me during tests. I’m always that girl who compulsively clears her throat. I swear.  So I’m sure there were targets being made all over the back of my head from my peers.

I finish about 45 minutes into the 2 hours. So now I just have to sit. Anyone who knows me knows that I can’t sit still for more than two seconds. I’m either humping a couch, air thrusting, or running around. So I try to cross my legs. They get tired. I slouch down real low, my lower back goes numb. I get my coat to cover me since I’m cold and both of my phones fall out and clank on the floor. Finally I just fall asleep.

When all the testing is finally over and I get on the train to go see my girl and my pups, who’s waiting on the train for me? Chicky. And Chicky decided that today would be the day that she’d play Beyonce on her phone – the kind that just plays music out loud for everyone to hear, no headphones. Beyonce. Because my day couldn’t be any more unpleasant that I needed to hear Beyonce tell her man to the left, to the left, that everything he own, in a box to the left. I wanted to kill myself. And her. And her phone. We’re talking subway car genocide.

But apparently the loudness of her phone was meant for a subway sing-along. Enter: Samantha Ronson wannabe. She’s got on all black, you know, like, cuz it’s slimming. She starts banging her hands on the subway door to the beat of Beyonce’s song and sings the words too. Fucking hipster. Then I hear her speak, which just about put me over the edge. One of her guy friends asked her what she’s been up to lately, to which she answered, “Oh you know, DJing and producing. I got this sick tattoo of a sounds waves on my forearm,” and proceeds to whip it out for the whole car to see. Really? You DJ. Are you dating Lindsay Lohan, too? Fucking A. Now, I like Samantha Ronson just fine, but I hate seeing her little imitators running around the city in their vests and fedoras, passing up steak and ordering salads, you know, to like, stay hipster thin. WELL FUCK YOU.

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~ by angiesyounglover on March 21, 2009.

One Response to “things that rage me: when a shitty day gets worse because of beyonce”

  1. Your rage excites, Boo. It really does.

    And thanks for schlepping that package around.

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