Asperger's Fuckwit and The Unfortunate Haircut

I frighten people in elevators. But it's their own damn fault, with their very small talk and all. It's because we all dutifully face the door, much like having great intimate conversations during roadtrips (the enforced non-eye-contact zone). Only it's an elevator. Must remember to not say too much.

Today the Ugly Toad Asperger's Lady came to moderate a meeting with an even more hideous haircut. It was all I could do not to grab the paper shears and fix her fucking bangs or cut my own throat the when the meeting ran 45 painful minutes over.

Are even Therapists are uncomfortable talking about despair?! Good Lord! What? Why?! Ya mean everyone doesn't/didn't feel that way?! (Thank you Lexapro for one less thing to worry about.)

I've been overdue on my Etsy feedback and got most of it off in one big swipe.
Don't you hate when your dealer who gives you the really really good goods (in my case, merino superwash or somesuch woolly wool) gives you grief, slacks on delivery, take off on vacation without shipping the merch, says you haven't paid up when you have? It might be the same with coke or weed or salted black liquorice, but man oh man, it's hard to know your pink alpaca/angora blend is out there just waiting for ya. And this little dealer is gonna come out with even more Fiber Crack for me, I just flippin know it. It makes it hard to type nice things, even for a fragment of a sentence.

Someone has just mention hygienists. Again. I feel a little...dirty? Validated?! and now must go wash.