Under a bitter tree.

I don't welcome Christmas week with open arms. No, find myself trying to welcome it with a closed fist, aiming directly towards a softer, easily fatal spot. I'm a bitter man when this season walks through my door, doesn't take off his shoes and decides to drink the last soda. But I can't tell him to leave; his girlfriend just broke up with him so I have to be nice.

Retail is the center of all this. My irrational anger towards a holiday should be focused upon the people who inflict the malice on me. If it wasn't for these cattle like shoppers with fake smiles painted that I wouldn't be so darn unhappy on what is suppose to be the happiest season. I hardly get a real smile out of them, and these people worry about minor things!


I can't find my kid this game because I waited till the last minute. I'm not being helped fast enough even though I wasn't first in line. Me. Me. Me.

And the way their eyes piece you. Oh how those eyes get to you. They have this glazed, pre-pissed off stare that doesn't change in their visit to my store. They snootily demand a game from a list urgently, without taking a look in the most obvious of places. We have those signs that say "360" and "PS3" for a reason, but not for them. No, these people would have me wipe their very ass for them. And only them, as the conception of time is now null when they enter my shop. They toss out question after easily answer questioned, displaying the full lack of forethought and research in buying whatever gift they need to buy. Who needs that anyway?

When we don't contain the gift, we are the dickheads. We are the asshats, the morons. We should have had such a product in far before their arrival, prewrapped and held just for them. But for some reason, our psychic powers failed us that day, and we are the biggest cocksuckers in the world at this point. The greatest is when they ask me if I'm sure I don't have it.

Yes, I am sure. My outlook on if you are getting your product or not will not vary within the 4 seconds of your previous questioning.

If there is any truth retail customers can take when they entire my store, it's this:I thrive off of your misfortune. I love the fact that you can't get that game you have been desperately searching for. I dine heavily when I realize that you won't be getting your item in and that your child will have a horrible, ruined, mess of a Christmas when he finds out he won't get that item till much later.

Santa has failed you, children.

Shelter Skelter.

Yesterday was the first time I reported on something, at least for the class room of ICC. After halfway getting lost, I finally found the building that the public meeting I was to view took place.

I was met with four puzzled looks, and I could see why. There were chairs, but no audience. From what I could tell, nobody attends these meetings besides those who actually head this operation. Later, this idea would be further cemented. After explaining who I was and what I was doing, they gave their introductions and continued in the useless banter that I had apparently interrupted. They were nice people, don't get me wrong, but quite a bit of their time was spent blabbing about the trips they were taking, one woman's credit card woes, and I think I even heard a TV show mentioned. This meeting could have concluded a half an hour than the scheduled time.

The depth of this meeting was lost upon me. Many of the terms flung around weren't ones I was familiar with, even with some preknowledge of HUD and such. The department of Housing apparently doesn't have a lot of issues ongoing. But there's something more to this. There is one group I haven't questioned: those living in houses this department heads. I haven't talked to them and found out what they think of the operation and how they handle the money, but I plan to. Oh do I plan to.

Because as it stands, this information will be regurgitated stuff you can find anywhere.