It’s Holly

I love (and by love, I mean absolutely hate) working with people that love pointing out your mistakes or love finding something wrong with what you’ve done. Sometimes, I’ll admit, these people have caught my mistakes, and I’m thankful that they were pointed out to me. Sometimes, people just wanna tell you that you fucked up. They see that typo or that wrong link and get a glimmer in their eye and just CAN’T WAIT to tell you you almost fucked everythign up for everybody. But more times than not, they’re just flat out wrong. And when they’re wrong, I get that little glimmer in my eye ’cause I can’t WAIT to tell them they’re fucking idiots. Of course, being the sweet, chubby girl, I laugh it off, but inside, the fat girl is angry.

——–
Person I Hate Loathe: Holly, the images don’t show up.

Holly: They’re there.

Person I Hate Loathe: Are you sure? Because they’re not showing up.

Holly: Just refresh.

Person I Hate Loathe: They’re still not showing up.

Holly: Remember, ::insert sweet chubby girl chuckle:: this happened last time, too! You’re browser is just cached.

Person I Hate Loathe: Really? They’re not there ye— oh, there they are.

Holly: Yup ::biting tongue::
——–

The first time it happens, it’s understandable. But twice? TWICE, really? Are you REALLY asking me this… AGAIN? I hope you die. I wish nothing but ancient Chinese water torture for you and your offspring and you offspring’s offspring (if natural selection hasn’t already elminated your defective, cousin-loving inbred gene pool). Okay, I don’t want you to die. But a little suffering would be nice on my part, for the mindnumbing hell you put me through. Stank you.