I hate you. And not only do I hate you, I FUCKING HATE YOU.
I hope, whom ever had the bright idea to change our moving date THREE FUCKING TIMES, one of those times being THE DAY BEFORE you are thought to show up, walks out of their office building and proceeds to get dumped on by sheets and sheets of pouring rain.
I hope that while it's raining, you then find that YOU LOCKED YOUR MOTHER FUCKING KEYS IN. YOUR. CAR. And I hope, when you call for a locksmith, they break your mother fucking window trying to pry your lock. And you have to ride home... fully exposed to the elements.
I also hope the Navy wises up and fires your ass as one of their contract movers.
That's what I hope, because I've run completely dry of patience. And I'm sure God is looking down on all of this with his hands up saying, "Look, dude. You can't fuck with a 25 week pregnant woman. I ain't stepping into that vat of vengeful hormones. You're on your own."
Honest to goodness, if we can figure out a way to move our own mother-fucking-selves in the next three days... WE. WILL.
The woman who sounds pleasant on the phone while simultaneously planing your ultimate demise in her head.
Now. How and where to find an ass ton of moving boxes..... And while I may have the anger to pull this shit though, do we have the time?
This is the most unprofessional, cluster-fucked, pre-move bull shit we've ever experienced. And I'm over it.
But I bet you figured that out already.