Damn you, wimpy old person.

My grandmother, man. Love her, but sometimes I'd like to take a nice drive to the grand canyon and chuck her over the viewing platform. Maybe Niagra Falls, it's closer. Less time for her to make me want to think of worse ways to off somebody. Today, when I came home from my real house (and taking care of my post-op mother like a boss, by the way) she said that she'd like me to empty the paper-recycling box in the house into the one in the garage and take it down to the street. Sure thing, no sweat, grams. Then she said that she would like me to wait until she had read the paper, so I could recycle that too. Sure, whatever, you crazy person. Why you put that off until Sunday evening every weekend so I have to wait to bring out the recycling every weekend I will never understand. Just wait till next week's recycling goes out. You're still only recycling one at a time. But whatever. She's insane, and has undiagnosed OCD.
So I go upstairs to start writing my paper on the propagandist aspects of the Stele of Hammurabi. Ten points and a cyber cookie to anyone who knows what that is. I then realize I've got online stats homework due tonight, so I attempt that instead, and after consistently failing through half the questions, I go back to my paper in a pissed-off mood. Bitch level is hovering at around 30%, thank you statistics. About an hour later, at 9pm, she comes upstairs and tells me that she's finished the paper. Just long enough for me to forget that I had to bring it to the curb. Bitchyness increases by about 5%. She tells me not to just pick the bin up directly, but to use a little dolly thing and wheel it down to the curb, because carrying it is bad for my back and shit.

I hate that dolly. It's way more trouble than it's worth, and she only things the paper bin is heavy because she's 150 pounds of pure fat, no muscle mass at all. Bitchyness increase of 20%.
I go grab the inside-paper bin, dump the contents as ferociously as possible into the outside-paper bin to try to punch out some of my bad mood, and then stand there for a solid minute debating whether or not to use the effing dolly. I finally kick the inside-paper bin across the patio, strap the outside-paper bin to the damn thing, and drag it jerkily down the driveway. Bitch level increase another 5%. I dump the bin at the curb, drag the dolly back up the driveway, kick the inside-paper bin again for good measure, then bring it back inside. "Thanks honey." Yeah, yeah, fuck you very much. "Welcome."
I return to my essay. I like my topic, so it's kinda nice. My bitch level decreases a solid 5% as I start the intro. Then to my dismay, Grama comes and stands in my doorway like 10 minutes later. She never talks until I acknowledge her presence, which is just something she's always done and has irked me since she started. Just talk, dammit, if I'm doing something important, I'll say so. So I say "yes?" and she asks in her stupid beat-around-the-bush way that wastes 10 minutes to move my car so she can be the one closest to the bottom of the driveway, because she has to leave earlier that I have to in the morning.

Never mind that I said I'd be awake before she has to leave, so I'd be there to move my car then. Never mind that I was just downstairs, and could have done it then. Bitchyness increases by 15%.
So we move cars, I go back upstairs, and start writing this stupid post, and my bitch level is going up more because I realize how much of a bitch I've been to her. I mean, I'm living in her damn house. Can't I just reign it in or something?

...well fuck me, I probably do. That most likely should have occurred to me sooner.