No Exit

ARGGGGHHH!! I am so fucking frustrated right now. Let me ask you this: have you ever met a city or county or state or government clerk type person who handled his or her job with thorough knowledge and efficiency and a smile? NO? Me neither. If you do, please give the person a hug. Write a letter. Have a parade.

I feel like I just spent my afternoon in a Satre play with the waiting room of hell reinvented as the county clerk's office. Seriously, if you ever wondered where sadistic Ines went, head down here. She's wearing bad polyester and an serious attitude. I think Edvard Munch must have been here when he painted his famous Scream. That's no bridge; that's a counter with little windows that are as useless as a broken fucking vending machine. You stick you paper through and it shoots right back out at you.

I should have known when I went to the "check in here" counter and told the 90-year old lady what I needed to do and she handed me a red square of plastic with a number on it. Thinking I'd be proactive, I asked if there was a form I needed to fill out that I could do while I was waiting. She looked at me as if I asked her to explain string theory. Whatever, I thought, fully prepared to get to a window and be given a form and told to take another number after that was done. That, I would have been ready for. That would be my normal assumption of bureaucratic incompetence taking place in my life. I have time. I will win. I will take your germ-covered piece of plastic and wait for another. I will get this thing resolved before I leave, I swear to god.

The woman at the window tells me, "I don't know what you have to do." What? What do you mean? This is a transaction that happens every day here. I'm not trying something new that nobody has ever head of. What the hell? "Maybe you can get a blue number and wait for someone over there to answer your question." Maybe? Whatever. Give me a blue number. I'm not going down so easily.

The woman at the blue window tells me she can't help me. "We can't provide legal advice." What? I don't want legal advice. I just want whatever form I need to fill out so I can staple this shit to it and hand it over to you. "Well, I can't tell you what form you need because if I do and I'm wrong that would be giving you the wrong advice." What? "You need to talk to a lawyer or a realtor or something." Why? I'm not selling my place. OK, so maybe I'm missing something here. Just tell me what I need to do. "We can't tell you." You can't even tell me what I'm not doing right? "Nope." Look, ALL I WANT IS THE FORM. The form you showed me two months ago and that now I'm ready to fill out. Can't a regular person come in here and fill out a form without a laywer for chrissakes? "Well, if you told me what form you needed..." What? I'm asking YOU what form I need. You're the people who MAKE the forms! I don't care about the forms. I'll just give you this piece of paper and you can figure it out for all I care. I'm trying to help YOU. "I can't give you that information."

I swear to god she smirked. That's when I imagined myself jumping over the counter.

This went on for a while. I became so frustrated, I began to cry with frustration, so I left. Some nice lady slipped me the number to her friend who might be able to help. She renewed my faith in the kindness of strangers. As for that incompetent, lazy, bitch of a clerk - fuck her for making me cry.