My asshole hurts now.
I wake up, looking at the ceiling. I sit up and a stab of pain hits me in the gut so that it makes me lay the fuck back on down. I'm hurting! I do my sit ups though, go figure. Today is the big day. I'm heading all the way over to my school to see if I can get my High School Diploma. I set out pretty early and get there before lunchtime. I walk through the front and there are New York City Police Officers in there. I almost shit. I'm thinking that there's a police action going on and they have 'school security' embroidered over the shoulder shield.
Holy shit! The need the police in the schools now? UNheard of in my day. Everything is exactly the way I remember it 29 years ago though!! Has it been THAT long? Jeezus. I go by all of the offices that have NOT changed, and the rooms that have NOT changed, and into the main office where I inquire about my diploma.
They actually go through a file cabinet and pull out a folder "Here it is," the older secretary exclaims, holding up the folder. Cheese and Rice! They have records going back that far? Baby I'm amazed as the song goes, but unfortunately no copy of my diploma. "We'll have to give you a certified letter." Certified, that's fine by me. A simple letter that reads:
To Whom it May Concern
This is to verify that Hobobob graduated from Aviation High School in June of 1980 and received a High School diploma.
Signed and stamped with the school's raised seal. Tell me, what more do you need to figure this one out? With paperwork in hand and a folder full of documentation to prove that I am me, I head to the NYDMV. I get there and there is an asshole long line with only two clerks working it. No wonder it's so long. Typical Civil Servant thinking. It takes a fucking hour to get through this line. I get to the counter and hand over my ID cards, birth certificate, and wait up for the diploma. "You need the one more point of ID." I got it right here. I carefully unfold the paper from its envelope and lay it down on the counter in front of him. He picks it up, his limbic mind looks at it, he sits it down on the counter and slides it over to me. "This is not a High School Diploma." Look sonny, I slide the paper back to him. They do not issue out High School Diplomas after twenty years, you get a signed letter from the school. "But it's not ID". He slides the paper back to me. Look, give me somebody else to look at this. This IS ID. I don't know what you're talking about.
So the kid signs a dispute paper and sends me to a seat in the grand waiting room with a number to be called. I sit here for a half hour until my number pops up. I run to the counter and slide my Certified Letter with the dispute paper. The Supervisor looks at it as asks me: "Do you know.... inaudible slurring." Who? Mumbles "mmm...he graduated Aviation High School when you did." Don't know him. He hands me my paper back. The note says: "Yes," and is initialed. I'm feeling good now. I head back to the front of this long line and hand all of my documents over, to a NEW clerk this time. I fill out more paperwork, my picture is taken, and I am given a number. "Go sit until your number is called."
A half hour later my number is called and I go up to this next clerk and she tells me to give her over all of my documentation. Then she gets to my Diploma and hands that shit right back to me: "This is unacceptable. Do you have something else?" WHAT?? That is fine lady. I just got through speaking to your supervisor over THERE that said it was! "It's not considered ID." It has my full name on it, right there. "It's not ID." I want to speak to ANOTHER supervisor. I wanted to call her a moron, and with the other an idiot, but they might take the time to jump over the counter and whip my ass right there in the grand waiting room, stomping me to the flooring. NO THANKS. She calls over a Supervisor, and to stack the fucking deck, she says: "This ISN'T ID is it?"
How much of a fucking bitch can you be? You're wrong and you're trying to get your supervisor to save your face. "It's ID," he hands it back. If I had two guns I would have unloaded them in the ceiling. YEAH!! Begrudingly, Little Miss WRONG had to go through the work of processing the paperwork, which she did slowly and nastily. Fuck her, I thought. I'm getting my ID! She slides me my paperwork, asks me how long do I want to pay before it expires. I choose eight years. She takes my cash, and gives me a temporary ID. I wanted to ask her, what the fuck is this. This isn't acceptable as real ID you ugly assed Rotweiller. But...well, see above.
I walked out of there feeling like a million. In two weeks the ID will be mailed to me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! If I had two guns I would have sparked them shits straight up into the air the second I stepped outside. I took the subway home and blogged. Another day, another fight done. I can't believe that in two weeks I'll have this fucking ID. Now, I have to focus on my court case.
I sit down on my super hard chair. My ass hurts.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/09/run-out-of-opinions-and-patience.html
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