It's what Beecher would term a 'most quandarous situation.' Dictionary.com doesn't recognize quandarous as a word, but it's the sort of thing Beecher wouldn't believe. At any rate, the situation is definitely quandarous. And painful, in both a physical and emotional sense, although the emotional sense isn't what one would first think when looking at the situation.
And to boot, I have to be grateful to that bitch-whelp Snack despite her almost killing me in the first place. The killing weapon was a wedding invitation. My ex's wedding. That wasn't the deadly part. I carry many emotions about that hell-beast, but I'm quite happy that she's getting taken off the market and out of the reach of any more young, innocent, trusting, naive boys. And from what I hear about her fiance, it's a good thing they're getting married to each other and not fucking up two more families.
It was actually that little piece of tissue paper that gets put into invitations that almost brought about my demise, but that was a judgement on me for actually letting Snack into my apartment in the first place. Normally the anti-personnel mines would have taken care of her, but the apartment complex has been undergoing a bit of renovation lately and the geniuses they hired painted over the peepholes on everyone's door. Note to self: install webcam in unobtrusive location outside door to check on visitors.
She pushed her way in before I could slam the door on her foot - she's gotten more cunning since last time - and launched into some explanation I didn't really listen to until she mentioned the ex's name. Seems the ex is getting married fairly soon - suspiciously quickly, if you ask me - and Snack, being a distant relation of the groom, received an invitation for her 'and guest' and targeted me for the 'and guest.'
It was probably that selfsame piece of tissue paper that saved her life at that moment. It slipped out of the invitation she was gesticulating with and fell to the linoleum in the entryway in front of my foot as I was advancing to throw her bodily out of the apartment. I fell, hit my head on the entertainment center, and spent a few stunned moments wondering exactly what that noise was before I realized that it was Snack babbling about whether my pupils were the same size. Right after I ensured that the TV was ok and right before I threw Snack out, it came to me: why not go to the wedding? After all, I'm legally able to: she didn't get the restraining order. And as I haven't actually talked to or even seen her for three years, it's not likely that she would expect me to show up, so she wouldn't take precautions...
This could be, hm. Amusing would be a good word. The emotional pain isn't really because of the ex. Honestly the only thing I feel for her is a deeply seated loathing coupled with intense hatred. But in a purely intellectual, not physical, sense. No, the emotional pain is the realization that I will be attending a wedding in the company of Snack, a girl with the mental acuity of a rusty box of ten-penny nails.
Snack said something about it not being a 'real' date, that she needed a guy so that her mother would stop bugging her about grandchildren, but I recognized it for an attempt to play to my nobler self. I don't actually have a nobler self, but it suited my purposes for the moment for her to believe otherwise. I swore her to secrecy about this whole situation on pain of death - it certainly wouldn't do for it to get out that I was anywhere in the same vicinity with Snack at any point ever.
After Snack left, I phoned Beecher and told him I'd hit my head but refused to consider going to the campus clinic, to lay the groundwork for plausible deniability should I be seen in the presence of Snack. Then I burned the piece of tissue paper, imagining it to be the ex's wedding dress. It was therapeutic. Especially after I vizualised her in it.
Beecher has just reminded me that ConDFW is in a couple weeks. I then reminded him that he still owes me for the bail from last year. He looked sheepish for a moment, then laughed it off. I see I haven't done enough to impress upon him how much he owes me.
Unrelated - yet another idiot has failed to impress me with their "web coding" abilities. If you didn't have to touch a text editor, it's not coding.
Just when I thought all things school-related could get no worse, they do. I'm one credit short of graduation, and all I need is a C or better in software engineering. That's all. Once that's over, I get the diploma and I get the hell out of here. In May. Of this year.
Sadly, the Fates have decided to use me as their own personal fun ball. The week before classes began, the university experienced a "network issue" that I'm fairly certain was related to a certain aquaintence of mine attempting to circumvent the firewall. Regardless, this event had a backlash that lasted days as files and connections were cleaned up and restored. Somehow during all of this, about five percent of the students had their class rosters screwed up.
Rather than being in Software Engineering, I'm taking Mechanical Engineering, which does not help me graduate. I spent a week and a half arguing with my advisor (by telephone, since he is currently out of the country for another two weeks) and the Dean of my department. By the time everyone agreed that I was in the wrong class, the date to switch classes had passed. I would just drop the class entirely, but there are certain... reasons... which necessitate my remaining a student.
It looks like I'll be here for a while. I'm glad now that I helped that guy pass his Stat class last fall. He's the manager at the Booze Hop liquor store now, and I just know I'll need a drink all semester.