Pissedoffdom is where i rule

I wish to not be disappointed with things that surround me.
I wish to choose to not *abhor* samples that seem to love my breathing space.
I wish to be more tolerant of iniquities and less forthcoming with jibes.
I wish to. Genuinely and all.

But, such is my fate, I am resigned to a life of being called Fatalistic; hating the world around me, and more so the people that inhabit it.(Schopenhauer, take a bow, like, NOW.)
I dont even need to hunt for *reasons* to be annoyed with misfortune, whose decorated soldier i am; they present themselves in all grandeur, epaulettes in place.

Case in point. Hearken o, reader.

Yours Truly (YT) wished to up his ranks on the academic ladder(whose lowest rung inhabitant he happens to be) by reporting (in a journal) a case, apparently of the 'once-in-a-lifetime' sort. So, dragged an extremely non-academic ass to a very pretentiously titled library, 'Put-LOCK-throw-KEY' Learning Centre. (Learn to snooze-drool and deface books, more like)

The LC (which was only recently pulled up for inadequate stocking, of books that is), also prides itself in having a something called the Digital Library Facility, housing a grand Two and a half computers from the times of Pascal. Try this.
Open a window on IE,
Take a stroll on the 140 acre campus, lush and swell
Sip (unsippably) insipid tea-flavored water in the mess as well.

Cross Sarjapur road, the death trap, real quick and fast
Jump a compound; pray, so you dont end up in a cast.

Throw in Hail-Marys at the chapel for good measure,
and if its your lucky day, with Him in total pleasure,
Half a Google might just show.

(Please to note, we have each been shaved off 1200 rupees, no less, for these Johnnagar versions of Param)

Given the situation, YT plonked looong and hard (the keyboard is arthritic) and Old Faithful spewed results in spurts. With these, YT climbed a floor to pre-historic times, also known as the Journal Section. With kerchief for hijaab (people with sensitive lungs, stay away from here unless you enjoy convulsing), I embarked upon Project Dhoondho.

Journal 1; 1980, December.
(Plump black, bound books with tough spines and golden lettering looked set to be perused, longing for a breather from rack confinement and hardy silverfish.)
...1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, ????, 1981, 1982, 1983...
(Chuckle), funny. Really. I could sense unsettling tectonic plates at the back of head already. But still, vaguely funny.

Journal 2; another one, 1986, August.
Many racks, many more silverfish, and much more sneezefits later,
...1986 June, 1986 July, 1986 September, 1986 October...
WHAT? Incredulous consternation. That. And, AaaaaaaaaAAAA.

Journal 3.

*NOT EVEN STORED*

Now, it was time. Beyond Richter. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGHHH. (Why, just why me? At seventeen, i was busy mugging. Where was the time to lie?)

The floor below pre-historic times houses House of Nitwits, also called the Reception. I ran back. Asked the cretin playing Solitaire on the comp, what the faaahk is the problem with these?

Surr, waat surr.
(Problem explained)
Oh thutt surr. One minit surr.( Chick walks in. Flirt flirt flirt flirt flirt)
(Back) Yes surr. Waat surr.
The journals (if teeth had a breaking point, this was it).
Oh yes surr. Holding surr.
Yes.
Tell surr.
Journal 1
(looking looking) Oh no surr, 1980 naat there.
Journal 2
(looking looking) wait surr
*what does it take to look through a file, you dodobrained CRETIN*
(looking looking chatting chatting) wait surr
* you Flibbertigibbet*
(Huyn, did i even know the word? I MUST be Angry)
Oh no saar aagust naat there. (Then laughed, that chickenshit)
What? Okay, Journal 3
(looked for a FULL 180 seconds, the mercurylimbed bitch. And was not even apologetic. Mildly.)
No saar, we don get thutt wonly (Fullthroated laughter)
BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH.

Botched luck makes my life a travesty, thats a given. I have even made my peace with the fact.
But, utterly incompetent people(and here, we talk not merely of the reception-cretin; a certain airhead, a greybeard, a trenchmouth, a scarecrow too feature prominently) added with dollops more of ill luck, make it a full blown AVM tragedy, background music to boot.

Behead the jokers, make a totempole, dance around it. Thats what thoroughly addled brain advised me.

Instead, hopped on trr trr contraption and got home. This isnt new, is it?
Mouth let out an involuntary cluck. Tchuh.