dragonlady7 | Nov. 30th, 2016

Nov. 30th, 2016

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No, Wells Fargo, I do not want to call you to get a sales pitch to stay with your company. You inherited my account like, eight years ago, and you never tried to do a damn thing with it– some of the money was uninvested and sitting in a non-interest-bearing (to me! I know you got interest off it, that’s what you do) account because the AG Edwards guy had started making a plan for it before you devoured his company headfirst (no sympathy to AG Edwards, mind), and you never cared to complete that plan. I am not listening to a sales pitch now, thanks. You’ve had my money long enough.

(Wells Fargo called me one time, to ask if I wanted to invest more money, but it was clearly a guy who’d been given a list of former AG Edwards clients to try to sell stuff to. I was like, wait, how do I interact with that money? and he was like oh uh you can uh, probably, uh call customer support probably. Needless to say, I did not give him more money.)

I told them #1 I am not interested in remaining with them, and #2 I do not conduct business over the telephone, so they can tell me what to do in writing. We’ll see how it goes from here.

Let’s be real, I don’t conduct business over the telephone. If it comes to a phone call, I don’t do it. So, give me an option. Surely there are options.

via http://ift.tt/2fJKvbw:foircolors replied to your post “No, Wells Fargo, I do not want to call you to get a sales pitch to…”

Why was this tagged nodapl? I want to give an eyeroll, just know I’m giving an eyeroll

Wells Fargo is at the top of the list of banks who have invested in the parent project that the Dakota Access Pipeline is part of.

As I said earlier, they’ve done other shady shit and I kept being like “this is the last straw” but this is actually, actually the last straw.

I mean. Basically no investment brokers are *clean*. The other service I use, they break your stuff up into such small chunks that as far as I know it’s all blood diamonds and child labor and for-profit prisons, who knows. But at least they’re not on this list, so I can tell myself my coffee can full of nickels isn’t obviously going straight to hell.

My day-to-day banking and my auto loan are with a smallish credit union, at least? But it’s hard, trying to at least not give money straight to assholes.

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*blushes* Thanks!

I had to go check to see if you’d gotten to the hair-pulling scene yet. :) I actually was speed-reading the whole series over these last couple of days because I’m winding up the final chapter just now, really trying to get all the loose ends, and one of the loose ends was that I wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen between Poe and BB-8.

So, you’ll be pleased to know that’s what I’m working on just now, and maybe pulling my hair out over. (No, no no, I kid. I’m at the everything-is-hard-but-I’m-excited-about-it stage of writing, which is infinitely preferable to most of the other stages of writing [particularly the doldrums of i-will-never-finish-this and why-would-anyone-read-this where I’ve been languishing of late]. Except the this-is-so-easy-who-needs-sleep stage of writing, which I haven’t been in in a long time, but is also the how-do-you-keep-a-job-and-not-die-of-lack-of-sleep stage, so I don’t miss it as much as I otherwise might.)

Given the circumstances, passing the time by re-watching some of eir extensive database of archival holocomms wasn’t particularly extravagant of power.

There was leisure time now to do this systematically, so BB-8 sorted the files chronologically– accounting for the glitch when ey had changed the file numbering system after the installation of the new holocam rig– and pulled up the first holocam recording ey had ever taken, as a brand-new droid nearly straight out of the box.

“I think that did it,” Poe said, adolescent and gangly, grinning widely in a face he hadn’t yet grown into. “Looks like the recording’s active. That’s it, then, that’s the control for the holocam.”

“Confirm,” BB-8 beeped, “holocam active!”

“That’s great, buddy,” Poe said.

“Query,” BB-8 chirped, “meaning, [BUDDY]?”

Poe blinked into the holocam sensor– no, he was looking at BB-8’s optical sensor, which had been aligned differently with the old holocam rig before the upgrade. “Oh,” he said, disarmed. “It’s, ah, it’s just a– it means friend.”

“Unit BB-8 is a friend?” BB-8 asked.

“Yes,” Poe said, youthful grin stretching even wider, “you’re my friend.”

BB-8 shut down the holorecording abruptly. That was. That was maybe too much to contemplate, here at what may well be the end of things. Maybe– maybe it would be better to watch some holocordings that weren’t of Poe, who had told Luke Skywalker to have BB-8 reset.

A brief but comprehensive perusal of the archives turned up that the vast majority of holocam recordings stored here featured Poe in some way or another, either as the subject or intended audience. BB-8 considered this for a long moment. Surely ey’d had a bunch of holodramas in eir memory banks… but no, ey’d purged those, to make room for more data. They were all sitting safely on an external datapad back in Poe’s hut. No, Finn’s. Ey’d left them at Finn’s, in case Finn had wanted to watch more of them.

This, BB-8 reflected bleakly, had been a terrible choice of diversions to pass the time. Perhaps ey should go into standby now.

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“Her tarot readings were reputed to be so accurate that several of her friends nervously refused to let her tell them their fortunes. After the family moved to Vermont in 1945, she never had fewer than six cats at a time. A friend of her elder daughter recalled a dinner when a grey cat jumped on Shirley’s shoulder and seemed to whisper in her ear, at which point she announced that the cat had told her a poem - which she then repeated. Joanne reported another light side to her witchcraft. She kept all the small kitchen tools crammed in one drawer. When she wanted one, she would slam the drawer shut, call out the desired utensil’s name, and open the drawer. According to Joanne, it would always be on top.”
-

aka I kind of want to be Shirley Jackson when I grow up (via sansasnark)

on Shirley Jackson, from Ladies Laughing: Wit as Control in Contemporary American Women Writers by Barbara Levy

(via laurenlizperez)

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Ballpoint pen desk art while I wait for printouts to, well, print out.

Crossposts: http://dragonlady7.livejournal.com/1592482.html

via http://ift.tt/2gWmEKH:Scotland wants to introduce a law that will mean no one goes hungry again:

gaol-is-ceol:

@haraldrharfagri this was the thing about the right to food

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More ballpoint art for the day. I feel like the girl in that vine where she’s telling a story and just rolling a lint-roller absently across her own face the entire time?

Crossposts: http://dragonlady7.livejournal.com/1592760.html

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Completely satisfying moment from my commute home:

Heavy traffic, it’s dark, it’s raining. I’m boredly cruising along, coming up on a stoplight, slowing down along with the traffic around me. It’s two lanes each way, neither lane is particularly more free than the other. I’m considering getting into the right lane, because I know up ahead the left lane tends to back up a little bit with people slowing down to get into a left turn lane after the intersection, but I’m not committed to it yet.

A BMW zooms up behind me, zips in between cars to the right of me, then cuts back in front of me. Then stops, because there’s traffic stopped at the light.

I realize I have enough room to get over into the right lane, so I do. The right lane is still moving, and I wind up stopped a good six or seven car lengths in front of the Beemer.

I have a good laugh about that, and continue on my way; true to my prediction, the left lane is a bit blocked-up and he is stuck in that traffic. But, after a couple of intersections, a slow car gets into the right lane and is causing merry hell; I can see it’s someone confused, looking for parking or trying to read the street signs, something like that. So I hang back, then accelerate and signal and aim for a gap in cars, and make it into the much faster-moving left lane without incident. But the car now behind me is annoyed and flashes its lights. I’m like, whatever, you had time to flash your lights, you had plenty of time to adjust to fucking traffic, and I signaled, which basically nobody does, so quit your fucking whining.

The same car is behind me for quite a long while, and i don’t know much about cars so it’s not like I can make out the make or model from the headlights, but they’re the LED kind so I know it’s an expensive car. What if it’s that same Beemer, I wonder. Nah. Anyway, he’s riding my ass, but like, it’s stop-and-go traffic, just like it is every night, so like, whatever.

Finally, finally, the entrance ramp to the highway peels off, and traffic opens up a little bit. The car behind me seizes the opportunity! and blasts by me in the right lane

and it is, it’s the Beemer, it’s been him this whole time and he is so mad hahaha!

(wait he is SO MAD because I did almost the exact same thing to him as he did to me except that i signaled and matched speed and also didn’t pass him on the right to do so what the FUCK you ASS)

only to instantly have to stop because guess what, traffic’s still pretty heavy. HA HA YOU FUCKER. I cruise onward, and pass him again, and he’s sitting there fuming, and I get through the next light and he doesn’t and that’s the end of that.

Hah! You fucking dick. Suck on that!

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I’ve been working on a post about this sort of thing for a while but then RM knocked it out of the park on Twitter, not unexpectedly, so.