"Cod-fucking dammit! Stupid ass piece of ship!" You huff and thump your fist down on your poor desk for what must be the fourth time in the past 15 minutes, but this time it's followed quickly by your forehead, falling with a clattered thunk down on to the crap keyboard of your malfunctioning computer. Cod-fucking dammit indeed.

The monitor starts to beep angrily, offended that your head is holding down the shift button or some such worthless nonsense. You growl and drag your limp noodle body up just to make it shut the fuck up. You haphazardly tuck your cheek into your carefully tended but still calloused palm, your elbow sprawling out across the limited space surrounding your "high-tech" worthless piece of shit computer, and glower menacingly through your specs at the blue screen. Puffing the air out of your cheeks in a drawn out sigh that pulls at your nearly violet tinted lips and exposes your freaky-ass larger than normal incisors, your eyes slide over to the mangled pamphlet you had discarded about five seconds after opening the damn box that had contained this fucked up horrorware, finding it partially hanging off the arm of the classy but uncomfortable as hell couch lounging on the other side of the room facing away from you towards the tv. You squint hard at it, hoping against all odds that your obviously superior intellect can force it to come to you.

Float damn you. I command thee. Fly motherfucker.

You glare at it for quite awhile, which is not really that surprising. You tend to get easily carried away with being superior after all. After the pamphlet has established that no way in hell is it going to get off its lazy ass and come assist you on its own, you decide, hell, you needed to get up to capture the elusive ass cellular device anyway, and drag your fine pin-striped ass out of the comfort of your wheely-rolly-leather chair (hell if you knew what the fuck it's called) to get it.
You swipe at the pamphlet, tossing your long-ass scarf over your shoulder and out of the way with your other hand as you begin to wonder where the last time you saw the phone was.

You stand in the middle of your sharply but sparsely decorated apartment thoughtfully, wielding the now rolled up stack of papers in one hand and tapping it against your chin. You'd think this would call for your other hand to be placed sophisticatedly on your hip, but you didn't actually think of that and to do it now would be kind of stupid even if you're the only one here and so you leave it hanging like a lazy motherfucker by your side. You turn around in a slow circle, squinting at your surroundings.

Everything's some shade of purple or blue (it's supposed to be "calming", and shit, it's your favorite colors we're talking about here, of course its gonna be fucking violet bitch) except for the white of the kitchenette counters tucked away to the side of the apartment and the few doors that lead off into your bedroom, the hall, and the bathroom. You stop and stare at a particularly disturbing picture of some sort of squid thing an old high school fling had given to you way back when, and you get distracted, trying to decide whether you actually hung that up on your wall or she somehow infiltrated your apartment and put it up just to fuck with you.

She does that sometimes. Cause you actually still sorta talk to her. And stuff. Shit. Moving on.

Your gogdamn phone is yellow for glubsake. How hard should it be to find in this sea of blue? Your bare heel pivots a couple more inches on the carpet, dark eyes scanning the little glass coffee table, the couch, the armchair, the-ah. Found the little fucker.

You stomp gracefully over to the tv set and get down on your knees, reaching a hand blindly under the thing that holds it up. If anyone ever asked you about anything, you'd bet there'd be a one in two chances you have no idea what the hell it's called. This, is the tv holder-upper-thingy. And right now, it is hiding your fucking phone under its lard ass.

After scrabbling in the carpet with your nails for a few moments, you manage to grab something solid and wrench it out into the open, sitting back on your heels to observe your hard won prize. You stare at it for a moment, basking in the glory that is you, you are the best finder person EVER.

...Motherfucker.

After chucking the goddamn tv remote across the room, you shove your hand under the set again and manage to actually grab the phone this time. Ass.

You find a spot to sit on your uncomfy couch, smoothing out the paper and melting slightly into your seat. Your eyes gloss over the worthless ramblings on the page, figuring if your going to get help at all with this stupid device you might as go all the way. No room for half-ass shit in this house.

You finally manage to find the tiny print on the back of the pamphlet, and it actually looks handwritten. You move to press the according buttons on your phone, but pause. Are you really willing to stoop that low to get your computer working? You turn to look over the back of your couch at the beast. It glows ominously back at you.

You punch in the fucking numbers and hold the phone up to your ear. The dial tone whines like a bitch, and you almost hang up, but then someone answers.

"This is Geek Squad services, how may we help you?"

"Uh, yeah," you begin confidently. "My glubbing computer wwon't start up correctly." you glance once more at the horror terror making eyes at you from across the room. "It's stuck on this...blue screen. Annit makes some fucking wweird noises wwhenever I type anythin' innit. Ya think ya could just send someone over ta look at it?"

After seducing the lady on the phone with your badassery, you give her your address and she says goodbye, assuring you that someone will show up eventually to tame the wild beast that is your electronic demon device.

Dropping the phone wherever, you decide it wouldn't hurt to just go get coffee or something. These kinds of services weren't known for their promptness anyway. So you slip on your shoes, grab your bag (it's not a purse asshole) and leave your apartment to go to the shop across the street. It's not like the guy was going to show up in five minutes, and all this stress, you deserve some fucking coffee dammit.