Angry Inner Bridget

Today I decided to take active measures to counter the boredom/feeling sorry for myself that comes with living alone in a town where I have one friend (Brandie) who is not married and/or has given birth to twenty children. Unfortunately Brandie decided she was hanging out with "her friend Ron" tonight. Who the heck is this Ron joker? Oops, I'm off track.

Back on track. My first counter measure was to buy a pitch back. Except that the one in the link is probably high quality, whereas the $20 one that I purchased turned out to be a raging piece of crap. And yes, I do realize that I just turned 23 and should not be purchasing a pitch back that 9 year old boys use to practice for T-ball, but how else am I going to play catch by myself? So I was expecting it to be a little weak, considering it was only $20 and most others are at least $50. I was not, however, expecting it to cause me bodily harm and then self destruct before my eyes.

Dear Spalding,
I am less than pleased with your product, the "Deluxe 3-Way Return Throw." Deluxe? Are you kidding me with this? Those stupid "new bungee cords for easy net assembly" broke my finger! Are you insane? Why would you stick a ball of plastic destruction to the end of a bungee cord and then make me stretch it to its max, only to have it snap back viciously at my fingers when it inevitable cannot stretch far enough to hook together. My finger is now purple and deformed! Oh, and don't even get me started about the "55 inch X 35 inch enameled steel frame." Steel?! Since when does steel fold under the pressure of bungee cords? Never in my life have I seen metal bunch up like a stocking. I was especially impressed when the entire frame gave out and collapsed into itself like a crumpled piece of paper. It was at this point that I picked up the poorly manufactured aluminum foil framed joke and hurled it across the yard, so you'll have to excuse the grass stains. I would demand that you send me a better product, but I still have nine functional fingers (or seven fingers and two thumbs if you're picky) and I'd rather not risk whatever weapon disguised as a child's toy you want to throw my way next.
-Angry Inner Bridget

CC: T-Ball USA with additional note:
I find it appalling that your seal of approval is on this product. Do you also approve hand grenades for tots? Or missal launchers for pee wee football players? Why don't you just strap a fire cracker to little Timmy's fist and then have him go play in the street?

Too much?

*Here I must stop and note that when I told my friend Jess about this crappy product she told me I should write a letter. She paused and then added "like a real letter." It's like she thought I would just rant about it in a fake letter on my blog instead of actually accomplishing something by sending a real letter to the company. Why would she think that? Oh wait...

And now, for my second attempt to fend off boredom/self pity:
I decided to take myself to the movies. I went with a positive attitude (and a throbbing broken finger! shaky fist Spalding!), and tried hard not to focus on the fact I was a huge loser for going by myself. The theater was basically empty when I got there and I sat off to the side, away from the four other people already there. Why? Because I wanted to watch my movie in peace (Read: I wanted to put my feet up on the seat in front of me and talk to myself until the movie started). Right before the movie started a middle aged couple came in and out of the bazillion empty seats in the theater decided they had to sit right behind me. Right behind me. Who does that? Nobody ever intentionally sits right behind someone at a theater because of the risk of view blockage. But not these two winners. They sat right behind me. As soon as they took their seats, I began to take my feet off the back of the chair in front of me and reluctantly return them to the floor. Apparently I wasn't moving fast enough because the guy behind me shouts (get your feet down). Let's recap. I'm sitting directly in front of him. Why are we shouting? Also? I already had my feet down before you opened your large popcorn filled mouth. Why are you talking to me? Needless to say, I'm slight annoyed at this point (Read: so angry I can't even see straight). As I day dream about dumping my cherry coke all over him, I hear him start to tap his cup against his plastic arm rest. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Then I hear him "whisper" to his date, "It's a social experiment, let's see how long it takes her to snap." Hey Asshat! I can hear you! Are you out of your gourd? Really? Do you want me to snap? Just say the word pal. You'll have popcorn shoved so far up your nose it will fill your currently empty cranial cavity. After Mr. Mature behind me gets tired of tapping and my lack of reaction, he begins to carry on a conversation with his date, which lasts the duration of the movie. At one point I get annoyed enough to turn around to give him my death glare (which is truly frightening), but as I turn to my left I am stopped by an infuriating site. A sasquatch sized foot is propped up on the chair sitting only inches from my face. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! I can't prop my feet up (which totally would not even be in your line of view) but you can stick your foot in my face?! How do these people find me? I spent the rest of the movie wishing I had a sharp object to drive into his smelly foot. And thus continues "Bridget's history of violence" as Kenric likes to call it.