por que bother?

So he mentions that he was by the UCB theater at the Gristedes looking for me on line, outside. So he wants to know when my class show is. So he automatically has to make asshole remarks about what it is that I am doing. So he wants to know when I"m getting paid for all this. So I explain again and again. So I get more asshole remarks. So he acknowledges his assholism, but denies that it's reared its ugly head during the course of the conversation. And so on...

All I ever wanted is a snark-free "I'm proud of you."

That's it.

Thank you,
The management.

On an aside, the packing is traversing as a sine wave, peaked at the maximum by Gloria Gaynor singing "I Will Survive" and an attractive women dancing in panties and a t-shirt slamming the lid on a box labeled "Books," and minimized by a sobbing woman hurling dusty paperbacks and scrap envelopes and greeting cards into a Fresh Direct box, cross-legged on the floor to Joni Mitchell's "Both sides now," crossing the x-axis at the placement of you-as-a-couple's photos at other people's weddings face down in a drawer and sighing to "In my Life."