Deus Ex Machina... and he's laughing at you.

Today is the kind of day that exists only in fairy tales. Dark, twisted fairy tales where the hero is the butt of a great cosmic joke of which everyone is privy... except him. The telling of this fairy tale is certain to bring you a fair amount of joy assuming, of course, that you are sadistic enough to get a kick out of another's misfortune. And let's be honest... you know you are.

I woke this morning to the unexpected cacophony of birds singing and my roommate slamming doors. I'm assuming that he and the house had gotten into an argument ( like you do ) and he was trying to show his dominance. At least I didn't walk out of my room to find him on all fours, leg raised,  marking the couch... again. To his credit, there was an unhealthy amount of tequila involved the first time. *

If the manner of my return to the waking world weren't clue enough  that today was indeed going to be "one of those days" the sudden realization that I had forgotten my ID badge for work hammered it home. The realization was accompanied by a string of Gaelic obscenities; an exclamation so forceful that the young lady in the car next to me jumped visibly and scootched as far from me as her seat-belt would allow. And of course, Mr. Murphy saw to it that I was far too close to the office to turn around and correct the issue without being late. So, resigning myself to the fact that I would spend the day confined to the building else stand outside with my nose pressed to the glass in the hopes that someone would notice and let me in, I drove to work.

One thing that can be said about me with a fair amount of certainty is that I'm crazy. But that really has no bearing on my story so we'll just set that nugget of goodness aside for the moment and concentrate on something that does. For instance, the fact that I hate being late. I'm the kind of guy that arrives to an appointment fifteen minutes early. Always. And because I had gotten up so early ( there's no sleeping when your alarm is a slamming door ) I had a little time to kill. I chose to kill this time by running a few errands. Specifically, stopping at the ATM to pull the cash needed to run said errands.

I pulled up to the Publix near my office thinking that I would kill two birds with one stone. I would be able to use their Presto! ATM, which is mercifully free of fees ( I KNOW!! I couldn't believe it either! ), and swing into the store to grab some orange juice ( I love me some juice ). Everything was going perfectly; just as planned. The machine did its job, taking my card and reading the information from the magic strip on the back. I entered my pin to let it know that I was who I claimed to be and when it was satisfied with my identity it took my order.

And this is where things went horribly horribly wrong, kids.

I stood there, patiently waiting for cash that never came. Like an orphan waiting for the Santa from all the stories who never comes down the chimney. The ATM beeped at me mournfully as if apologizing and displayed a austere message stating that it was unable to dispense cash. I glanced from side to side certain that I was being Punk'd and that Ashton Kutcher was going to spring from the rubbish bin to catch me with that doofy look of surprise on my face. Once I recovered enough to realize that I was not being Punk'd, I mouthed a quick "Feis!" and tried to think of what went wrong. As my mind reeled from the shock of a plan gone off rail, I moved to check the balance in my account... just to be on the safe side. What I found raised my hackles and seriously disturbed my calm. Even though the machine was unable to give me my money it decided that it was okay to remove it from my account anyway.

That's what I get for trusting a financial organization whose logo reminds me more of pasta sauce than a bank.

I walked into the Publix to speak to a manager who fulfilled my low expectations by promptly informing me that the only thing that could be done was to send an email to Presto! and that I would be contacted. No, there is no number I can give you, sir. Yes, I understand the inconvenience, sir. No, I can only send the email on your behalf. The ATM doesn't belong to us, sir. In the interim, two hundred and sixty of my hard earned dollars float somewhere in the limbo of cyberspace; cold and alone.

Isn't it amazing how we create technological convenience upon technological convenience to make our lives easier and yet, somehow, they still manage to make our lives a living hell?! I can almost imagine that the machines have already taken over and rather than choosing to destroy mankind, they've instead decided to keep us around because we're much more valuable as entertainment than batteries. I am resigned to this fate wholeheartedly and when my XBOX tells me to put on tights and dance like the court fool in Camelot, I will go willingly. Until then, I'm going to get a very large truck and tear that fucking ATM out of the wall and get my money back. Wish me luck, blogland.

-D

* My roommate has never, to my knowledge, urinated on our couch in a drunken stupor.