Short Term Memory

The woman who works at the front desk of my building has got to have the shortest term memory ever. Well, then again, I'm pretty sure she's a bitter, surly bitch who could care less about competently performing her job.

So there was something in my mailbox behind her head when I walked in tonight. So I said, "Hi. I'm in Apt. 202. Could I have what's in my box, please?" So she stands up, takes the paper from my box, and hands it to me.

Then I say, "Hey, what do you know about pool passes? I haven't gotten mine yet."

To which she responds, in a rather annoyed manner, "What's your apartment number?"

It was all I could do to refrain from immense sarcasm when repeating my apartment number, which I had just given her some 20 seconds before.