Saturday Night

In case you’ve been waiting on tenterhooks for the next installment of my sex life, here you go. Don’t get too excited yet. There is no sex in this story. Let me tell you, sex is only something I talk about when I’m high and dry. When I get some, the only hint to the reader will be the joyous change in tone, general lack of bitterness and possible absence of posts.

Anyway, yesterday I had a free afternoon and decided to take care of two nasty tasks I have been putting off indefinitely- check my bank balance, and get waxed. I had absolutely no idea how much money was in my current account and how much on my prepaid card and I was trying to stay in this glorious state of innocence, but it had to be faced. If only because I didn’t want to get waxed and then turn around and be unable to pay. So I checked my balance, which of course was shocking and horrific. There was no waxing money. There was no taxi money. There wasn’t even any pay that overdue heating bill money. I resigned myself to a DIY wax job. I’m telling you this because I want you to know how much pain and suffering went towards my night tonight, my big Saturday night. I was so determined. I’m a complete wimp when it comes to pain, (and everything, really) and I did it. I gave myself a Brazilian. It took an hour and a half.

That night I was settling into bed when I pulled a George Costanza- I kicked my leg to untuck the sheet which was under me, and felt something insanely painful pop in my calf. Holy shit, I thought, I’ve pulled a hamstring. Or a ligament. I don’t know, but I did something and it was going to completely fuck up my chances of a night out dancing, or more importantly a horizontal tango. So I waited for the pain to subside then massaged my leg, got up, found the deep heat, massaged my leg some more. I was so fucking determined to go out tonight. I couldn’t sleep thinking about what the fuck I might have done to my leg and whether I’d be able to wear heels.

I woke up late and tired, and didn’t have time to pick an outfit to bring for the night. I just grabbed my two favorite sexy dresses and my killer leather heels along with my only matching underwear, put them in a plastic bag and left the house. I would get changed at my friend’s house. I worked all day on my feet and it started to rain. I considered a taxi to my friend’s house, but managed to talk some sense into myself. I have no money. I can’t afford a taxi. It would only be around 6 euro, but I have to stop being such a princess. The easy life is over now, I have to get the bus like normal people. I do get the bus anyway, but not when I don’t know the area well or if it’s late or if I don’t want to.

So I started walking down the street to the bus stop. I walked and walked past bars and people and eventually came out onto the road with the bus stop. I was metres away when a man grabbed the plastic bag of clothes out of my hand and turned and legged it. So I started running after him. I yelled “he stole my bag!” and various other incentives to bystanders, but no one raised an eyebrow. I ran and ran, regretting each cigarette that slowed me down. I ran until he turned a corner and halted, and then I kept running. He ran again, and turned, and my phone fell out of my pocket, and I turned to pick it up, and he was gone. I started running again and there he was, just ahead of me, running. I yelled again, please, they were just clothes, they weren’t even new.

He didn’t stop, of course. I ran after him until I felt like I was going to puke, and the blood was pounding in my head and I couldn’t breathe. I looked and he was gone. I had no idea where, but it could have been anywhere. I sat down and cried with self pity for a minute, then realised there was no one nearby, and I got up and went to a bar and bought a bottle of water. I realised the last block or two I had followed that guy, he didn’t have a bag in his hand that I could see, so I thought maybe he had ditched my stuff having found it to be clothes and underwear. I decided to retrace my steps but found nothing. I got the bus to my friend’s house and when I arrived I realised I was completely fucked after running and the fear had got a grip on me. I had the worst heartburn of my life and felt like complete and utter shit. I couldn’t breathe properly.

I called my friend and asked her to bring me water and bread before I could face 4 flights of stairs. She brought them to me, I ate a bit and told her what happened, and went up to her apartment. There I tried in vain to sort my stomach out but with the stress and the fact that all I had to eat that day was a sandwich, it wasn’t happening. Eventually I gave up and got a taxi home. I honestly couldn’t move I was in so much pain. So I paid 14 euros for a taxi home and there ended my Saturday night.

Oh- and this is now Sunday morning, and I just looked out the window and my bike was stolen. It was chained outside the window, and it was there when I got home last night.

And… I just want to admit something to you because I lied about this to everyone else but I should be honest here on my blog- it wasn’t my phone that fell out of my pocket so I went back for it, it was my tobacco.

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