Saturday night for losers

MOTHER FUCKER.

It looks like all I’m going to have to regale you with is a rant about biodegradable bags.

All dressed up, and nowhere to go. Except I’m not dressed up. I have tomorrow off work, for a change, and I have no invitations to work up to a hangover worthy of a Sunday off. Fucking fuck fuck.

I had three different groups of people lined up to escort me around town in a heap, and I have complete radio silence.

So I thought I’d make a long overdue trip to the supermarket, seeing as I have even managed to run out of lentils. All that is left in my cupboard is a tin of lychees and some potatoes in advanced stages of sprouting. I went to the supermarket, enquiring in a beautician’s along the way if I could get a quick wax in (the answer was no, they were about to close. This briefly lifted my spirits as it is always the nights I am hairy and unpresentable that I meet a total RIDE) and landed in the most depressing place in the universe.

This is the supermarket that sells the lentils I like, that don’t need soaking (who knows they want lentils, a day in advance? Please.) but I try to avoid it because it sucks all the joy and hope from your life. It plays loud, bad quality music from the “songs to slit your wrists to” collection. I honestly find it difficult not to cry in there. It’s all people going through messy divorces (I swear I’m not projecting) shuffling around with dead eyes, dejectedly fingering packets of ready cut vegetables and powdered mash.

The music is so depressing I can barely stop myself from ditching the trolley and running out the door. I decide to counteract the feeling of the sands of time slipping away and dragging me, ageing and solitary, down the drain with them, and treat myself to some filet steaks and some of that noxious hair removal cream I always bitch about because it’s complete shit and just as bad as shaving. Regardless. I start feeling hopeful that some guy doing his shopping-for-one will be gripped by the same desperation and fear as myself, and we will share a moment at the checkout and end up fucking in the car park as our single person purchases roll out of their bags onto the tarmac. Then I will straighten up my skirt and walk home with my shopping, triumphantly looking like I just got fucked. I optimistically indulge in this fantasy and place two cans of beer in my cart. I’m on a diet right now so this beer is for the non existent guy who is going to pick me up in the supermarket as Sinead O’Conner tells us how she wastes the doctor’s time by seeing him just because she’s missing some guy she used to fuck. (You may call him a fool, Sinead, but you’re the one going to a man of science with a bit of heartache.)

I pay for my goods and ask for three bags, which is more than enough for what I bought. The creature at the checkout is a real joy to behold. She’s about 50 and looks like she’s underqualified to operate a cash register. She peels off three bags and shoves them a few millimetres towards me as if she’s doing me a huge fucking favour. Bagging panic sets in and I begin shoving my stuff into the bags, trying to do it properly but knowing that if I don’t do it as quick as she scans, I’ll be left like a tool bagging my groceries while other people wait to do theirs, and everyone will hate me and it will take me twice as long because I collapse under pressure. The first bag breaks. I ask for another. She shoots fire from her mildewy eyes that have seen only disappointment in life, and lets another bag drift towards me. I gingerly place a few light items in this bag. It falls to pieces. I say nothing, terrified of the wrath of my cashier. She hates me so much. I roll the goods into a ball with the two shredded plastic bags loosely involved, and throw into the trolley. I fill the remaining bags and pay. So far, no one has solicited car park sex. It must be my disastrous bagging that’s putting them off. I wheel off to the side to remove myself from the stressful checkout area. I realise I can’t carry the bundle of plastic scraps home. It’s too far and I have the other two bags plus big net of potatoes. I try hooking stuff over my arm. Another bag leaks a carton of eggs out the side. I grab the carton before it falls and look around, pleading for help with my eyes. A relatively attractive employee with a stack of trolleys sees me in despair and asks what I need. I tell him all the bags are breaking.

“Yes” he says “they are those new biodegradable bags, they’re much weaker”

I’m like, yeah but I don’t want them to biodegrade until I get my shopping home…

He looks at me stonily. “Just ask for more bags.”

I’m like, yeah, I did. They broke. My stuff isn’t even heavy or pointy.

He’s all…. “well get more”

Fuck it, I look over at my friendly cashier as she throws a bottle of wine down the end of the conveyor belt, willing it to break. I ask for more bags apologetically.

Friendly cashier peels off ONE bag and puts it down in front of her. I lean over the next customer’s shopping awkwardly and grab the bag. Cashier hates me more than ever. I fill this bag with what I can, my handbag with everything else, hook the bags over my arms, and place the eggs in my coat pocket. I leave with a lurching motion as the nightmare continues for the rest of the customers. Two minutes down the road and the remaining bags explode into nothing. I have to take my coat off and bundle the bagless groceries into a huge ball and carry it home the rest of the way. As I walk I realise my skirt is getting caught up and I’m flashing my ass a little. There’s nothing I can do. I get home and check facebook. Still no drinking buddies surface. Why did I get beer? I have no company. I don’t even like beer. I just drink it because it lures men into a false sense of comfort around me. “Cool, a girl who drinks pints… you’re definitely not the kind of person who gives a man crap for leaving the toilet seat up, and you definitely don’t have throw pillows all over the place.” And they’re right. But I’m not laid back, which is what they think. I’m devious and have bunny boiling tendencies. As you can tell. But it’s a secret. Oh why do I have to stay in this Saturday night? It’s not fair. I want to go out and get shitfaced and share bodily fluids. I really hope tomorrow brings this page something ridiculous and shameful, not a fucking 1200 words on an inaniate object or the smell in my fridge….

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6 responses to “Saturday night for losers

  1. I always take bags with me when I go to the supermarket. Two reasons: the first is they now charge for them here and I’m far too cheap. The second, it makes me feel like I’m doing my bit for the environment so I can tell the tree-huggers to fuck off when they bitch about me driving around town in my tank that runs on refined polar bear fat.

    • Ah they charge here too, but now they have this law that you can’t give out plastic bags, only these flimsy biodegradable vegetable celulose ones. (which they charge for too) At first I thought was cool….but you can’t even put a small box of muesli in there because the corners are too sharp, and forget carrying your two grapefruits home in a bag, because they are too heavy. I usually use one of those old woman fabric wheelie bags but it’s full of all empty bottles to recycle, which I keep putting off..

  2. My favorite type of stories are when people are looking around for help with pleading eyes and NO one is helping them. Classics. This one had me rolling around laughing.

    If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t even do a thing last Saturday as well and seriously spent a hour deciding whether to fap or not. I decided against it.

    • You know you have a problem when even a fap feels worthless. Do that to yourself one more time, once is never enough….with a man like youuuuuuu… No, even I… it’s very rare though. I’m really fucking sorry if GOCCIA influenced you against self-love in any way. That was only partly my intention….sorry

        • I can see you 6 months from now…. life crumbling to nothing… family and friends too freaked out to talk to you any more…. spending all your income paying young thai hookers to don goccia outfits and spank you with petitions against water privatisation. You’ll hate yourself for it. But it will be the only thing that can make you hard any more. Eventually you will take goccia to work, and your boss will walk in on you in the toilets, fapping to your reflection in the mirror wearing nothing but a goccia mask while the tap is running. You will be fired, and have no money left to indulge in your forbidden fantasy. You start whipping out your dick in public when it rains. The droplets falling on your filthy clothes just frustrate you with their lifeless, faceless forms. But there is no more release. You have to move on to something new, something different……
          May I suggest, continuing with the theme of fucking scary italian cartoons…. Topo Gigio!
          He’s supposed to be a mouse, and not supposed to be mentally retarded… How about those Italians?

          worst mouse ever

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