This is not going to be a good day for discrete writing my blog at work. It’s really fucking hot and the citizens of this city have descended on my shop in a flurry of excited summer shopping. How dare they do this on a Sunday? Assholes.
I’m actually not too hung over today… I got enough sleep. I woke up at 1pm. Head kind of pounding, but appear to have come home in a pretty together state last night. I found myself wearing pyjamas, with an empty pint glass by the bed (meaning I drank water before going to sleep), no vomit to be seen, and my clothes from the night had been put in the laundry basket. I was pretty surprised, because I remember having been in a bit of a hoop by the end of things. But I spent so long trying to find a taxi, it must have sobered me up. Now I’m at work, feeling fairly ok but obviously with my signature lack of desire to deal with fucking customers. Just got here and they are already wrecking my head. One girl asks me if she can try on some of the clothes. I say yes with a shrug. She goes into the cubicle. “Here?” Yes shrug. “Can I try two things?” Yes shrug. Fuck off. Use whatever sliver of judgement you may have… come on you got dressed by yourself, you can do it. Until I leap in front of you screaming Nooooooooooooo you can be fairly sure it’s ok. Don’t ask me shit if all you risk by following your sophisticated mammalian logic is being told “oops, not in there, that’s the cross dimentional vortex cupboard.”
And now there is a fucking bee in the shop. It’s a big un. A really fat disgusting hairy thing with a pulsating… ugh oh my god it just flew out at me. Now it is in the window. Right behind me. It can’t get out. It gave a really pathetic attempt to fly through glass, then just rested on the windowledge and now it’s there, doing what looks like hyperventilating… and I am freaked the fuck out. My adrenaline decides to kick in and torment me with jerky fucking superhoned senses and I’m all jumpy and it’s bringing out the hangover. Fuck. Get out of my window. I’m here typing and it could strike at any moment. I hear you saying, wait what the fuck, is this the same awesome survivor with the cool knife and resourceful hunter instincts? Yes, that is me. But I have to be honest I am a total pussy. I’m afraid of spiders, and they don’t do shit. A bee… a bee could give me a serious hurty arm. Of course I’m freaking out. It’s the suspense more than anything. I know sooner or later it will attempt to escape again… although it has been there for about 20 minutes, and doesn’t seem to have come up with any kind of escape plan. It will batter against the glass then zigzag out past me, probably brushing its disgusting hairyness off my shoulder and giving me a heart attack before sailing out the door to freedom. But not knowing when it will strike… that’s what has me terrorised. Fucking bees, man. I wouldn’t kill a bee… I think they’re cool. But seriously it’s not like glass is new. The romans had glass. You would think the bees might have figured out about glass by now.
And I have a customer. She’s trying on belts. She tries one on. It’s too long. She asks if all the belts are the same length. I say yes. They are actually hanging up by the buckle so you can see without even touching them that they are all the same length. She gives me a sidelong glance then starts trying on more of the same, exact, belt. I hate these people. She tells me “excuse me, I’m just checking them to see if there’s a difference. She doesn’t compare them against each other. She fits them through all the belt loops one by one, before deciding each belt is just as way too long as the previous exactly the same belt. I want to punch her in the ovaries and render them useless. It would be my gift to humanity.
Oh god that bee is wrecking my head. Just make a break for it already. It’s stuck, legs splayed, in a corner. Two panes of glass at 90 degree angles are probably wreaking havoc with its primitive insect spatial awareness.
Oh man… it’s flashback time.
So I made it to the barbeque yesterday. I served my cake- it was good. It was drier than I had hoped, but the copious amounts of icing made up for it. Also we were all fairly merry. But I was satisfied with how impressed everyone was. Of course Swiss Army Knife made an appearance- I cut my steak with the wood saw (plastic knives were no good) and I opened my personal wine bottle with the bottle opener. I think I have now made the entire company of new aquaintances aware that I own a knife and am resourceful enough to use it. (The wood saw was surprisingly really unsuitable for cutting steak. But I didn’t want to get the “picnic” knife with serrated knife, spoon and fork attachments, because although that would probably be more suitable for my real needs, it suggests lame ass picnics, and not savage wilderness survival and building shelters.)
Oh fuck. The bee.. the bee made a move. I had a customer who turned out to be as much of a bee freak as me, so we both dived in between the clothes rails and screamed as it swooped over our heads dramatically. I realised why “flight of the bumblebee” is such a suspenseful, dangerous tune. I get it now. The door was wide open, leaving an obvious exit path for the bee. The bee flew straight for the door… hooray! No. The bee landed on the edge of the door, high up. Too high to wave shit at it. If I slam the door, the bee will be trapped in the shop with me, angry and knowing I just nearly squished it. Or it will be squished. Then I will have to scrape up bee carnage. Gross. I’m almost more afraid of dead squished insects than alive ones. I don’t know what to do. Its ass is pulsating revoltingly.
So I’ll get back to last night. Really need to pee but can’t close the door for fear of shutting myself in enclosed space with angry homicidal insect. I wish humans had venom… that would be cool. I wouldn’t have the cojones to bite a bee though even if it would kill it. Actually I could kill a bee by biting it, without venom… but yuck. And I’d get stung. And I don’t even know if I’m allergic to bee stings. I pretend I am, to seem like less of a pussy when I freak out in their presence. People respect that. It’s ok to be afraid of swelling up and DYING. But maybe I am allergic to bee stings. So it’s not totally a lie.
But last night… last night I impressed everyone with my cake and knife. I showed my duality, man. Not quite domestic, not quite wild. The whole package. So we ate cake and I was all humble about just rustling it up… you know.. whatever… and then we went to a bar. Along the way, my naked thighs were squashed against those of “hottish guy with girlfriend”. He was definitely into the leg action. In typical Italian fashion, he and the other backseat passenger sniggered when I put on my seatbelt. “You’re just trying to feel my ass…” he claimed as I rooted around said ass to find the seatbelt clicky bit. What are those called? It’s not important. We arrived at the bar. HGWG (hottish guy with girlfriend) insulted one of the other guys. The other guy told me to “give HGWG a kick”. HGWG told me he would prefer a kiss. I said “what was that?” He said “nothing”. All right. It’s not all in my head. Victory!
Oh shit. I can’t believe it took me so long to come up with the solution to Bee-gate. I was so worried about slamming the door to dislodge Mr. Bee because I would be locking us in together for him to exact his revenge. It just occured to me to go outside and slam the door shut. I did this. Mr. Bee was dislodged. He did a few frantic zigzags around the shop as I watched from behind glass. Then I opened the door and leapt out of the way. Bee emerged furiously, hellbent on tracking me down and killing me. But the fresh air and bright sunlight must have distracted him because he flew on, victorious… triumphant… and I had the shop back to myself. Fucking awesome. A bit ashamed it took me that long to come up with that solution. Maybe I am hung over after all.
What else happened last night? I was pretty well behaved… except for a bit of a fight with Hank Scorpio. He was really drunk and wearing a stupid fucking hat. Ugh he looked so needy and mopey. What an asshole. He lurched forward to try and make contact with me. I gave him a deadpan “hi” and went elsewhere to talk to other cooler people. I realised Hank is a really pathetic asshole and I only ever thought he was a cool guy because he gave me lots of compliments and told me I was funny and cool and interesting. He tried to find me many times. I evaded him successfully until one badly timed smoke forced me into 7 minutes of hell… he was close-talking. I was trying to find someone else to talk to but no one I knew appeared. I tried to keep his face out of my personal space. It was a constant struggle. He said a lot of shit about being sorry for the other night and wanting to be friends and still wanting to sleep with me and blah blah blah and I was like, too late, motherfucker. I gave you the chance to fit into my utopia where people say what they think and can be open about shit. You failed to live up to my ridiculously high expectations of people, and now there’s no going back. You hassled me way too much. Now fuck off. If you want to be friends, stop with the fucking touching. There is no need for you to touch any part of me. I don’t want to be rude, but I have to be because you weren’t man enough for my over friendliness. We’re done here.
You may think that was really coherent of me. Obviously I am editorialising slightly. I was a bit drunk. But he was WAY drunk. So I reckon whatever I actually said had a pretty similar effect. He started slurring some shit at me. “let me tell you…. lemme tell you about me… I’m.. I’m not like.. I’m like… let me tell you something my parents told me… they said… they said life is… let me tell you about me… I used to be in this communist organisation… femminism… cool… I’m all for it… I get that…” and so forth.
Ugh, Communism? Seriously? You gotta be shitting me. Stupid fucking hat, communism, silver cigarette case… all this guy is missing to be my exact anti-thesis of a man is a Mac and a penchant for playing second life. And listening to coldplay. And liking Dan Brown books. And Paolo Coelho. And being a vegan. Ok so there are actually a lot of things that could turn me off a guy. I don’t have time to list them all. Or no, all I have is time. I’m in work, you see.I could theoretically list what I consider personality defects for another 3 hours, and trust me I have enough material. But I don’t want to completely alienate you guys. I already masturbate enough at home, there’s no need for this blog to become a TOTAL wank session…
And yes it kind of already is. But ok what was I talking about? Keep thinking the bee is still in the shop. Buzzing sounds make me jump. It’s a fly… ugh i hate flies too. Ok ok … last night. Keeping my shit together, smooth ass mofo style.
HGWT kept disappearing then reappearing, drunk as a skunk, and putting his arm around me. I had to hit up an ATM, and he offered to accompany me. I said no, you’re cool… I have pepper spray (nice)… he was like NO NO NO I’ll join you! So I presumed he was planning to steal me away from people who know his girlfriend and give me a bit of drunk tongue action on the sly. He put his arm around me a lot, but there was no move made. Hmmph. Probably for the best… he was very drunk. His tongue probably would have burst in on my mouth and then limply wagged around the place for a bit, tasting way too much like vodka… And then he probably would have collapsed in drunken self pity and cried onto my chest about how much he loved his girlfriend and asking me to forgive him and please not tell her and how he just thought I was so special… and then a few weeks later he would arrive on my doorstep having dramatically left her for me and been kicked out by her at 4am in the rain while she screamed her promises of vengeance against me, and he would expect us to be together and I would realise he actually was never hot at all. Or maybe I just had bad luck last time? Whatever. I still want to fuck him.
So we went back to the bar. Upstairs the group was playing pool. I played a round with another girl who was really fucking terrible at pool. I am too, but she was worse so I felt confident. I could act all nice, taking her under my wing… teaching her all I know about the craft (the white ball is the one you hit with the stick, then when you want to look cool you rub the blue crap on the stick) while still getting kudos for being the non-worst girl in the room at pool. Awesome. It took her three shots to break. She didn’t even hit anything the first two goes. I made my move, aiming randomly but managing to sink a ball by accident. I rubbed my pool stick into the blue crap in my “good at pool” pose. I like pool because you can stick out your ass and lean over the table with a serious face on and guys seem to dig it. Except I’m terrible at pool. It was the other girl’s turn… And then disaster struck. A really hot, sexy, skinny and petite girl joined the room. Everyone knew her. She was way better looking than me. She was dressed like slutty one of the guys, a look I can’t pull off. It’s midriff showing, tight jeans really low cut, playboy bunny belt… and basically beats my tries too hard dress, hands down. I looked down at my until very fucking recently hot dress in dismay. There was chocolate icing mashed into the boob. She flounced (she actually flounced, I swear) over to the table and leaned over and with her FUCKING HANDS, flung the balls all over the shop. Then she started using her hands to sink the balls. I was like, dude, my fucking game. More guys arrived. I abandoned the nice girl who was crap at pool and went to the bathroom in a huff. Came back from the hideous turkish hole in the ground unisex toilets with pee on my feet. Slutty-casual girl was beating everyone at pool. She was really good… she sunk the black with a three-sided ricochet or whatever that’s called. She was all energetic and sexy, like a 16 year old with older brothers…. I hate her. Stupid bitch. How dare she destroy my “only hot girl” status so ruthlessly… with her stupid bronzed midriff and sluttily naive dainty facial features. The urge to slap her stupid face was strong with me.
Then she had the audacity to come up to me and introduce herself. “Hi! Oooh I love your dress!” I thanked her. “It’s really…. sweet.”
The fucking bitch. That was a dig. That was her marking her territory. I should have dressed sluttier. Or maybe she’s really cool and nice… No, she isn’t. I’m not paranoid. It was a put down. I wanted to challenge her to some sort of slut-off. Bizzarre suggestions flooded my brain. Announce you can deep throat! Do that really unattractive thing with your tongue! Make an origami condom! Flash your boobs at the bar! No. I’ll just wear hot pants to the bar next time. Hot pants beat jeans hands down at pretending to be an easy-going “one of the guys” kind of girl while showing off your fuckables. Hahahahaaha I will win. Petite girls don’t got nothing on my legs.
The calm part of the night was upon us. Songs to make you reconsider dumping your ex were wailing from the speakers. Agnostic dude arrived. The one I called a pussy atheist. He introduced me to his girlfriend. She was from my neck of the woods. Huzzah! Bonding time. Except… she told me she studies THEOLOGY. I was aghast. Why could she not just have had leprosy or something… anything else? Theology? Damn. I garbled out some drunken concilliatory remarks. I enthused about people having opinions. I went too far. I told her I appreciated all opinions. I told her I had massive respect for anyone, anywhere, who had an opinion or belief in anything or anyone or whatever. She seemed to buy it. I tried to veer off into some other less inflamatory topic. Hank descended on our table. He mashed his drunken body into my thighs. He started doing the most desperate, pathetic move of all. Poking me and screeching about what could be in my massive handbag? I pushed him away and retreated into the legs of the theologist. He advanced on me with bleary eyes. “What could you have? It’s fucking heavy.. what the fuck?” He thrust a finger accusingly at my chest.
“Dude, hands off the merchandise”
“What is IN THERE? Why is it heavy?”
I solemnly produced a bottle of wine, a book about a depraved junky, makeup, tampons, a banana, a hairbrush, a dress, the baking tin my cake was carried in, swiss army knife, pepper spray (which I moved to my bra for quick access), wallet, keys, keys, an unpaid phone bill, another handbag, some headache pills, a bottle of water, a notebook, some pens, lighters, and smokes.
He was impressed as hell. Damn. Go away. He touched me again. I got angry. Wanted to tell him, it’s sleazy when he does it. It’s only hot when the guy wh0’s engaged does it.
“Fuck off. Stop touching me, there will be no more touching. Got it?”
He slurred some indignant shit.
“There is no fucking reason for you to touch me so get lost”
He swayed around some more.
“Seriously I will fucking mace you!” I whipped out my pepper spray, unfortunately from my boob… and pointed it at him.
Go on fucking spray me.
Everyone was staring. I went apeshit telling him to fuck off and stop hassling me.
He lurched off somewhere else, swearing and calling me a crazy bitch.
When he left, the rest of the table looked at me for an explanation.
“No means no, man. I’ve told him no, he keeps pushing. That shit aint wack.” (Wait, is wack good or bad? I can’t remember..)
Everyone seemed to accept that. One or two muttered something about Hank being a cool guy. I said I was sure he was the fucking coolest guy ever, an exempliary specimen of humanity, but if he didn’t leave my shit alone, he would be the coolest motherfucking blind man in town. They didn’t argue any more. I overheard some of the guys talk of being mightily afraid of me and my aresenal.
Things calmed down. I had an awesome chat about computer games, computers, ms dos, all sorts of shit, with a really nice guy who seems to be a pretty safe bet for not being sexually harassed. He’s a muslim, but I can forgive that shit. After all, I accept and approve of ALL POSSIBLE OPINIONS, EVER. Apparently… He called me a nerd. I was proud. Haha! Coming at being “one of the guys,” but from a totally different angle. A bad angle, I know. But fuck it. I can’t beat ms. sexy pants on her own turf. I bet she’s really good at playstation, but I’ll beat her pert ass on the pc. Bitch.
Another guy starts lurching at me. He asks where he can kiss me. I tell him, no fucking kissing or touching. What, is the overexposure of my flesh some sort of sexual beacon all of a sudden? How dare they. He tells me he will give me 100 euros.
“100 euros? Of course I’ll kiss you for 100. Damn, who wouldn’t!”
Shit, indoor voice. Indoor voice.
He flings his wallet into my lap and hones in…
I battle stupidly with myself for a split second. Greedy whore me concedes defeat at the last moment. I luckily realised that taking his 100 euros in front of all these people would probably gain me a reputation, a deserved reputation, as a prostitute. 100 euros is not enough money to be considered a prostitute. I consider taking him aside later and asking how much he’d part with for a… no… fuck no. Don’t do it. It was probably just a drunken flirty joke. If I had said yes he would probably have laughed and been like, wait, you were seriously going to do it? I don’t have anything in my wallet, just some used bus tickets and a packet of condoms.
Kept my cool. Offered him a fist bump for a fiver. He took the fist bump, but didn’t pay. That confirms my suspicions that I wasn’t really being solicited for whoremongery. Cool. I did it. Obstacle to dignity, averted. Drunk guy wandered off telling me he would get a kiss at some undisclosed future date. After he left, HGWG seemed to look me up and down, re-appraising my value with the added appreciation of another male. He wants me.
People left… I decided to cut my losses. I left for a taxi. It was 4am. Shit, how come so late? Didn’t notice time pass… couldn’t find a taxi. Rang and rang… was put on hold. Told there were no taxis. What? There have to be taxis. I yelled down the phone. I’m a woman… on my own… what do you want for me to get raped? They hung up on me.
I swayed a little and gripped my pepper spray in one filthy hand. Groups of youths power-walked past me with no intention to rape.
I waited… and waited. I walked to a better taxi rank. Nothing. I called again… nothing.
Eventually got a taxi as I was starting to despair. Swung into the seat and proceeded to decide if the taxi driver was hot. No, he wasn’t. He was nice though. He told me I was pretty and he wished me better luck next time. What? What did I say? Am I just blocking out selective stupid things I must have said? did I announce my failure to find a willing cock? I must have. Why else would he wish me better luck next time? Crap. One of these days I’m going to wake up with a distinct recollection of riding taxi driver dick… probably end up being the weird taxi driver I don’t like with the long wizard beard and the identical wizard beard or pony tail hanging from his mirror. Creeps me out. But you never know. I get too comfortable with taxi drivers. I always think they care, are impressed by me, and are in no way sick of the company of drunk people. I looked down at one point and started feeling my stomach. There was a huge mass of extra jelly. I was squeezing it into different shapes, looking confused and horrified. My taxi driver noticed and asked me if I was feeling ok or did I need him to stop so I could vom. “No…. ” I replied. “I’m fine… I just don’t understand where this fat came from. I had a rockin body last night. What is this? Where did it come from?” I couldn’t figure it out.
“Ah” he said with compassion. “You were drinking beer.” Damn the wisdom of the taxi driver. There is no faulting it. A solitary tear could have rolled down my cheek poignantly, but didn’t.
I got home… I got home and all was well. I survive to socialise with real people another day. Still kinda got it.