Today I am in a fairly shitty mood. This is because:
I set my alarm every day this week an hour early to pay those two fucking bills I still haven’t paid. They are at least a month overdue now. Fuck. Stupid incompetent person I am.
But I woke up and because of all the addictive late night gaming, had not reached my desired sleep quota…. and I didn’t get up. Instead I decided to come up with some mildy arousing scenario in my head so I could start the day with the breakfast of the lonely… but nothing was doing it for me, so I fell asleep again. Woke up feeling dejected, not in the least bit horny but feeling like if I didn’t knock one out, my day would be shit. Once I get it into my head, there’s no leaving the house until I manage to get it over and done with. So I just lay there until the real, serious, leave now or be late for work alarm went off then managed to scramble together something over-used from my wank bank and had a totally unsatisfactory mechanical orgasm, barely a quiver of nerve endings. Shit.
Then ran to get the bus, arrived at work at the last possible second.
Did not pay my bills. Tomorrow! Tomorrow it is.
Work was boring. I had some particularly numbskulled specimens in today.
One woman of mysterious age, between her 50s and 90s, hard to tell sometimes with these Italians and their longevity. I swear she looked like either crazy 55 year old or a clean living 90 year old. I soon discovered which camp she lay in.
I greet her politely (I swear I was polite) and she just croaks out “POCKETS!” in an accusing tone.
I’m like, Sorry?
And she gives me the look that says, “Oh sorry I didn’t realise you were some fucking immigrant.” She barks loudly,
Right. Thank you for helping me understand you, it really does make all the difference when I don’t understand a word (which I do, it just needs some other words around it to give some kind of context) and you divide it in two quick syllables with a long pause in between. Cheers.
“Right, pockets… You’re looking for pockets?” I say, already disliking this bitch.
“Pockets!” She mimes ramming her two mottled fists with icky blue ridges of veins into two imaginary pockets at her sides.
I’m like, yeah, pockets, I know what pockets are. What do you want me to do about pockets? You want to buy pockets?
The woman looks at me like I’m some sort of mentally challenged gibbon who is being allowed work to try to help with my self esteem and make me feel like a normal valuable member of society while she has to suffer my incompetence…
“A DRESS with pockets.”
I mean for fuckssake, how was I supposed to know that? What kind of word economy is this? Repeating pockets five times instead of just coming in and in six words, telling me “Hi, I want a dress with pockets.” Actually that’s seven words. The “Hi” is just common fucking courtesy. I’m not about to check each dress in my shop for pockets, and I don’t think there are any dresses with pockets here anyway, so I tell her to come back in the winter. We’re swimming in pockets in the fucking winter.
She grumbles angrily about it being terrible that no one caters for her need for pockets any more, and something about fashion taking a wrong turn, and leaves. Right. It’s fucking Valentino, man, he killed pockets. He’s all like, this season is all about clothes that don’t have pockets.
The next customer is a man looking for a bag for his granddaughter or something, and he is looking at this one bag for ages, and I’m totally sure she will hate it, from what he’s told me, but he won’t look at anything else. It’s covered in peace signs and tie-dyed patches. She apparently wanted a plain green bag. Ok. But he comes up to me and solemnly asks,
“Is this bag made of fabric?”
I’m like, what the fuck? I thought it was bad people couldn’t recognise cotton, now I have people who don’t know what fucking fabric is.
Tempted to tell him, expressionless face and all:
“No, it’s actually recycled fibreglass.”
“No, it’s stabilised plutonium”
“No, it’s from locally sourced your sister’s vagina”
“No, it’s actually a hollogram”
People, seriously. There should be some sort of revocation of your license to speak if this is the sort of flaming idiocy that comes out when you hit two brain cells together.
And then my shift is over, and I’m just chit chatting with the french woman who’s working the afternoon shift, and a gypsy walks in. I imediately block her from coming any further and tell her to leave and basically “No, no, out, you can’t come in here, no, no, out”. That is my gypsy technique. It seems awful but if I let her any further she will steal, it’s a fact not a stereotype. They are the same gypsies that have been doing the rounds for years. I know her to see, and everything. She stinks and her hair is all greasy in some fucking plaits like she wants to look pretty but has more time to plait her hair than to wash it, or use toilet paper after pissing. Ugh…
Anyway she tries to edge forward, to make me back away, but I’m not losing any ground here. I just continue telling her to leave. My colleague starts saying “no, you can’t come in, you have to go” and the gypsy turns to her and starts like spitting a really fucking rude imitation of what she says, like she’s putting on a French accent or something but it sounds fucking horribly obscene and insulting with her gypsy tongue rolling around flecked with spit. So I put my hand on gypsy’s shoulder and apply a very gentle pressure in a way that implies I will push her out the door, but isn’t actually pushing.
“GET OUT NOW”
She goes apeshit. “Don’t you dare push me! Don’t touch me!”
I’m like, leave when you’re told to leave. Get out.
She’s like “Don’t you fucking dare or I’ll hit you” and raises her hand wildly and jerks it forward a bit really quickly like she was going to hit me but stopped. Her idea was obviously to make me flinch, but I’m like a bit taller than this bitch and I look really nice today which is good because she won’t expect me to look like a sweet girl and have balls of steel, and my gypsy stick is nearby. I stare her in the face and say “Or what? You’re going to hit me? Yeah? Is that it?” and I square up to her and give her the bitchy girl’s up-down-not impressed with what I see look. Oh yeah.
She repeats her action, yells some gypsy shit at me and pretends to lunge forward to hit me. I’m surprised I don’t flinch this time either, she’s looking very angry. I imagine this woman would pull my hair and gouge at my face with very little provocation. I am probably a terrible pussy in a fight. I can just imagine. She’d do some damage before I got to the gypsy stick, and I have a lot more to lose, disfigurement wise, than her. And she knows it. But I’m being cool. I laugh in her face.
“Get out,” I said. “Or I fucking will push you out.”
She leaves, hissing and flashing her eyes angrily in a way that would terrify me if I was in any way superstitious about curses. In reality I’m now terribly afraid I’ll see her around some time when I’m on her turf and she’ll get a whole band of gypsies to beat me up.
Anyway that encounter put me in a pissy mood. I always push the gypsies out because they won’t go any other way. So this one getting all indignant is like, fuck off. I didn’t even push her I just gave her a fucking nudge. And then of course I cleaned my hands with that disinfectant soap stuff because, gross. But I was brave and I’m proud of that, I know it was a very small victory but if you saw this bitch and god if you smelled her, you’d see it’s hard to stand up to them. They look like the sort of people who would kick a pregnant woman down to the ground and give her a miscarriage just because she looked at them wrong, and they scare the shit out of me. Women, man. They are fucking dodgy. I mean, I’m a meek woman and I carry a knife. Just imagine some psycho bitch who doesn’t give a fuck about the police because they are scared to go into gypsy camps… yeah man, scary shit.
Oh I’m so fucking tired, and tomorrow pay those goddamn bills. HAVE TO. And then in the afternoon I promised my sister I’d take her to a free concert, and I agreed because I thought it was going to be this hot Italian rapper who is hot, and now it turns out he isn’t playing and instead we’re going to see a hot girl singer whose music will embarrass me and I won’t be able to be all rude and caustic about her crappy lyrics because I don’t want to sow the seeds of cynicism in my sister at such an important age, or she’ll end up just as fucked up as me. It’s actually kind of nice because when I’m around my sister I think positive and try to look at everything in a more toned down, less hostile light. I hope my fake nice personality is convincing enough to last until she reaches adulthood, then the gloves come off and I’ll hit her full force in the life with reality, and hope she can take it. Word up to the older sibling, yo.
Ok just going to close my eyes for five minutes but NOT play fallout. Ungh stupid idea has seized me now to go explore this cavern I found but didn’t go into… garrrr…. no. Be strong…
Ok good evening I suppose.