I’m hung over. Here’s the deal, customer: You can have the size shoes you want, OR a fucking smile. Take it or leave it

Oh crap.

Last night made dubious decisions regarding my ability to man up, seize the motherfucking day and stay out til 6am regardless of working the morning shift, and today I am back in what feels like the only state I have ever known. Shakey horrible despair and regret.

I can’t have slept more than 2 hours. Luckily I set my alarm and somehow decided I felt too crappy to even think about some morning delight, so today despite waking up like a premature foetus, I arrived at work on time, nay… early. Earlier than I’ve been all month…

So last night, went out with pretty friend.

And her boyfriend.

And his friend.

Was it a setup? I have no idea. I just know, I wore my wedges (I like them more every day) and the friend was too short by a long shot.

It’s ok. I didn’t care, I was just happy to get out of my apartment and away from the uncomfortable smell of recluse and lazyness.

Urgggh I think I’m getting early onset carpal tunnel syndrome. At least I use the computer enough to say THAT’s the cause….

Oh I remember arriving home last night, shedding handbag and clothes and watching interracial lesbian porn.

Ugggg I feel rough. My tongue tastes revolting- damn want to avoid thinking about the details of how shit I feel. Don’t need to feel worse by honing in on the fucking details.

I’m at work, customers asking me all sorts of stupid shit while I’m trying to release sprite belches in a slow, subtle manner.

Sprite was an erroneous choice. I don’t know why I didn’t pick Coke. But I can’t do another fizzy drink now, too much to handle.

Oh I just want to rest my face on the cool metal counter. But it aint cool. It’s room temperature, and outside it’s in the mid 30s (celsius, baby!)

Last night we went to a bar and then another bar and then a night club and all the time, they menfolk paid for our drinks. It was awkward- they wouldn’t accept payment from me but I felt like I owed a few rounds. Then when I was going to insist on paying, we went for a pizza and I scarfed down a serious quantity of pepperoni oily goodness but again, they paid. I was drunk, so whatever. I did try.

And hey, I saved money… awesome.

Hanging out with my friend while her boyfriend and his buddy got some crazy looking hot dogs… barrrrffff… from some old crone in a headscarf looking distinctly Soviet. I suppose… the headscarf gave me that impression. And the dogged look…. Anyway I was chilling out with Phyllis (that’s her name on here, ok) and suddenly I notice this face blocking the lamplight, and guess who?

Hank Fucking Scorpio. In my face. What the fuck?

He sees me and gives me that smile that makes butterflies in my stomach wither up and die. He mumbles some thing about how I don’t recognise him. I allow my face to register the minimum recognition of his identity.

“Oh. Well. You’re in front of the light.”

Scorps looks around and still grinning like a crooked carpet dealer, spots Phyllis. He swivels 270degrees and begins to talk to her rapidly in English, claiming to possibly know her or have met her before? She looks with widened, beautiful deer eyes that once or twice, dart to me in panic.

I let him explain he knows her and offer a hand to shake.

I try to keep my expression void and tell him “She doesn’t speak English”

He flicks his gaze back to me for a second.

And back to her. For once I’m glad she’s so much better looking… but then the other most annoying guy I know appears who is evidently with Hank Scorpio, united in their not being invited out with anyone, probably lurching around looking for woman to slime onto. Yuck. Annoying friend whose name is I think, Federico, an Italian, begins talking to my friend in Spanish after Hank Scorpio falls flat with his attempt at Italian conversation. She pretends not to understand Italian either, and gives the fake name she always supplies to weirdos, “Andrea.”

Hank swivels back to me as he cedes the pretty girl to his friend who speaks Spanish. Out skeeved, bitch. Deal with it. He crawls back to me to claim the runner up prize. He has clearly forgotten, I’m way out of his league already. And I don’t fucking LIKE him.

He begins to talk drivel about my handbag, which he previously mentioned he likes.

“How much would you sell it for? Ha ha. The other day I was talking to this guy and he said, how much would you sell this for? Ten euros? And I said of course, if you sell for 10 euro, blah blah blah….you know?” He rants on and I just blink at him trying furiously to think of some way to make him leave. I check with my teammate to see if a rescue is absolutely necessary. YES. She is edging backwards looking terrified and obviously unsure if she has to talk to these guys as they may be my friends, or if she can run run run away.

I decide my responsibility to my friend is enough to justify being a rude cunt.

I interrupt Hank as he continues some boring ass story about Ray William Johnson or some guy at work who did nothing remotely interesting.

“Eh… look… this is awkward, but I was actually talking to my friend.”

“Hey cool, no worries.” continues talking at me. My brain gears are working furiously to find something conclusive.

“Right…. What I mean is, I was in the middle of a conversation before you arrived.”

“Yeah don’t worry about it, it’s fine. Your friend’s nice!”

WHAT THE FUCK? Do I need to spell it out to you with a fucking razor blade on your forehead? Evidently.

“WHAT I’M SAYING IS: I was talking to her. Then you arrived. I need to continue that conversation now.”

He says “Oh that’s ok” I cop on that maybe he thinks I’m saying, I want to interrupt him for a second to ask her a fucking question or something.

“I mean, I need to talk to my friend and it’s private.”

It sinks in. Ooooohhhhh.

He grabs Federico’s arm. “Come on man.” and to me, “it’s cool, see you later.”

I turn to my friend.

“Do you even KNOW those guys?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” I give her a little back story. I’m kind of impressed with how rude I was to Hank. But I know he still thinks we are friends or some shit. He will probably leech onto Phyllis now every time he sees her out, too.

While he was trying his talk about boring shit until I cave and sleep with him from sheer exasperation routine, he asked me

“So what do your friend and you do when you go out?”

I was like, “what? We go out. We drink. What?”

“Yeah no, like, tonight, what do you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you go out. Where do you go?”

Oh I see, it’s a variation of “do you come here often”, but for stalkers.

“I don’t know. We came here tonight. We just go wherever.” I aint giving this guy any more details.

“Yeah but like, what else?”

“Sorry? I don’t get you. Ok well tonight we went to a bar, then another bar, and now we are here. What do you mean?”

He leans back and folds his arms. “THAT’s what I meant. That’s what I wanted to know.”

I mean, what. THE. Fuck?

Anyway I have to stop being so surprised that a slimey slimeball with a face only Lionel Richie could love, goes around being creepy to women who clearly don’t like him. It’s cool anyway, I can just be horribly rude to him. But it’s hard, because fuck… no matter how secretly rude you are, it’s actually difficult to say those words to a person’s face. Repeatedly. But it’s getting easier.

And we danced… not with Hank and friend, but just the four of us, Phyllis, me, her boyfriend and the spare I didn’t hit it off with. (whether that was the intention or not, I don’t know.)  It was fun. We went crazy, I pulled out all my psycho moves and the music just happened to be reasonably suitable. I gave it a little too much of the “Rollin’ with the homies” hands as seen in Clueless, but then I always do. It never fails to make me feel good.

And yeah, Phyllis got all the attention. And yeah, I actually looked reasonably close to my best and she wasn’t really trying at all. So that must have stung, but I have to say I barely felt it. I was in a rare good mood.

Oh yes now I remember why: yesterday I came home from Lidl with biodegradable bullshit bag scraps rolled around fast-melting groceries and in the kerfuffle of opening the door and getting inside with all my purchases, I lost the keys to my shop. My shop, as in my fucking responsibility. The keyring has 5 keys on it. That’s 5 locks I was convinced I would have to pay to change immediately for safety reasons, as well as making the phone call to my BOSS/DADDY confirming all his theories of my irresponsible, just like my mother, careless nature. They are not theories, of course, they are fact. Except I’m not particularly like my mother, she’s sweet and has strong “feelings” about nature and believes in homeopathy and is a vegetarian and is kind to people and has social skills.

But anyway, I retraced my steps to Lidl, in a tiny dress I threw on in despair, sweaty and smelly, without a bra… because I was sure I’d find the keys on my doorstep. I ran in the rain, not even caring about how visible my nipples were to the old men I passed, brows furrowed, glaring at the ground, as false memories formed of me putting the keys somewhere I know I didn’t. Stupid vivid imagination, it makes it really difficult to find things. Honestly, someone asks me “where did you last see the keys?” and my brain is flooded with visuals of the keys in my hand, the keys on the table, the keys hanging from a hook…. and all are indistinguishable from actual memories. I can even picture my keys in the oven, so I have to look in the oven because I basically remember putting them there even though I didn’t. So I ran around in a panic imagining how I would never be allowed any responsibility again, my dad would freak, I’d have to pay a serious amount of cash to get the proper serious shop locks changed… oh FUCK.

And then a vague glimmer of memory flashed before me, of my bending down to grab my groceries on the step of the apartment building and having my keys in my pocket and feeling them slip but saying “ah fuck it I’ll check if they fell when I’ve put everything in the fridge” because my hands were all sore and I was seriously flustered. And then I forgot all about it while instead focusing on my keys being in the toilet or in the bin bag full of mouldy beetroot which YES, I rooted around in with my bare hands… oh man that smell… and the juices… oh it was like unskilled rummaging in a body full of guts. Yuck.

So I went back and no, no keys.

And then as I was about to call my dad and sacrifice myself to his judgement… I thought, hey I’ll check at the bar, maybe someone found my keys and handed them in. Un fucking likely. You could bleed to death on the street here and no one would lose their place in the bank queue or pause from shaking rugs over the balcony.

But yeah, the keys were there. My cunt of an upstairs neighbour found them, and instead of… I don’t know… banging on my door…. (he was outside the bar when I passed with my shopping so he must have guessed they were mine), he decided to hand them in to a fucking bar, my last resort. But hallelujah, I nearly kissed the (oldish, not hot) barman for the joy I felt. Instead, I inexplicably made a fart noise with my mouth and then said “EEEEEEEEEEEE!” and covered my mouth and jumped up and down a few times and ran away. Holy crapola, that was a close call. Saved by the old guy who roots around in my recycling.

So I was buoyant last night. I was fucking ON. I was being funny and witty and a little over the top but considering I was hanging with a South American, a Chinese dude and a Turk, I was remarkably PC and didn’t let anything racist slip out at all, except for falsely attributing the invention of paper to the Chinese and complimenting the Chinese guy on this achievement. He passed the buck to the Egyptians. Damn, humble too. Is there anything the Chinamen don’t rock at? (Don’t think “eyelids”. That is fucking racist. Get off my blog right now with those thoughts, they are unwelcome here.)

Anyway I navigated the minefield of politeness.. I think. Obviously some ignorant racist comments must have escaped, I’m too closed minded and superior to be in tune properly to what is ok to say. Luckily I live in Italy, a country so racist, people from neighbouring provinces ascribe whole personality stereotypes to their neighbours who live 20 minutes away. “Oh that’s typical Lombardy behaviour, so obsessive….” So I probably get away with it because people here are used to much stronger, more hating reactions… maybe.

Anyhoo… I didn’t fall, I didn’t puke… I was in a good mood, I thought…

Then my friend’s boyfriend drives us all home while she sleeps in the passenger seat. The Turkish guy is dropped nearby. I apologise over and over again about living so far away. “It’s Tuesday, how did you think you’d get home?”

“The night bus!” I announce triumphantly.

He shakes his head.

It’s Tuesday… there is no night bus.

Oh. I didn’t know… I admit I’ve only taken the night bus once, and don’t know its ways. I usually get taxis. I look down, for some reason ashamed of my money wastage.

He seems overly shocked by this. We get into a conversation that was started by my uneccessary mentioning… I’d almost call it boasting about… being married and getting divorced. He tells me I look at things in a negative way, and I need to sort stuff out with my dad. Shit, what? I was on fie-yah!  I was in tip top form! I was on the ball, I was cracking everyone up! I had enough beer and only slightly too much… only slightly! I was just the right drunk and happy to be a glorious fun addition to the group. I was the fucking group. I was awesome. I imagined they probably thought I was awesome and were constantly thanking Phyllis for bringing me out and making the night 1000% more interesting. That’s what I thought, and then I had this dood telling me I was negative and giving me advice about what he seemed to think were daddy issues!

I managed to rebuttal him as well as I could, claiming to be in fine form and just tending to be sarcastic about things, and that as far as daddy issues go (and this is a total lie) the only problem I have with my dad is that we work together, or rather I work for him. He must have taken my “Woohoo, see what misery I avoided by finding the keys! HAPPY FUCKING DAYS!” speech in an opposite way to how I had intended. I thought I was humurously showing how happy I was but apparently my way of doing happy is depressing. Grrr.

Feel a bit worthless today with some of my most awesome conversation this month having gone unappreciated.

But I actually feel kinda better now. I’ve had more pain killers than hours of sleep, and I managed to mask most of my smell.

I am also finding myself being really nice and friendly to customers which I suppose is probably some attempt to seem happy because wow it’s horrible being given advice when you’re drunk and think you’re on the top of your game.

So…. I really don’t want to stop typing here, it somehow makes me feel a lot better. You may notice I was a lot more hung over at the beginning of this post. I feel a lot better, really. Just 3 hours left of work and then I can go home and lie down and watch some straight porn to sort out my head (what I watched last night… and why I watched it… kinda creeped me out.) and then eat something.

Ooooh gross I feel bad again now remembering eating so much oily pizza last night. Ugh I think I may have tried to converse about politics too… or the economy… ugh. I also interrupted everyone a lot, to talk about myself and my opinions. Shit. It’s starting to come into focus now, I may not have been the sparkling wit I led myself and you to believe…. I may have been a little annoying. Oh well. As I grumbled into my last beer, as an afterthought to my marriage story, “you live and learn…”

Ok. I really don’t want to stop typing, I’m afraid the hangover will come back. Typing is keeping me upright. I don’t know what I’ll do without this to concentrate on… but I feel you’re already being too good, putting up with me when I’m hung over and also, obviously a negative depressing bitch with unresolved daddy issues… but this is 3000 words and I think I’m pushing it. This story doesn’t even have a bee in it, for fucks sake. Although if I didn’t go out last night, you were probably getting a fairly drivvely 2000 words on a beetle with a weird white bit on its ass that was in the bin in work yesterday and I had a fucking intense stand off situation with for a while. But I went out and the idea of writing beetle again… ahhh just did it damn…. damn… makes me feel sick and itchy.

I also had a lady taxi driver last night. (yeah I got a taxi TO the bar, because I got distracted (don’t ask, unless you want me to tell) and left the house really late and shit my poor friend was going to be waiting all alone being hit on by probably attractive men and pretending to be called Andrea.

Ok baby, this is the end of the line. I’ll wind up at 4000 words. Hey if I ever write a book, it’s going to be like Lord of the Rings. (In length only, I’m not fucking writing about elves, I’m so over elves and orcs and shit. Get out of my favorite genre, assholes!)

3236 words in total. And yes, I counted these words right here that I’m still typing. And the following:

PEACE OUT, motherfuckers!

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4 responses to “I’m hung over. Here’s the deal, customer: You can have the size shoes you want, OR a fucking smile. Take it or leave it

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