Anyone else want to piss on my corn flakes?

Wow. Sometimes random coincidence lines up in a way that to any normal, superstitious twat, would suggest I am fucking cursed, or unlucky, or should pick a god, any god, and just go with it.

But I like to think of myself as a rational person- a little fucked in the head, but rational.

If you have been following my lacklustre adventures in leaving the house occasionally, you will know that this year I have:

-lost my phone which I had managed not to lose for 6 years. It was almost vintage.

-had my favorite dresses and shoes in a bag yanked from my hand and stolen by some cock who would never appreciate their value, also the bag contained my only matching underwear. And a big tube of elastic that held in the belly fat.

-had my wallet stolen which contained all my bank cards, my ID, my monthly travel card, my social security card… as well as my sim cards I used when I’m in the UK and some really nice photos of me I like to carry in my wallet. And other stuff. Oh, and money.

-my bike was stolen. I got it back again, but still.

-I left the deeds to my house in a tobacconists, but I got them back again so no biggie.

-I nearly lost the keys to my shop, but they were handed in at the bar.

-Other crap stuff too but I can’t think right now.

Also, I’m going through a divorce.

But that’s my choice, so I can’t whine tooooo much about it.

Anyway. The world in its infinite non-conscious, random way, has been raining shit on me all year.

And yesterday was the first of the month- meaning, I start my day by legging it down to the tobacconist to pick up a new monthly travel card. I buy my card, get on the tram, validate the card, then continue on my merry way for a whole month undisturbed by ticket inspectors and whatnot.

Yesterday, I was on time, so I waited for the tram- something I never have to do, because I’m always late and run towards it as the ancient door clatter closed, and then the driver begrudgingly (depending on how slutty I’m dressed) opens them for me and I barge on board to the stares and hatred of my fellow passengers.

I was bored waiting so I decided to get some peaches across the road in the market. I bought a big bag of peaches, really nice peaches. The fruit seller guy is a semi-friend of mine- husband befriended him even though I was horrified- No he’s a MUSLIM, we can’t be friends, he thinks I’m some wanton hussy or something. But we met fruit guy and his wife a few times, it was slightly awkward and I felt obliged to drink less than usual just to avoid slurring something crazy about burkas at them. The wife isn’t muslim, and very nice, but still. Nice don’t cut it with me, I want an acidic cock gobbling bitch ass mofo to exchange conversation with, not someone fucking NICE.

Anyway, the upshot of this friendship is that I get really cheap fruit. I got my bag of peaches for a euro, and he threw in a free banana which was considerate because they are handy as a mid morning snack in work. I managed to not make any remark about the banana as a masturbation device  and got back to my bus as soon as possible.

I’m on my third peach, slurping on its juicy flesh and enjoying the feeling of some guys a few rows back enjoying the scene. I’m putting on a bit of a show, to be honest. And then I catch a glimpse of ticket inspectors boarding, and the doors closing. And I remember.

I don’t have a ticket.


Shit fuck cunt balls.

What to do? Normally I’d hang at the back pretending I have to root around in my bag for my ticket, and get off at the next stop, but there are very few people on the tram. So it’s happening, I’m getting a fine. Fuck. I just totally forgot. I’ve never been caught without a ticket in Italy before, because I’ve never not bought a ticket.

The ticket inspector comes up to me, and ohmygod he’s hot. He’s like a slightly older Jude Law. He might be late 30s, early 40s. He’s hot though. Hot in an older guy way, obviously. I wouldn’t actually do him because he does look considerably older. Plus, he’s a ticket guy. But I’m momentarily hottie-blinded. I start rummaging in my bag and then look up with the best approximation of doe eyes I can muster.

“I’m sorry… it’s the first of the month… I… my wallet was stolen…”

He starts writing me a ticket and says that if my wallet was stolen, I can make a claim to not pay the fine because of the ticket. Really? I remember now, my ticket was for last month, so it doesn’t count. Plus, it only works for annual tickets.

I start mumbling things about my wallet being stolen, knowing full well that it wouldn’t have been valid anyway. I pretend I had a new monthly ticket that hadn’t been validated yet and I lost that too… yeah right. Shut up.

He asks me for my ID. I tell him that was stolen. He pauses, because technically it’s illegal for me to go around without ID, and I don’t even have the police report with me. He asks for my name… and here I have it! He’s not bringing me to the cops, he’s going to TRUST the information I choose to give him!

And this is where my badass ideal of myself crumbles and the stupid cunt I despise prevails.

I rattle off my ACTUAL name and my REAL address, all the time thinking why why why don’t I just give a fake name? I’ve done it before. But I don’t have a fake address in my head for Italy, and you need a post code… garrr I know loads of streets near where I live, but I didn’t think of anything. Damn.

He hands me the ticket as I start crying soft tears of self-loathing. Garrrr I hate this, I’ve always cried when authority figures of any kind give out to me, even if I don’t like them, even if I didn’t do anything wrong and they’re not really giving out to me personally. There’s nothing I can do but hope to cry as little as possible.

I read a blurry 60 euro.

What? 60? Why? I don’t want to look up at a blurry Jude Law because through my tears he’s even hotter. He tells me, yeah it’s 60, but if you pay now in cash it’s 25. I hand him a 50, trembling with rage and hating myself and still crying down my hot red probably swollen face. He says he doesn’t have change.

I lash out in fury at him, saying what, because I don’t have exact change I have to pay 35 euro extra? How dare you do this on the first of the month! I never forget! I never forget, and the one time I forget! It’s horrible. My lip is quivering. I feel like I look like a petulant child.

He keeps his cool of course and oh man it’s awful to cry in front of a hot guy. What a waste of a close encounter with the elusive silver fox. Well, not quite silver. But y’know.

He tells me he’s just doing his job, etc.

I try to hold on to some scrap of dignity, and I tell him he chose his job and I understand but he can’t expect people to take the fine without some outrage. Well, that’s not exactly what I said.

Actually, I said

“YEAH well you chose your job, a-a–a—and my wallet was stolen! It’s not fair!”

Anyway, cutting a long story relatively shorter than it could be, he suggested I get off the tram at the next stop with him and his shorter, uglier, runtier partner-in-dickery, and I could get change at a bar or something and pay them then.

We did this, and the bar wouldn’t change my 50.

Jude Law, man he was cool… he went into the bar and tried as well, and then he did some complicated changing of notes with me and his other buddy where a 20 was changed for 2 10s, and so forth, and then he went across the road to another bar and changed one of those 10s into two fives, and somehow worked the whole thing out.

I paid my 25 euro, wiped my stupid girl tears away, and thanked Jude sincerely because he didn’t have to be nice or anything and in fairness, I should have bought the fucking ticket.

He told me he was really sorry about having to charge me at all, and said goodbye. They got on another bus and I waited for mine, and then they wound up back on my bus a few minutes later. Runty sidekick guy walked past me looking a little afraid of me, and Jude kept to the front and chatted to the driver while I used my peripheral vision to confirm that yes, he was a stone cold fox, I wasn’t just aroused by the emotional and financial raping I just took. Except, he was of course old (for me). But serious hotness is a rare occurrence, and most hot italians in my own age group have groomed eyebrows and look like they probably like that danza kuduro song.

Anyway, so I didn’t entirely get shit on this time, but still. The universe is expensive, baby.

Oh dear no,

I must have accidentally opened my webcam, and I didn’t realise, and I hovered over the open window and a small version of the webcam window flashed up, and in the brief moment before I realised it was actually me, me sitting looking at my computer screen right now, I though “Damn those pop up windows, I don’t want to chat to some minging goth chick who lives in my area”.

And then I rolled over it again and realised that minging goth chick is me.

I need to get out in the sun more often.

I’m not dressed as a goth, B. T. Dubs, I’m actually just in a bra. But I do have dark hair. Anyway, that’s the kind of harsh bitter judgement I dole out constantly, it’s just not nice to receive it from myself.

Ok, there we go.

Need a tan, need to get laid.

Nothing changes.


5 responses to “Anyone else want to piss on my corn flakes?

  1. I can sympathize with the trials you have described in your picturesque way… many events parallel the last couple of years… however you seem to be able to sum things up in such an honest and candid way. I need some lessons in metaphorization.

    • Hi Robert, thanks… I’m just an honest kind of gal, plus I like talking about myself. And being anonymous makes it a hellofa lot easier…. although I guess after two drinks I’ll pretty much blurt out anything to anyone. Anyway…

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