I’m very sorry for your loss, but sorrier for my own… I’m getting sick of the salad toss, I wanted us to bone

So, as expected, I DID wake up to a message that was to my freakout and insecurity as Elizabeth Arden 8 hour cream is to recently waxed groinal area.

Soothing, is what I mean.
There’s a hot tip for you, in case you thought I was never going to give you any more help with your lives since the great piece on how to save your broken eyeshadows with vodka, and how to make usable origami cups from your phone bill, and probably many many other crafty ideas I can’t remember now. Elizabeth Arden cream- great for post-wax. Also, great for chapped skin in the winter. I love Elizabeth Arden cream. If you are a rep for Elizabeth Arden and do not find my personality too repugnant to represent you in any capacity… I would be willing to put a massive ad for your product right here. It can be sexy if you like. I could pretend to be deep throating the tube, if that helps at all. I have been practising with a banana.
So the message, I’m getting there…
After a full 13 hour radio silence through which I mostly slept (got my first 8 hours in weeks, yippee kai yay motherfuckers!) and partly played Skyrim (managed to get to bed before 1am because my computer switched itself off to keep from exploding in a ball of flames. Core temperature got a little too hot with all the high end graphics. Smokin’…..
Anyway the message was like,
“Hi MFO, Sorry I didn’t get in touch before… I have had to go home to my family as my grandmother died. I will be back in town tomorrow night.”

Dude… his granny died? That’s the sort of unbelievable shit I would make up if he didn’t get back to me for 2 days, to comfort myself… but hey, I guess it also happens sometimes in real life too. But I will only believe this excuse twice, so this is strike one. I’m counting. He has at most, one grandmother left.
Anyway, considering he is probably in the middle of the biggest spread of cured meats and olive oil based food and smothering in the bosoms of his wailing southern relatives, he really did reply pretty quickly.

So now I am entirely at ease, he clearly wants more of my milkshake, whatever milkshake is a euphemism for. Except anal, I am not doing anal.

At first, I struggled with what kind of message to reply to his, not being sure about what to say to people in English when someone dies, let alone Italian, and especially how do you get across a vibe of sympathy, politeness but also the strong desire to fuck soon without strings attached? Eventually I thought fuck it, this isn’t my first language, I don’t have to write perfect messages, so I just said ah I’m really sorry, condolences, I’ll catch you another time…
My first thought on reading his reply was, dude, way to not play it cool… I would have used the opportunity of being unable to get away to use my facebook for hours as an excuse to pretend to have been playing it cool all along, and not mention the dead relative at all, but just let me sweat and feel insecure.

My second thought, and I don’t know is this wrong? I don’t entirely care though… was, damn, he’s going to be wearing formal wear. Like, a black suit and shit.
I was quite turned on by the idea, replacing the coffin on his shoulder in my head with a crate of beers or something else a man would carry on a shoulder, like a trained falcon. He looked pretty good, I have to say. Except I couldn’t get a good rhythm going for long: despite my best efforts, my imagination looked down at his feet and there were those damn velcro shoes. I imagined he might wear them as they are black anyway. Fucks sake, I tried to squeeze my eyes shut even in my imagination but I could hear the “shaaaccckkk” of the velcro opening again and again, tormenting me until I had to admit defeat and get out of bed on “the wrong side”.

Actually, what shoes DO men wear?
I have seen some guys wearing shiny leather loafers that probably cost as much as a pair of expensive women’s shoes except have no buttock-enhancing function like a pair of expensive stilletos, so they just seem like a frivolous expense to me. These seem to be worn without socks, or with those tiny and thin socks to give the illusion of not wearing any socks. I don’t know what is more gross and smelly, velcro runners on a grown man who has a penis, or leather shoes with no socks.

Anyway I feel horribly overindulgent lately with the insane amount of hysterical posting I have been doing lately. I feel like I am stretching your attention span to child’s school play type proportions, and you might feel forced to read everything when really no I don’t expect that, I’m just really really bored and I feel like chronicling every thought that crosses my mind.

I just had a banana, for instance.
I don’t know if I will ever grow out of this habit but it seems impossible for me to put a banana in my mouth without at least TRYING to push it as far down my throat as it will go. Don’t worry, I crouch behind the till when I do this so I don’t get anyone walking in on me being weird. Apart from it does probably look weird when customers pop in the door and I spring up from the ground like a jack in the box with a mouth full of mush going “BLGRHDJGFDGG!!!” in as cheerful a manner as I can so they know I am friendly and willing to help.

I am getting really fucking bored these days.
There is nothing to do.
I have tried changing my customer service attitude from Bernard in Black Books to more of a… nope, can’t think of a single good customer service person on tv. I guess they just don’t make sitcoms about people being polite to customers.

Or maybe they do, and that’s what say, Everybody Loves Raymond, is all about. I wouldn’t know, but it would explain why everyone loves him, maybe he is just a really helpful employee.

Anyway I have tried my dangdest to keep the corners of my mouth in neutral and I have taken to wearing a Cyclops type strip of shades to protect customers from the laserified hatred beams that shoot out of my eyes when I have to interact with them. I even minimise the window of my blog while they are nearby, and grit my teeth at them charmingly.

I have been nice. I have been helpful. I have made a kind of humphing noise to punctuate my listening to their stories so it sounds like I am paying attention. I have found fat people clothes that encase their gargantuousity to their satisfaction. I have told old women that they don’t look ridiculous wearing a dress covered in cartoon owls. I have been so freaking GOOD but I’m starting to think maybe some of this downturn in sales is not my fault for being shit, but maybe there is some kind of problem with the economy, or something.

Fucked if I’m supposed to know, I don’t watch the news any more. It depresses me and distracts me from thinking about what really counts, ie, men and how best to disguise myself as someone they would want to fuck.

Speeeaaaking of which, I just got my poon tang waxed, and it was the nice girl, you know the one that rubs the lotion in? Yeah, she’s my favorite. She was only supposed to take a bit off the beast, you know… short back and sides… because three days of self-torture has left my bits a little fearful and delicate, but then she revealed herself as a wee bit OCD because it wasn’t totally even, so she insisted on taking another bit off the left, then the right… until I ended up with the sort of bikini line I would have asked for in the first place if I wasn’t such a pussy about pain.

And you know how much that shit cost me? Vadge massage and all…

6 Motherlovin’ euros.

That’s right. If I was that girl, I’d give up on such a petty income and hit the pole. I mean, if I were willing to get up close and personal and gross with unwanted stranger pubes and genitals, I would be a prostitute, it pays better.

My packet of wax strips that tore more years off my life than hair from my legs, also cost me 6 euro and a significant amount of tears.

6 euro buys 3 delicious sandwiches at my hot barman bar.

6 euro gets you a pizza with gorgonzola and onion at “Pizza Man”, the take away place I go sometimes when I come home from work late but really hate because it is this Indian man who ALWAYS asks me where I am from, and then asks me if Ireland is in Scotland, and then when I say no he goes “oh that’s right, it’s beside London” and then I give him a basic geography lesson, including how an island works and stuff, and then he’s like oh isn’t that where there is a war between the queen of ireland and the english? Or something, and I am tired from work and sick of answering the same shit to countless people all the time as some kind of ambassador for Ireland and I have to give a “the Troubles for Dummies” crash course in Northern Irish politics which sorry to say I am vaguely ignorant of.

And then I go back again another time and he forgets all about our convo and I have to tell him again. I don’t know why I don’t just make something up to fuck with him because he never remembers anyway, but I am a pussy in that respect.

Although, hang on, I take offence to that term. Out of the genitals, male and female: hands up whose just underwent voluntary torture? Yes, you, vagina. And who falls to a heap in the ground if they are accidentally hit with an elbow? Penis, that’s who.

So I think that calling a coward a pussy is ridiculous and inaccurate. My vagina is a brave soldier. All it wants it to look pretty, but it never will, because it is a vagina. Please, a little respect. I can’t call cowards “dicks” though because that already means something.

Actually, I just realised people say you “have balls” if you are NOT a coward, so what the fuck is going on here? I challenge balls to take as much pain as my vagina. Balls… you goin down. Down town. And not in a good way, if there is one. I haven’t even had kids and I already know I’d kick your ass. I will have to think about how to conduct the challenge fairly though so leave it with me.

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