Half assed pledge to do less whining

Ebbs and flows, ups and downs.

Last week I felt great about myself and shit about where my life was going.

Today I feel shit about myself and not too worried at all about my life.

I have a lot of friends, a lot of people I enjoy, I’m still young enough to start something new and then when is anyone too old for anything? Whenever I beat myself up about my life and where I am it’s because I’m comparing myself to other people- other people whose lives I wouldn’t want anyway. I’d happily take their friday night putting 60 euros into a pub till without thinking is that nice wine too expensive, how will I pour this naggin of whiskey into my empty glass without anyone noticing, should I leave now or how will I get home, I can’t afford a taxi? 

I’d take THAT part of their lives. But I wouldn’t put in the 35 hours a week of sitting on a swivel chair in an air conditioned room for minimum wage and someone else’s interests. 

I wouldn’t do it for long anyway. 

I had a dream last night I was in a call centre and I was so fucking miserable throughout the dream. I had a dream a few nights ago that my parents’ dog and cat had turned rabid and wanted to kill me and I spent the whole night trying to lock my pets in a room without hurting them while they tried to tear chunks out of me. And that wasn’t my worst recent nightmare, the call centre one was much worse. 

I should stop eating cheese so late at night and maybe have a nice sex dream instead.

And then lately I’m getting sick of sex. Not sex itself, just the… I’m getting sick of the people I don’t care about. I found myself having sex with my fuckbuddy recently purely because I had eaten a lot of cheese that day and I don’t want to get fat. I enjoyed the sex but frankly the cheese was a lot better. I’d give up sex and just eat cheese all day except the two must go together or I’ll be fat. But then would I even need to be skinny if I was just living a sexless life with only the cheese witnessing my flabby midriff?

I’m not having any deep thoughts here. GOOD. FUCKING GOOD! 

I’ve decided to stop being so morose all the time and just shut all the bad thoughts away and be happy because my life is totally sweet right now and if I occasionaly got up off my arse I could make something wonderful with my time.

I’m doing a little bit of work for my dad’s business online and it turns out when I don’t have to deal with customers face to face or get up early I’m actually quite motivated with this retail thing. It’s not much money- shit, it’s barely any money. But it’s good to do something and it’s good to feel like I’ve done something useful and even a hundred quid is a fucking big bonus for me right now.

I’m going to buy a pair of shoes because at the moment I only have two pairs of shoes.

Two pairs of wearable shoes. I have lots and lots and lots of shoes but they are all high heel deals which I bought when I had lots of money and a little less sense. I only have more sense now because having very little money is great for sharpening the wits. You start to find savings everywhere.

I’ve always been a massive snob about mould. But when it’s me buying the bread and me paying for the bins (well, no, it’s me trawling the streets at night looking for a skip to throw my bins into, but still.) then it’s a different story. Yesterday I scraped mould off three bits of bread and ate the bread and it tasted exactly the same as normal bread. And I probably killed an infection, I’m bound to have some kind of infection.

And then there’s cooking, if I just cut back on elaborate grocery shops for making myself special treats all the time I could afford nice wine and a pair of shoes. 

Anyway. Main thing is, I’m going to stop being such a crybaby about being poor and lonely because I’m poor because I choose not to earn a shitty wage doing a shitty job, and I’m lonely because I choose to live alone and I like living alone 85% of the time.

End of.

No more whining. I’m a grown up! YES I AM!

(This is me psyching myself up, it’s not a statement of fact)


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.

I’m a fucking optimist, people, it’s the WORLD that keeps finishing my wine.

Reasons why I have every right to be a Grouchy McGrouchbag.

1. My wallet was stolen recently. Boo fucking hoo, except it had my cards in it and my ID, so now I can’t get new cards or withdraw my money because I don’t have ID, and I can’t get new ID made because… I have no ID. My dual citizenship is a bitch sometimes, because I have different names in different documentation. So tomorrow I have a fucking long queue-n’-whine to look forward to wherein I wheedle the dull, lifeless public servants with their stupid expensive belts and shoes into believing that I’m the same person as my passport I mean LOOK at me, OK? Good. Now, make me a new ID with… not that name, no… a different name. We cool? Oh, and I look kinda shitty this week, so I reeeeeally don’t want to get photos taken that will haunt me for the next few years.

2. Last month I took a well-needed if not entirely deserved break. I booked my flights well in advance. I was so phucking psyched about it. And then, three days before travel, shock horror, pilot strikes threatened for the day I was travelling. EEEEP! So I checked the airline’s website and the sweethearts were offering full refunds to anyone travelling that day, even if the strike didn’t go ahead in the end. Ah, lovely. I tried to cancel online but it wanted to cancel both my flights, outbound and return. So I called the number listed for European customers on their website. I waited on hold, I waited on hold. I listened to some seriously intrusive music. I finally reached the oh so appreciated human voice, and was imediately reassured. Refund, sure, no problemo. Clack clack clack on the keyboard and there you have it, all sorted.

My refund never arrived. Yesterday I checked my phone bill which I have been casting shifty eyes over for a few days but I was trying to pretend didn’t exist until I opened it up…. Opened that bad boy wincing… and motherfucking GASP.

My flight cost 88 euro. My refund hadn’t arrived.

The phone calls I made to acquire said refund cost 82 euro.

That’s right. For a flight I never took and that I had every right to cancel, not to mention I had to book another flight with another airline last fucking minute at considerable extra dollar, in total for this flight I never set foot on I have spent 17o euro. Unbefucking lievable. I started angry emailing their customer care addresses, obviously I’d be just as well asking Amy Winehouse for my money back (too soon?) And today I got a very short reply to my 3000 word essay on common decency and the decline in airline standards, stating a mysterious “refund: strike action. 88eur”

Fantastic, oh bastardy ones. I think so, I presume that was a message to tell me my refund is going to be processed now. I hope. So now my refund will arrive on my card that was stolen from me and I can’t get money from because I have no ID to go into the bank with and the wankers won’t trust my honor as a gentleman or a scholar that I am who I say I am…. and now I owe the phone company the same amount and I don’t have it because this month I bought….

many dresses, leather sandals, a kindle, books for my kindle, food, etc,

as well as having my wallet stolen.


Oh and to top it off,

today I decided to take a sneaky one hour lunch break instead of half an hour. I never take an hour, I’m not supposed to because I have to close the shop to go for lunch so we’re losing sales.

But I thought, ah fuck it… my dad-boss won’t notice, if he calls the shop as he sometimes does, he’ll just think I’m on my normal lunch and won’t know whether I took it at 3 or 3.30 or whenever…

And so I went to the bank, argued about my identity for longer than was necessary without any (positive) outcome, bought a sandwich, and sauntered back to work with minutes to spare for a coffee and smoke.

And there was a flashing light on the phone. The number was my dad’s.

I called imediately.

“hey, just got back from lunch and saw you called…”

“You’re just back now? I was wondering where you were, I called you a bunch of times!”

I’m a little surprised, he never calls repeatedly.

Why was he calling me over and over again?

Because there was a fucking EARTHQUAKE.

That’s right. Of course, I didn’t even notice. I don’t pick up on things, usually.

But the whole city was “paralysed with fear” after 20 seconds of tremors.

The earthquake cracked a few tiles in a few buildings and some offices were evacuated, all in all a piss poor earthquake and 4.3 on the richter scale, (thank the almighty fuck!) but it was enough of an earthquake to draw attention to my ONLY hour lunch I took.

A fucking earthquake, can you believe my luck?

I know, I know… I’m luckier than people who die in earthquakes or whose plates fall off the shelves and welcome them home from work with piles of pointy debris and cleaning to do.

But… the one time I sneak off for a long lunch.

A fucking earthquake.


I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on.

I need to pick a religion and start throwing virgins into volcanos, or covering my seductive hair in some cloth.

I have obviously angered gods. But which ones?