I had a really bad day on Tuesday. Actually, I’ve had a really bad year so far. My life sucks at the moment. But Tuesday was one of those days that you can only come up from. I left work early to get to the bank before it closed at 4 (and leaving work early involves the loss of money as I only get paid for the hours I work) and bicycled the 45 mins into town, arriving red faced, sweaty and generally out of sorts. I had to pick up a credit card that had been preapproved and this was the fourth time I’d been there for that purpose as the useless fucking bank each time told me I needed a different form of income verification before they gave me the card.
I really thought I’d get it this time. Nope. Apparently the letter from my employer, which they’d said was adequate, just last week, was no longer enough. I now needed five pay slips.
I lost it completely. I informed them that I’d banked with their bank for 20 years, I’d had five property loans and repaid them all, that I was the joint owner of two properties free of mortgage and worth conservatively $750 000, that I was shortly about to come into a lot of money which I would not be depositing into their bank and that I would be closing my account and going with another bank which valued long term customer loyalty. Then I swept out, high dudgeon in full throttle.
Out of sight on the pavement I sat down and started to cry. To add to my humiliation this really drunk Aboriginal lady staggered over from the park opposite where she’d been boozing with her mates, and tried to offer me sympathy.
She was very, very drunk; to the point of illegibility and she smelled really, really bad. She sat down next to me on the pavement and forcibly grabbed my head and dragged it onto her chest. I think she was trying to be comforting. It was nice of her.
But oh dear God, what has my life come to, that down and outs feel it necessary to commiserate with me? I blame a certain someone directly. And now I think I have lice. And possibly fleas. And maybe scabies too. You fucker, this is all your fault.
I’ve had a better day today.
A girl, who I know through the company, had some bad news (her f-in-law has a brain tumor) and her other half flew back home. She was very sad and, although I don’t know her well, I offered her a mattress on my floor if she needed a spot to stay. She originally declined but felt so sad that she called up and asked if she could come and stay. Unfortunately, by that stage I’d already drunk dinner and I was asleep.
I woke up in the morning and she was there. We’ve spent the day crying together, swimming, shopping (good on no money) and are now about to get our tarot cards read.
I have told the reader I only want to hear good news so we’ll see. I also called my
sexist pig because we were watching ‘The Devil wears Prada’ and he was making sexist comments. I am not endearing myself to my colleagues.
I also probably didn’t endear myself to the Woolworth’s lady today. I was ranting on about this and that and life to my friend at the checkout and the conversation went to the subject of smoking and how glad I was that the recent events hadn’t caused me to take it up again after a nearly ten year hiatus. One of the benefits I mentioned was that now I wouldn’t have those little wrinkles by my mouth that smokers got from drawing back on a cigarette. And then I helpfully added “But God will probably give them to me anyway, Imagine how many hookers must have, from all of those years of blowjobs”.
I have discovered a new use for haemmeroid cream. Why do you ask, do I actually have such an embarrassing and potentially age admitting substance in my medicine cabinet? Well, last year, as some of you may recall and I had a rather large fist sized piece of my insides removed and it hurt after wards, like a motherfucker. Hence the cream, because it contains a local anesthetic and it did actually help a lot.
I swear by it now for all manner of cuts and grazes and I am rubbing it on my bruises and scrapes with gay abandon. Wish I could apply it to my heart.
Here’s a less whiny post, if I ever get it to post. I have sort of defected to and followed my friends to Vox, I haven’t organized it properly though and may not for a while. In the meantime, if I can figure it out, here are some awesome pictures of really gross bruises (mine) as a result of the bike accident. Truly disgusting and bloody sore to ride on.
In other equally gross tidings, I had an unfortunate accident with a bottle of talcum powder in my room. Oh all right, I’ll come clean, I threw it at the wall. I have now gone prematurely grey as a result of the fan stirring it all up and I didn’t realized it had struck to my wet dress.
Talcum powder stuck to clothes whilst wet looks exactly like there has been a very enthusiastic bukkae (sp?) session all over me and I didn’t realize until somebody actually pointed it out. I looked exactly if Peter North had enjoyed himself immensely all over me.
There. Is that a less miserable kitcat post? Hellaciously disgusting though.
You made me believe
Gave me girlhood again
And giving up the girlish dream
Is like self flagellation
Giving up the girl hurts like hell
Giving up the girl you made from me
Cuts, bleeds, leaves invisible scars that only I can see
Because the woman didn’t turn out to be
As like to the dream you promised me
It hurts to be the woman now
Who was the girl
Who was me
