Why can’t I say no to people? It’s a simple enough word. It’s a single syllable. I’m an intelligent woman. I’d like to think I could manage it. But obviously I can’t because my quite frankly insane co worker, Dawn, has persuaded me to go to the council masquerading as her to get some school transfer forms for her children. This is not going to end well. And the dog pissed in my bed last night. Glorious.
I had some more customer stories to blog today but I’ve mostly forgotten them seeing as my co worker Dawn came in on her day off, has hung about with me all afternoon, and is currently snorting cocaine behind the desk. Work is never boring these days.
you appear to be seated behind a playskool toy counter.
I came in this morning and found that whoever was on shift last night had given it a really bad paint job because they were bored. We know the meaning of the word ‘Professionalism’ here, but we think it’s shit.
I think his name is Pete. He’s stocky, bald, wears a lot of black. Did you guess correctly? No, he’s not an ugly vampire, he’s a bouncer. Possibly-Pete works at Aruba and some other place I can’t remember the name of. He works for Npower as well. He doesn’t talk to his family because they’re a pack of bastards. He moved out when he was 16, he’s now 36. He’s got an 18 year old son who is going to Teesside University this year. His family reckon he’s a cunt. He’s obviously NOT though ‘cause if he was a cunt ”A’d be sat in the pub right now with me mates, but am not, coz I dun’t even ‘ave any ‘cept a few close ones but a’ve bin bringin’ up me kid and working ‘nd savin’ ‘aven’t a?” He tried to talk to them a few years ago but they didn’t want to know because he was on bail at the time but it wasn’t his fault and that’s what they don’t seem to understand. The lads were asking for it. They were going to his gym and hanging around near his house and all the other places he goes. He also knows all the gypsies. ALL THE GYPSIES. All of them. That’s what he said. He’s a good boy really and he’s coming in for another chat with me tomorrow.
Hey bitches. I’m at work but life is good anyway. I’ve finally got all those silly rampant emotions squared away in my head and it’s fine. The most valuable words I have in my vocabulary at the moment are ‘Fuck it’. Because fuck it.
This is what I’ve got done today:
Started to sort out where I’m crashing when I see Amanda Palmer in London in October.
Priced up transport/accommodation for the Star Trek convention.
Found a hotel for my trip to Amsterdam.
Stole/persuaded someone to grudgingly give me a laptop.
Watched Sean Penn be sexy in This Must Be The Place.
Read a book.
Put on deodorant.
That’s LOADS of stuff so basically I win. Except I’ve got a massive spot on my arse which is confusing and upsetting to my mental well being. Is this a sign that my bastard bad skin is making the slow journey from my face to my feet soon to dissipate through my toes into the earth? Or am I inexorably becoming an elephant man style freak of nature? They’ll call me spotty the spot lady. I’ll have dimples and pimples and pimples on my dimples and nothing will be simple. Seriously, there’s people who have had their homes destroyed by hurricanes that would look at this spot on my bottom and say ”Oh honey, I’m so sorry, that’s just terrible.”
On occasion people have been known to somehow mistake the shop in which I work for a psychiatrists office. I’m no Frasier Crane so if you have any advice to offer up to these poor unfortunate souls (those last three words sung in the tune of the eponymous Little Mermaid song) then let me know and I’ll let them know the next time they’re in. Todays case is a man who moved here a year ago from Windermere in order to be with his pregnant girlfriend. When the baby came he sunk all his money into his new little family and spent the first 12 months caring for the child 24/7. He has now been tossed out into the street by his girlfriend and is sleeping on his mates couch. He’s convinced that she had this planned from the beginning and has apparently seen the texts which prove it. At this point he stares off into the middle distance with genuine sadness in his eyes and said “It’s fucking crap here, isn’t it?” I’m inclined to agree. He describes the crack heads wandering around Stockton at 10am drinking lager, and the way that no one ever seems to smile, just stare grimly with dead eyes from behind their personal clouds of cigarette smoke. It’s ok though, he’s going to York on a work night out soon. He’ll enjoy himself then.
Today I stumbled into work 45 minutes late wearing my pyjama top & leggings. I brought more appropriate work wear to change into but managed to leave it on the train. At least I won’t look to incongruous when I fall asleep at my desk. Right?
“The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.”—Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story by Chuck Klosterman
Maybe I came in to work a little late yesterday. Maybe I was meant to be opening up at 7am and maybe when I got here it was closer to 8am. Maybe I don’t care because getting up at 5:30am so I can get a shitty train in the rain to purvey cancer to idiots is not my idea of fun.
I’m on my own here as well, so no one should ever have known. Except that some absolutely mental ass hat was stood waiting patiently to go on the sunbeds when I got here. Who wants a tan at that time in the morning? Who wants a tan ever? Who is in any sort of stable frame of mind at that hour? As far as I’m concerned, before 9am, all people should be capable of is grunting noises and messily ladling cereal into their yawning maws. It came as a huge shock to me that not only was someone alive, coherent and fully dressed at the time, but also had already done a full work out. All I can manage in the morning is putting my socks on, and that’s it, and that’s only maybe. I’ve certainly never managed a bra before about 10 o clock, because that shit is fiddly.
Anyway, the point is, this ass bag guy called my boss to ask when we’d be open. I didn’t know this at the time, otherwise I’d have locked him in the sunbed until he barbecued then I’d have eaten him to dispose of the body. And provide a filling lunch. But I didn’t know so I was relatively polite to him and went about my day.
Until 2pm when my boss dropped by to give me a dressing down. Now listen up spaff faces, because this is where I got clever. My boss asked what time I got in that morning. I looked him straight in the eyes, right in his beady little vision balls, and said ”Just after seven.” He told me that someone had called him at half past, complaining that the shop wasn’t open. I replied coldly, ”I was here.” He insisted that I couldn’t have been. I insisted that I was. I insisted loudly yet completely dead pan that I had been here. I swore on my mother, my father, every deity existent on this planer, any future children I might bear AND my pokemon card collection. I swore I was here. He backed down after that. I know he didn’t believe me, but there was nothing he could do when up against such absolute conviction. Also that was around the time that I pulled a gun on him.
Just kidding about the gun. But seriously, I decided to employ the same tactic that morons wield during arguments, which is just to say what you think louder and louder, with no foundation and scant regard for the logical points and evidence that the opponent is presenting. I don’t think it’s a tactic in their case though. They’re just morons.
Hello, I have been neglecting this poor old blog for a while so here is what’s been happening in my life.
I went on a date. With a man. A live one. Go me.
I slapped said date in the face with ham.
I got a massive leccy bill which my whole weeks wages had to go on. I now begrudge having baths and turning on lights. Actually, lets be fair, I never bathed regularly anyway.
Poppy showed me Museum Gardens, which I never knew was there before. Here is a picture of me enjoying it super lots.
Watched the first episode of Game of Thrones on Thursday because I’d never seen it before and thought it might be worth a shot. I’ve now watched every episode (BLACKWATER, FUCK. THAT WAS SO GOOD THAT I SICKED ALL OVER MYSELF IN FEVERED EXCITEMENT) and I’m halfway through the first book and yes, I’m definitely about to order Game of Thrones coasters.
I spilled green tea all over my crotch on the bus and it was full of hurts and not the good kind of hurts. Luckily I wear black all the time so it didn’t look like I’d wet myself.
Good morning snoocie boochies. My back door finally got fixed! My house now has a choice of two exit portals. Count ‘em, two. SERIOUSLY. COUNT THEM. THERE ARE TWO. I’M SO EXCITED I COULD SHIT. Now I won’t have to walk all the way around to take the rubbish out. Do you know how many precious seconds of my life that will free up to be used for A)Sleeping, B) Drinking or C)Sleep drinking? Me either but I’m betting at least 98.
“What’s the worst thing you can call a woman? Don’t hold back, now. You’re probably thinking of words like slut, whore, bitch, cunt (I told you not to hold back!), skank. Okay, now, what are the worst things you can call a guy? Fag, girl, bitch, pussy. I’ve even heard the term ‘mangina.’ Notice anything? The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl. The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl. Being a woman is the ultimate insult. Now tell me that’s not royally fucked up.”—
Poppy and I have decided that we’re going to be titty models. We love our boobs, they’re wonderful, and we think everyone else would enjoy them too. To keep them all to ourselves would be mean spirited and selfish. Plus we spend half the time with our knockers out anyway, I’ve lost count of the…
OFFER YOUR GUEST TEA AS SOON AS THEY ARRIVE - GIVE THEM THE LARGER MUG, BECAUSE THEN THEY CAN HAVE MORE TEA IN IT, AND MORE TEA IS BETTER - OFFER THEM MORE TEA AS SOON AS THEY HAVE FINISHED THEIR MUG OF TEA, BECAUSE MORE TEA IS…
The only situation in which tea is not appropriate is I’M JUST KIDDING. TEA SOLVES EVERYTHING.
“There are times, however, and this is one of them, when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It’s a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.”—Hunter S. Thompson
The married landlord of my local tried it on with me. I mean REALLY tried it on with me. I mean forcibly held me still while getting his cock out tried it on. I mean I had to kick him and kick him HARD and leg it home. So…I suppose going for a drink is going to be a bit awkward from now on.