Today is a non-day. A non-day is the type of day that you utterly waste, but you don't enjoy doing so, which makes it truly wasted. Too dumb to read, too comfy to get dressed, too lazy to wash, too numbed to do anything. Blah blah blah. Shit, this is boring. At least it's something. I'll write something better sometime soon. Pinky promise.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
It sure has been a very long time since I wrote anything on this. This can be attributed to the following things: being happy, being busy and being inarticulate. Whilst the latter still remains a significant hurdle, the former two obstacles have diminished significantly, so I'll give it a go.
Saturday, 5 June 2010
I felt very inspired earlier, but then something odd happened. It was either the heat, or the lack of dinner, or the very peculiar sexy undertone to the day's events, or something, but I just lost it. I had a horrid gruelling shift spent vastly looking at my feet, or the ceiling, or through people. Then there was a kids party at the end and I just wanted to take every child and methodically insert party food into their eyes. Except one, she was very cute. I actually forgot what it was I so desperately wanted to write about until I had some dinner. It's put me back on the straight and narrow.
This past week I have noticed a very large surge in ugly, retarded looking Brownies. On at least three separate occasions on three separate days, some halfwit, toothless, redneck, backwards runts in signature yellow jumpers and brown neck ties have come into the shop. Each and every time their ugliness astounded me. They all looked completely batty, too. Now, I once attended Brownies (shut up) and I also had a very ugly phase, which, come to think of it, happened simultaneously. I ask you this: is it the uniform that makes you severely ugly and retarded, or do they only accept deformed and cracked young girls into Brownies? It's just like that chicken/egg conundrum, but far more relevant to today's society.
On my lunch break I went to Specsavers to pick up my glasses. Despite being a pathetic prescription and only necessary to stop me getting headaches when I read or spend long periods of time stalking people on Facebook, I am very excited about having glasses. Anyway. I was walking up to the Kingsway from Oxford street and saw those bloody street ranger twerps chasing some shoplifter or other up the street. As if it wasn't enough of a treat to see those dingbats putting some effort into their job for once, a very fat security guard came bumbling up slowly behind, completely out of breath and actually pushed a small girl to the floor out of his way. It was just like the movies! Oh, how I did laugh. That little girl didn't though.
A very nice vegan woman came in and I spent a lot of time advising her on the best place to get sweets and chocolate from. I spent a long time telling her the wonders of Organica white chocolate before remembering I actually had a bar in my bag, so I brought it out for her to have a nibble. We bonded very well. It was so refreshing to meet someone who is vegan but is terrified of all the other vegans because they are loopy and pale. It reminded me of this time I mentioned I was vegan and some completely batshit crazy, fuck ugly goth with green hair was like "Me too! We're like soulmates!" Aiiiieeeeeeee!
Now that I have glasses, I can read for hours. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to have a reading party. Yeah!
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Yes. YES! I have something to say. A few things. I don't know how to tie them all nicely together so what I will do is just list them and perhaps separate them with a good space. I could even number them. Yes, I will number them. No one will get confused that way.
1. My favourite loopy customer came in today! Right towards the end of my shift, when I thought all hope was lost and I was doomed to yet another measly four hour shift putting in minimum effort for my minimum wage and acting all nice but secretly hating everyone and everything, but mostly everyone. I said hello when he stumbled in, but he did not hear me. Or maybe he did, but he didn't care. I left him to it for a minute or two before I clocked his crutches, bound in that fantastic tell-tale candy stripe tape, and realised just who had awkwardly shuffled into my life. I persevered with conversation, but he really wasn't very interested in what I had to say. I don't blame him, I am very rarely interested in what comes out of my mouth, only what goes in (I do mean food, you know). Like a paedophile working in a sweet shop, he blurted out "Which one is the lemon one?" so I showed him what I sold him last time. He was right in my personal space before I knew anything and I definitely nearly fell over. This story's getting boring. Anyway, I weighed some soap, he bought it and I did a massive smile. Yes!
2. I always see people selling the Big Issue in town. Well, I guess a lot of people see them, I'm not special. They always seem to change, though, as if selling the Big Issue is a one day fast track to being a hotshot success and probably owning a magazine, or even a newspaper. There are only a few that I recognise as being long term Big Issue sellers: 1. Girl with ponytail who is always up really early in the morning. 2. Her boyfriend who has dark hair and looks a little angry (come on now, you would be too) and 3. Placid man who looks like he has taken lots of valium before going to work and currently has a broken arm. I wonder why they have been selling it for so long when there seems to be quite a fast turnover of vendors. I have come up with some (numbered) solutions. 1. They are really bad at selling the Big Issue, probably because it sucks. 2. They are really good at selling the Big Issue and they are on a special wage to shift those magazines because everyone knows that it sucks and it will never get sold otherwise. 3. They LOVE selling the Big Issue, even though it sucks. Who cares, the point is: don't buy the Big Issue because it sucks. It's the biggest pile of gobshite I've ever fucking read and I'd rather buy a homeless person dinner than have to torture myself reading the shit they're peddling. If homeless people were allowed to sell Heat or Hello magazine then society would be a much better place.
3. Earlier on I saw a woman with THE fattest ass in the whole world. She was kinda tubby overall but her butt hung off her back like a truck off a cliff. It was its own entity. I just don't understand how someone can get so big exclusively in one place. Maybe she wanted to be more ghetto or she wanted to keep her legs trim, but either way she must've wished all those calories onto her colossal backside and figured she'd deal with it later. Now she's dragging it around like a mortgage and all that extra movement's making her chin swing like a clock pendulum. Somebody get this woman a wheelbarrow! Christ, I am horrid.
4. A big camp man came in. Upon arrival, he immediately announced "Hello! I would like a present for my mother's birthday. She's got hair like a troll. It's disgusting." Well, what do you say to that? What a guy.
5. I went for a lovely walk to the bank and to get milk for the shop, during which I caught a woman from Holland and Barratts smoking! That deceitful old bint. I should've known all this herbal remedy shit was a hoax. I wouldn't be surprised if that other horrible bastard who works there is on heroin. He might as well be, he never gives you the right change. The whole world is on a shitslide to doom. DOOM.
6. On writing the mild introduction to this load of trollope, I learnt that I have been spelling 'separate' wrong all my life. So much for my A in English. So much for going to Uni this September. Why has no one told me this before?
Thursday, 29 April 2010
It's my day off and my assistant manager is calling me. No doubt someone has called in sick, or gone home, or straight up just not showed up. I'm in my pyjamas and listening to Death Cab For Cutie, feeling sorry for myself and looking like shit. It would be so easy to ignore that call and pretend I am asleep, then wait a few hours until they couldn't physically need me any more and call back and apologise, maybe have a nice little chat. But I'm not that kind of person, so I pick up.
Hi, how are you, I'm alright, what's up, cut to the chase. I think of how much I need the money and how I can't turn down a shift vs. how shitty I look and feel and how I've got three shifts tomorrow and could really do with the day off. I think of all the excuses I've ever used and try and think of something new. I hold my breath.
"There's a food tasting in Cross Keys." She knows me too well. The place or the pub? The pub. Will it matter if I'm vegan? I don't know. You get paid for it though. Get to the chopper!
I take a shower and get dressed and you know what? I don't look like shit at all. I set off, still listening to relatively depressing music. I put on Lagwagon instead. They're fun.
When I get there, I sit down with a lovely lady and give her my details. She asks what type of milk I'd prefer and I say soya. Not a problem. But alas! the cereal I am required to taste is a new type of Special K, and that shit has milk in it. I tell her I am lactose intolerant and slowly admit that I am in fact vegan, and she doesn't give a shit. She actually says "Does it look like I give a shit?" as she goes on and breaks all the rules. She says not to make it obvious whilst she eats the cereal for me. She hasn't had breakfast and she is grateful.
So there I sit at a table opposite a delightfully funny woman, filling in a questionnaire based on her answers. "Oh, it's very hard! But crunchy, too. It's not very nice. Yes, it's far too sweet for me. Look, it's gone kind of soggy. Put that down." We go through four different cereals which are slightly different from each other and she concludes that the last one is the best by far. She tells me to circle "exactly right" on all the questions regarding hardness, crunchiness, strawberry taste, cereal taste, aftertaste. There are some really bizarre questions where I have a set of four words and I have to circle the words I am both most and least likely to use to describe the cereal. Sounds pretty straightforward, but not when the words include 'powerful', 'youthful', 'embarrassing' and 'pretentious'. Kelloggs are fucking weirdos. The lady and I laugh at the questions and she admits that they are truly ridiculous. Then we talk about tattoos and she shows me the one on her foot. It was the last thing I expected her to come out with and when she told me about the tattoo she had going from the bottom of her back to her neck I was astounded. She was such a smart and respectable, friendly lady. Wow.
When I finish the questionnaire, I hand it in and get paid a tenner which I use it to buy breakfast I actually want to eat. Fuck you, Kelloggs!
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Teeth knackered. Parts of body don't work. Job prosperity zero. Marriage on the rocks. Can't go to 5 Bells in the night. Social life zero. Money coming in £113 per month. Smoking 40 fags a day. Been in some jams in my life but this is the worst. Car only worth £300. I have managed to lose all my self respect and I suppose deservedly so. Made family's life hell with my selfish and really childish behaviour. I hate myself for what I'm doing to everybody. I don't know the future but it's looking very bleak. The nights are the worst. Long and watching TV. When I awake in the morning the feeling of emptiness is overbearing. I finally realised my head has gone. Had to have lager, reminiscing, can't go forward. Still stuck in the past. Destroying family. I hate myself. Saw J. Morris. Couldn't face him. Went different way.
My life is finished.
Last night I dreamt my dad was alive.
I wonder how long I will leave this entry on here. I can feel myself whining before I start. I haven't seen any batshit crazy people, except for that one woman running outside of Costa. Shit, I can't even explain it. It was like love.
I've been writing my dreams down. I have noticed a few things, mostly that it really annoys me when my handwriting looks like shit, which it does when I first wake up. I don't believe that you can analyse your dreams to a large extent, or that dreaming of pooping brings you money (even if it's true for my mam) but there must be correlation between what you consciously think and feel and what your silly head comes up with when you're snoozing. Recently I have been dreaming of looking after a young girl. This girl is either my own baby (who in the vast majority of these dreams rejects me entirely as a mother) or my cousin, Allisia. She's sixteen (or seventeen, shit!) but I haven't seen her so much in recent years, and so I always think of her as eight or something. I don't have any children, I promise, and it's a fucking miracle if I'm pregnant. I don't even want kids. Well, I don't want to have to think about it right now. But then there was always that feeling that I'd have a kid in my early twenties. I don't like getting feelings about things, because I am always right. Gross.
I want to finish my zine, but I think I am too dumb. There is a show at the Punkalow tonight.
Monday, 19 April 2010
I should probably do this more regularly, turns out some people like reading this crap. My stomach is currently a battleground between my menstrual cycle and the latte I had earlier. I want to go to bed.
Today in work a lady with the fattest bottom in the whole world came in. She said she was looking for a face mask and I sold her a cleanser too. I don't know why I'm not the manager. Anyway, during the consultation (which was full of shithot essential oil knowledge), that bloody fat dyke kept staring at my tits. What a pervert! In hindsight I should've got an expensive moisturiser and placed it firmly infront of my breasts to see if she took the bait. But whatever, I'm no sales whore.
I've actually been meaning to write about some fruity people I've seen around recently. I'll try and recall...
Easter weekend I went to the crematorium to see my dad. I nearly bloody slipped there was so much shitting mud everywhere, what a fucking disgrace. It's a place for mourners and sorrow, not comedy slips. Saying that, mam and I had a hearty chuckle over it all. I was arranging some lovely roses when I noticed a boy, I'd say he was about fifteen maybe, walking around talking to himself. He was definitely cracked as hell but it was hard to work out just who he was talking to since, being a generic teenage boy, he was mumbling a lot. I like to think that he was talking to all the people whose powdered remains were buried there. Like the Sixth Sense, or something. Because real life is mostly like the movies, right?
On a shitty ten minute lunch break not so long ago I was walking to Holland and Barrett's, the place of vegan dreams, to get a pasty. Yum. I heard a guy doing the most insanely terrifying death metal whispers. He sounded like the fucking devil! It was way cool. I didn't cop a good look, but I did notice he was walking with someone who was on the phone and seemingly oblivious to his mental friend. I swear to god, he sounded like Michael Akerfeldt in a library.
A very cute little girl came into the shop last week. She wasn't mental, just really sweet. She saw a robot ballistic that prompted her to swing her arms about and shout "exterminate!". Seeing a three year old girl in massive pink sunglasses jump around chirping "esstermunate!" is about as scary as, well, it's not very scary at all. When I tuttied down to ask her if she'd like a little label on her bag, she almost gave me a cuddle. As she was leaving, she stopped at the feet of a tall lady, a complete stranger, and looked up to say "BYE!" and then skipped off. What a cutie.
I'm boring. Come to the Bridge & Tunnel / Young Livers show on Wednesday. It'll be fun. Go on.