i typed furiously and i may have fucked up. i dont care.
theres no easy way to start any type of writing.
[topic bingo and whatnot]
whatever. i got this call today. yes i get many calls, and yes i feel the absurd urge to talk about them. fuck you if you dont want to hear about my boring telephone work. anyway. shes rifling through her purse, this 80 year old woman, cursing like a sailor trying to find her "cunt" of a credit card. i sat there, drawing, waiting for her to finally come back on and say "ok honey, you there, heres the fucking card number" as i finished up her reservation she went into this story of her younger years, and the casinos and the pot and the men. she told me that men are basically "retarded dicks" and never find a "nigga that holds you down for money". she then went into full detail her exploits and runs against the young men of her time. how she would sashay and dupe, get the money and run without so much as a fuck to sate the desires the boys thought they were paying for. i just listened, my labor efficiency forgotten my troubles forgotten. miss wanda franklin had my full attention. she told me that life is too short to do anything but fuck live or die. she told me not to be without money. "go out and get yourself that goddamn money" she told me to be happy. and to excuse her language. her mother didnt bring up no fool and she didnt teach her any manners either. and as i told that beautiful southern accent goodbye i almost felt a sense of loss. in the whole thirty minute of the call, i was so in it. so lost in the imagery. and wishing to be one hell of an old broad like that. good stuff. day to day is nothing if you have the tiny strands of malevolent stranger memory sessions in between.
have you ever notice that hot dogs can be peeled? just sayin.
[sweet transition stephanie]
we had a client in today at work. i was made an example of. i walk in and sit down, only to be immediatly asked "for a moment of my time, please log into 1764". word of cigarette talks outside and my poor sense of female dress code were brought up. i stared at the woman wearing the lime fucking green skirt suit walking by and in my head i was puking all over it, while at the same time trying to stabilize my dizzy eyes. [that part was embellished to create interest in the subject matter] i almost laughed, but seeing how i need this money i just looked shameful instead. told them i was sorry and yes im sure it is offensive to wear a guiness shirt to work when people wear whatver the fuck they want to all the fucking time around here. and yes i should respect myself more than to wear an alchohol shirt. ok sign this? ok im out. fuck fuck fuck FUCK. i was pissed. but thats ok. im no snitch. [thats not how i roll, mutha] i can deal with the oocasional corporate ball licking. neah.
other than the weird mixed emotions im getting from the newest additions to the ball o' life that is me. im pretty on top of it. friday is payday. steph day. money box is my god day. sushi day. coffee day. and many people will be in my house [hopefully] for me to charm and walk amongst. maybe a little buffy too.
what else could a girl ask for but some crucial answers to questions that are better unasked?