Friday, 18 September 2009

I havent updated about my life failures for a long time, as I have simply been far too busy to be dealing with such petty matters as blogging now that I’m employed. Oh yes, for the past 3 weeks I have been ‘working’. A previous blog taught me the lesson that avoiding mentioning company names is a really good idea cause lets face it, if they find this, I’m fucked. So lets say I work in a shop called Cat Case wot sells mostly ugly, overpriced clothing to middle aged rich couples who like walking dogs on the beach. Its supposedly aimed towards people who like extreme sports – I reckon taking the stabilisers off their bikes and shopping in Sainsburys instead of Marks & Spencer is as extreme as our average customer gets. Aaaanyway, its retail, but it pays really well, its easy, the other staff are nice and most of all, I’m bloody good at it.



I’ve had tonnes of wastemen asking why I’m wasting my time in retail when I’ve got a degree. Well, lets see, while youre sitting at your desk pushing paper from 9-5 Monday to Friday and having work commitments outside of normal working hours, I’m helping attractive men into their jeans, working whatever hours I fancy and not even bothering to think about work once I walk out of the shop. Oh, and I’m probably getting paid more than you too, sorry bruv. I actually enjoy working in retail, probably because I’m fucking mental – you have to be to deal with the general public on a daily basis.



Unfortunately, my Cat Case dream has been short lived. Some bint with a horrible name who has worked there for years got ‘sick’ and had to have some time off. Some time turned into THREE FUCKING MONTHS, so the manager put me on a temporary 24 hour contract but said once we found out that sick wanker wasn’t coming back for sure, I could have her 30 hour contract. So I’m blissfully (may be a slight overstatement) working my 42 hour weeks, earning skrilla and spending it mentally on fine cognac and hoes, when sick bitch decides she aint fuckin sick no more and wants to come steal her job back. What a fucking whore. So, all my hours have been cut and its highly unlikely that I’ll get anything more than 12 hours a week once my temp contract runs out. MOTHERFUUUUUUUUUUCK. So its back to the job hunt for me. Im going to run into a burning building.




Being a working woman has had one main benefit – Bus Boy. Bus Boy is a dream and I’m totally, 100%, definitely not even joking or over exaggerating my mild feelings towards him IN LOVE WITH HIM. Bus Boy is a boy, who gets the same bus as me, which you’ll have worked out already unless youre a fucking donut with no mates. I mostly see him when I get the 6.05pm 3A or the 5.06pm 4A, I get on at city hall and he gets on at the stop outside office. He gets off at either the stop before me or the stop after me, depending on what bus we’re on, so he definitely lives well close to me. Yeah, this all sounds like I’m a stalker, and what? Incase you didn’t notice, I’m IN LOVE WITH HIM so its ok to stalk. From his bus mounting location and blue shirt/black trouser combo, I have used my mad skillz to deduce that he works in either Currys or Jessops. Ahem.



There is one problem with Bus Boy. One big elephant on the bus of a problem. We have had one previous drunken encounter that either he doesn’t remember at all, or he just hasn’t noticed me on the bus. About 8 weeks ago, I went to Laverys (stinkin bar in Belfast, usually populated by tramps & winos, but filled with the cool kids on weekends) with some mates. Bus Boy was there, we had a romantic night of making ‘yo, youre a visual fucking delight, do you wanna go eat some chicken and touch eachother up sometime?’ eyes at eachother. This went on for a few long hours, before I accidentally bumped into him (after my drunk friend gave me a highly uncalled for shove in his direction). As I was so blinded by his beauty, I had no intention of actually talking to him, so I was unprepared. As he looked at me and waited for me to say something witty and cool, I came out with the best chat up line of all time…


“you……you look like a horrible rapist?”


Yes, I called the love of my life ‘a horrible rapist’ on our first encounter. His reply was “eh, a horrible rapist? That’s even worse than just a normal rapist” so y’know, he took it well. Instead of me using this as my in, I totally lost my cool and mumbled something about needing a wee before running to the bogs to drown in my own pool of shame and self-loathing. Its okay, when we’re married with 3 kids we can all sit on our big bed with loads of fluffy pillows and talk about what a fool mummy made of herself when she first met daddy, while we all wear matching monogrammed bathrobes.



Bus Boy always gets on the bus, stands at the front and constantly looks at his phone or ipod. I like to think that this is just his lovely little way and hes watching episodes of one tree hill on his ipod because we really are a match made in heaven, but in reality he’s probably seen me and just likes to keep his head down incase I tell everyone on the bus that hes sexually assaulted me in the alleyway behind Laverys.

Whatever, Im totally going to Lavs every Saturday from now on, I will find him and I will be more prepared, I’ll show him what a fucking catch I am and he’ll fall in love with me, then I’ll find another love and break his heart. Natch.



In other news, Amy has finally moved in with me. Well, she isn’t really moved in properly, cause shes just sleeping in the spare room surrounded by boxes of her own shit. My brother decided to go back to college for a year, so I’m letting him stay here til the end of the month so he can get settled back into studying, then hes out as fuck and Amys taking his huge room. When she was moving her stuff in, she paused to show me the contents of one of her boxes – her Michael Jackson Box. Amy LOVES Michael Jackson. She cried for a week when he croaked it, went to lay flowers in London and carried her own telly into work so she could watch the memorial. The MJ box is the freakiest thing I have ever seen. It contains about 500 news clippings, every cassette/cd/video/dvd ever released, posters, pictures and stickers. My favourite items from the box are the Michael Jackson memorial plate and ceramic thimble. What the fuck son.



Living with Amy has so far been good. Here are a selection of our text snippets from the last week to sum this up…..


“think im wearing your knickers. sorry”
“just don’t period in them or anything”



“did I ever tell you about the time I shit myself in work? dark days mate”



“you should know, i heard Jordan & Natalie at it last night and it sounds a lot like your brother yelps when he spaffs”



“can you bring me home a burrito please? shredded beef, guac & sour cream but no fuckin cheese fanx babez”
“might be getting bucked after work but if not, ill bring your burrito home and hope you at least poke my tit in return”



“welllllll sittin right behind bus boy, think he had a haircut over the weekend, looks fuckin sexy as fuck”
“you cut his hair, didn’t you? youre wearing his hair braided into your own, aren’t you? you make me sick”



“i definitely don’t fancy him but I still want to”
“you don’t, he has a ginger mullet”
“and public lice. yeah, youre right. be home in 5”



“if an old man tries to tip me £2 in work for helping with his button fly in the changing room cause he ‘has arthritis’, is that a bit like prostitution? cause like, i took the £2”




Fuck. My. Life.

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