I'm bored, depressed and pissed off with my life today. The Unholy Trifecta.
All I need to do is start crying about how I'll never make it as a writer and hell, my day will be complete.
That can only mean one thing: Aunt Flo is on her way. Sigh.
I'm so full of rage that I told some old lady off while I was dumping my recyclables--the spelling on that doesn't look right, but tough shit.
When I arrived at the bins, there was a woman there with wearing denim overalls and a straw farmer's hat.
She was in her 60's if she was a day, and she had PIG TAILS, damn it. PIG TAILS.
You know the kind.
People who look like they've lived in a commune most of their lives, sharing vegetables, grains and sex partners.
That's right, she was a hippie. Worse yet, an old hippie.
I opened my car and proceeded to take out ten bags of empty diet Pepsi bottles that I'd carefully hidden in the trunk from Mr. G.
Grandma Wavy Gravy ambles over and tries to make small talk. I'm not having it. Did I mention Aunt Flo
is on the way and there's no stopping her arrival?! (Or my temper, at this point?)
I had a few newspapers in the trunk, too, so I tossed them into the bin.
Grandma Wavy Gravy says, "You really should bundle your papers before you recycle them."
I dug into the trunk and pulled out a couple copies of Playgirl magazine that I carry around in case I get snowbound
somewhere and need to jill off, let the centerfold drop open in her face and said, "What about PORNO?? Do I need to bundle my PORNO?"
Then I said, "Look, I have to make several trips down here every week to hide my diet Pepsi addiction from my husband.
I don't need some wheat grass drinking, pot smoking HIPPIE to tell me how to recycle! Now, get lost and
gimme my damn porno mag back. That's from my emergency car kit!"