Let me tell you a story...
Well, let me tell you a story about why I hate Mondays. I was due to start working Monday morning at eight, so I arrive at the bakery at ten till. Then I am promptly told that I'm not allowed to wear heels and that I had to go home (which takes about 30 minutes and a nice bit of gas) and change shoes. Work wasn't too bad. My boss for some reason thinks my name is Chelsea. Well, anyway, I learned how to use the register, despite all odds...these people a) don't know how to spell and b) don't know how to categorize (for instance, they put grande burrito under the sandwich category instead of the taco category in the computer). Anyway, I got off at 2 and had to go to Sandy's Dancewear to attempt to find something to wear to my lesson that night. That was pretty uneventful, until I tried to go home. As soon as I attempt to enter the ramp to get on 635 a large, wood-carrying truck speeds ahead of me and changes lanes to the left. As I get on, I see blocks of wood that are about the same size as bricks fly off the truck. Just as I was congratulating myself on not switching lanes in time to get hit, I heard the ominous thunk. Yeah, what are the odds? I pulled over with the faggo truck on the side of the highway and both us look at my car. Neither of us saw it at the time, but I made him give me his information anyway, just in case. Good thing, too. The piece of wood hit the lower part of the driver's door and dinged the hell out of it. *Sigh* So I go home and my mom tells me not to call the company yet, because she doesn't know if our insurance will cover it. Can you believe it?! TWO accidents in which I had no control over the circumstances! Anyway, I leave to go to class which was due to start at 6:30. Well, my dad told me to leave really early (5:30) because "it would take forever to get there." I arrived at 6. Apparently, the place where it was being held is a private studio in the back of someone's house and I was supposed to just go around back and not knock on the door. Because I am already there, I go to scope it out...but the gate was locked. So I decide to see if I'm supposed to get to it from the alleyway. This was probably the biggest mistake of life. This alleyway had no driveways (except one) and it was about the width of a car and no more. In addition, no one ever tended to it and there was a huge crack with weeds growing three feet tall coming out of it. For some God-forsaken reason, I went down this road, the weeds mashing into the bottom of my car, looking in vain for how to get to the studio. I realized not only that there was no alley entrance, but also that I couldn't continue out of the alley thanks to cratering cement. I was in the middle by now and I tried going out the only way possible...in reverse. How I wish I had a automatic right then. I have to still revv the engine like a fag to back out and I was about three inches from the fence on both sides. Thankfully, I get to the ONLY driveway and pull in to try to turn around. It was then I learned WHY there were no diveways. It was impossible to get in and turn around without smashing into something. I made a three-hundred point turn trying to maneuver the car mere inches at a time. I was taking so long and making so much noise that the owners of the house started peering at me from tehind the screened door. Then a lady that lived there arrived and was trying to drive her suburban in the driveway. She pulled up for me so I could attempt to get out. You see, in addition to having a fence to smash into, there was also a rather large telephone pole to my right, clipping me off. I become so frustrated, I parked the car, walked over to the lady in the suburban, and gave her my keys. Yes, I handed the keys to my 'stang over to a complete stranger. It was horrible, I danced around on the outside of the car putting my hands over the pole so the car would hit my hands before the pole and my body between the hood and the fence. (In retrospect, this was probably not too bright). It took us thirty minutes to get out of the alleyway. Needless to say I was shaken and VERY stressed. So I re-park in front of this house and find that no one is there yet. No one would answer the door and my cell phone was a bleep away from death. So I sat on the stoop of the house and called my dad to see if he would figure out this mess by phone. A little later, he calls me back and tells me that it starts at 7. I went to a gas station for thirty minutes and got an Icee that I didn't get to drink because I had no more time. So I fo to class and everything is wonderful until halfway through...my damn heel breaks. ARGH!! So I had to do all of that stomping BAREFOOTED (and I didn't even just mark it, it was full out). I got home and my mom yells at me for not doing the dishes. So that is why Mondays should just die.
Today was brighter. Work was extremely busy and the damn cash register has the wrong prices for things sometimes that no one bothers to tell me about. My Spanish is really halting when I'm talking to people that speak fluently, so I'm sure I sound like a moron half the time. But practice makes perfect, right? I went back to Sandy's and invested in some new shoes (which are a better fit anyway). I'm slowly but surely tidying up things (yesssss!). I also wasted some time watching Spider Man 2. I LOVE that movie...even more than the first! But that fun was cut short because then I heard the news...
We have a hive of Africanized honey bees living on the side of our house. These (killer) bees are the type that swarm and sting you until you die, going mostly for your eyes and your face. I don't even have to exaggerate. We called a bee-keeper dude and he tells us that their hive has about three thousand bees and he'll charge three hundred dollars to exterminate them for us. To be truthful, I didn't believe it. I thought my family was making a big deal over nothing (like them with my curfew) and this fag just wanted to steal our money. But then I opened the door to go outside to laugh at my family's lameness and instantly five bees whirled into my face. So I shut the door and sat down at my kitchen table. And then I heard it as we attempted to eat dinner...Buzzing. It resonated all the way down the house, thousands of bloodthristy wings beating... AHHH!! It was the creepiest thing you've ever heard. But I'll tell you what was worse. Sometimes, the entire hive would just stop buzzing all at once and there was nothing but silence. Then, just as randomly, they would all start up again. It was like they were plotting how to kill us all. So, three hundred dollars is looking like a paltry sum to pay in exchange for OUR LIVES. So when you come over, DON'T ask me to see our pet killer bees. We're safe inside and in the front yard. If you persist in asking me, I'll push you into the backyard and lock the door. Then we'll have your body as evidence for the next idiot that asks...
I'm gonna go take shelter in my room. Cheers!
Today was brighter. Work was extremely busy and the damn cash register has the wrong prices for things sometimes that no one bothers to tell me about. My Spanish is really halting when I'm talking to people that speak fluently, so I'm sure I sound like a moron half the time. But practice makes perfect, right? I went back to Sandy's and invested in some new shoes (which are a better fit anyway). I'm slowly but surely tidying up things (yesssss!). I also wasted some time watching Spider Man 2. I LOVE that movie...even more than the first! But that fun was cut short because then I heard the news...
We have a hive of Africanized honey bees living on the side of our house. These (killer) bees are the type that swarm and sting you until you die, going mostly for your eyes and your face. I don't even have to exaggerate. We called a bee-keeper dude and he tells us that their hive has about three thousand bees and he'll charge three hundred dollars to exterminate them for us. To be truthful, I didn't believe it. I thought my family was making a big deal over nothing (like them with my curfew) and this fag just wanted to steal our money. But then I opened the door to go outside to laugh at my family's lameness and instantly five bees whirled into my face. So I shut the door and sat down at my kitchen table. And then I heard it as we attempted to eat dinner...Buzzing. It resonated all the way down the house, thousands of bloodthristy wings beating... AHHH!! It was the creepiest thing you've ever heard. But I'll tell you what was worse. Sometimes, the entire hive would just stop buzzing all at once and there was nothing but silence. Then, just as randomly, they would all start up again. It was like they were plotting how to kill us all. So, three hundred dollars is looking like a paltry sum to pay in exchange for OUR LIVES. So when you come over, DON'T ask me to see our pet killer bees. We're safe inside and in the front yard. If you persist in asking me, I'll push you into the backyard and lock the door. Then we'll have your body as evidence for the next idiot that asks...
I'm gonna go take shelter in my room. Cheers!