Deja vu
Today after school I stopped in at a pub, and was forced to make an early retreat once more because yet another balding fuckwit decided that I wanted to listen to his problems. I don't know what the hell is wrong with people: I'm sitting at a table, with a drink, reading and listening to music. It is quite clear that I am happily oblivious to your horrible existence - take note: THIS DOES NOT MEAN YOU GET THE RIGHT TO INFORM ME OF IT. Jesus, out in the open it would count as harrassment, or maybe sales pushing. They don't do it in cafes or restaurants (damn right; anyone who interrupts me when I'm eating loses their face, end of), because it's rude, but suddenly if you get within the confines of a public house, it's alright for people to bother you. There are two theories for this, and both are stupid:
1) "Alcohol makes the person you're about to stalk nicer and more accomodating."
Anyone who thinks this should be laughed at and then shot. People don't get nicer, they get stupider before they get angrier. Any drunk that is nice to you is trying to either get drinks or sex out of you, and that's the end of it, even if they're your closest friends or partners. ESPECIALLY if they're your partners, in my experience. Thieving toads.
Here, I'll prove it: A List Of Angry Drunks
Me
Pirates
Santa
Jack Daniels
Tommy Lee
Half the sporting world
A bunch of depressed people who don't bother going into therapy
They tried to cover it up, but Barney the Dinosaur is a mean drunk too.
Now compare it to A List Of Nice Drunks
Skank whores.
Case closed.
The second theory revolves around the inebriated status of the stalker themselves:
2) "Alcohol makes you talkative, and therefore more desireable to the opposite sex, so drinking away your nerves is a good prelude to approaching the angry goth in the corner."
The solution here is obvious: if you don't know how alcohol works, you don't drink. Simple as. Slurred speech, bleary eyes, reddening features, spittle on your face, beer down your top, the reek of alcohol on your breath and, our old favourite, Brewer's Droop, DOES NOT make you a more likeable member of the human race, however much you want to think it. Trust me. Particularly on the BD.
So I escaped the pub, went home, and found that someone had had the audacity to leave junk mail in my letter box. That's right: Mr Lavers had decided to write home saying I missed a lesson and didn't hand in some work. The sad thing is, considering that the lesson was yesterday and the letter was in the box when I got home today, he must have really rushed to get it in today's post. Wanker. The sensible thing would have been to forge my parents' signatures on a confirmation letter and then do the essay. Instead, I've spent the last three hours writing an angry letter of retaliation, which basically reads:
1) In your letter, you say I must have specifically bunked your lesson, since I was registered in the morning and followed none of the signing-out procedures when I left. Bollocks to that; if you looked, I signed the "OUT" book in my form's pigeon hole. If you look, you'll see it says in slightly wobbly, but nonetheless coherent writing: "Kayleigh, Out, 12:00, ill".
2) In your letter, you say I may have to pay for my own exam admission for English Language, since by not turning up to one of your lessons I am not complying with my side of the contract of education at our college. If you're going to threaten me, please don't do it through my parents. Since it's me that will be paying for the exam if that's the case, and not them, it doesn't concern them. If my parents had any kind of influencial role in whether I do work or not, I would have done it in the first place.
3) In your letter, you say that I have consistently failed to hand in the said essay, even though the class has had an extended deadline of about two months now. As we have said time and time again, the reason it has not been handed in is because you picked a stupid time to ask for it. In November we were all finishing our Language Coursework (NOTE: More important than a pre-release practice that does not count towards our final grade) and beyond that we have been manically revising for exams that we will fail otherwise (NOTE: infinitely more important than a pre-release practice that does not count towards our final grade). Seeing how I don't have an exam in English Langauge until June, the subject is somewhat at the bottom of the priority list.
My outragedometer was already going loco because some bimbo in my class had the downright nerve to tell me that Guinness was disgusting, and that somehow my taste-buds were impaired. When I said that she should try drinking something that wasn't a mix of lemonade and anti-freeze (why is beyond me) and that Guinness was a good source of iron, she came out with "Yeah, but if you drink too much Guinness you get diarreah."
For someone who's apparently only drunk half a mouthful of the stuff in her life, she seemed disgustingly well informed; enough to go into graphic detail at any rate. Why do people think that giving you unpleasant facts will stop you from being a consumer whore? I knew animals died and I still ate meat. I knew people died and I still bought all kinds of unethical products. I knew children had feelings and I still told them they were fat. Why is telling someone who drinks at least five cans of the stuff in one sitting going to stop them from drinking it? If it gave them diarreah, do you think they would drink it? Hell, if I was stupid enough to drink that much if it did, I'd deserve to get diarreah. In fact I'd deserve to get dysentry and shit myself to death. That'd show me for being a knob.
In other words, everyone can take their opinions and shove them in the most uncomfortable orifice available, because I'm in no mood to entertain them today. I haven't slept in days, my head is killing me, my knee is playing up and the universe hates me.
*Sigh*
Those of you that know me will know what this sudden increase in aggression and moodiness means, and those that don't shouldn't be reading this and you're nosy bastards. So just in case my mates are dense, and don't get the signs: the anger, the moodiness, the erratic bursts of energy I've got nothing to do with, oh, did I mention the anger?...
Yes. The Kay is falling in love again.
1) "Alcohol makes the person you're about to stalk nicer and more accomodating."
Anyone who thinks this should be laughed at and then shot. People don't get nicer, they get stupider before they get angrier. Any drunk that is nice to you is trying to either get drinks or sex out of you, and that's the end of it, even if they're your closest friends or partners. ESPECIALLY if they're your partners, in my experience. Thieving toads.
Here, I'll prove it: A List Of Angry Drunks
Me
Pirates
Santa
Jack Daniels
Tommy Lee
Half the sporting world
A bunch of depressed people who don't bother going into therapy
They tried to cover it up, but Barney the Dinosaur is a mean drunk too.
Now compare it to A List Of Nice Drunks
Skank whores.
Case closed.
The second theory revolves around the inebriated status of the stalker themselves:
2) "Alcohol makes you talkative, and therefore more desireable to the opposite sex, so drinking away your nerves is a good prelude to approaching the angry goth in the corner."
The solution here is obvious: if you don't know how alcohol works, you don't drink. Simple as. Slurred speech, bleary eyes, reddening features, spittle on your face, beer down your top, the reek of alcohol on your breath and, our old favourite, Brewer's Droop, DOES NOT make you a more likeable member of the human race, however much you want to think it. Trust me. Particularly on the BD.
So I escaped the pub, went home, and found that someone had had the audacity to leave junk mail in my letter box. That's right: Mr Lavers had decided to write home saying I missed a lesson and didn't hand in some work. The sad thing is, considering that the lesson was yesterday and the letter was in the box when I got home today, he must have really rushed to get it in today's post. Wanker. The sensible thing would have been to forge my parents' signatures on a confirmation letter and then do the essay. Instead, I've spent the last three hours writing an angry letter of retaliation, which basically reads:
1) In your letter, you say I must have specifically bunked your lesson, since I was registered in the morning and followed none of the signing-out procedures when I left. Bollocks to that; if you looked, I signed the "OUT" book in my form's pigeon hole. If you look, you'll see it says in slightly wobbly, but nonetheless coherent writing: "Kayleigh, Out, 12:00, ill".
2) In your letter, you say I may have to pay for my own exam admission for English Language, since by not turning up to one of your lessons I am not complying with my side of the contract of education at our college. If you're going to threaten me, please don't do it through my parents. Since it's me that will be paying for the exam if that's the case, and not them, it doesn't concern them. If my parents had any kind of influencial role in whether I do work or not, I would have done it in the first place.
3) In your letter, you say that I have consistently failed to hand in the said essay, even though the class has had an extended deadline of about two months now. As we have said time and time again, the reason it has not been handed in is because you picked a stupid time to ask for it. In November we were all finishing our Language Coursework (NOTE: More important than a pre-release practice that does not count towards our final grade) and beyond that we have been manically revising for exams that we will fail otherwise (NOTE: infinitely more important than a pre-release practice that does not count towards our final grade). Seeing how I don't have an exam in English Langauge until June, the subject is somewhat at the bottom of the priority list.
My outragedometer was already going loco because some bimbo in my class had the downright nerve to tell me that Guinness was disgusting, and that somehow my taste-buds were impaired. When I said that she should try drinking something that wasn't a mix of lemonade and anti-freeze (why is beyond me) and that Guinness was a good source of iron, she came out with "Yeah, but if you drink too much Guinness you get diarreah."
For someone who's apparently only drunk half a mouthful of the stuff in her life, she seemed disgustingly well informed; enough to go into graphic detail at any rate. Why do people think that giving you unpleasant facts will stop you from being a consumer whore? I knew animals died and I still ate meat. I knew people died and I still bought all kinds of unethical products. I knew children had feelings and I still told them they were fat. Why is telling someone who drinks at least five cans of the stuff in one sitting going to stop them from drinking it? If it gave them diarreah, do you think they would drink it? Hell, if I was stupid enough to drink that much if it did, I'd deserve to get diarreah. In fact I'd deserve to get dysentry and shit myself to death. That'd show me for being a knob.
In other words, everyone can take their opinions and shove them in the most uncomfortable orifice available, because I'm in no mood to entertain them today. I haven't slept in days, my head is killing me, my knee is playing up and the universe hates me.
*Sigh*
Those of you that know me will know what this sudden increase in aggression and moodiness means, and those that don't shouldn't be reading this and you're nosy bastards. So just in case my mates are dense, and don't get the signs: the anger, the moodiness, the erratic bursts of energy I've got nothing to do with, oh, did I mention the anger?...
Yes. The Kay is falling in love again.