The Angry Girl

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Something about supermarket line-ups always makes me homicidal. I don’t understand why people always expose their worst sides in the queue. In front of me today was a prissy little blond thing, buying two gallons worth of kitty litter, 1 bottle of wine, and three cans of carrots and peas. She made such a big deal out of delicately fishing around in her wallet and carefully turning up her nose. I can imagine the same nose hovering delicately close over her cat’s dried poo. She then took another ten minutes just to place her wallet back into her bag, and then bag her measly groceries. I wanted to punch her in the face just to wipe that “girlfriend only shits gold turds” look off her face.

Then, afterwards, some stupid old frenchman, who I actually had to push out of the way because he was blocking the whole wine aisle, threw a hissy fit because the wine was 1.80Eu, and it had been marked as 1.79Eu on the flyer. Afterwards, he started screaming that the checkout girl was spanish and that he didn’t speak spanish. The checkout girl was most definitely french and this guy was clean off his rocker.

But I can get angry about almost anything, given the right time of the month and the correct state of hunger. I was insanely furious this week over the ever-presence of breadcrumbs on our table, getting knocked down by two fat slow-moving pedestrians, finding out that the Parisian Prefecture site is deliberately created to be un-navigable, somebody not returning my Paris map, having some technologically-backwards people freak out on me after I did them a favour and schlepped a ghetto blaster half-way across Paris, being told to pick up the ghetto blaster when said person has a car (and did I mention I did them a favour!!!)…

But actually, am just frustrated and sad and not being able to do the things I want to do… like sleeping with every available cute straight boy and slapping that prissy girl in the face. God, how can anybody pretend to be superior when they’re buying grey dust for cat shit?

On a final note… last night I was wearing a spandex one piece with a cute little givenchy-esque dress over. As I was undressing for bed, the husband took a moment to tell me that tonight, he was sleeping with both pillows, both his and mine. He looked up at me with sleepy arrogant eyes. I slowly pulled my hairtie off my pony tail, peeled my dress off and said, “You’ve made a big mistake. Nobody messes with the Space Champion!” at which point I hurled my unitarded body onto his and throttled him for the better part of 3 seconds… but what the fuck is a Space Champion anyways? That, my friend, is what we might call a silent brain fart.