I was at work the other day and, being a particularly Dickensian shade of autumn, I kept having to deal with pigeons walking into the store while I had to, like, herd them out without looking like a total idiot in front of customers. Eventually, one of them came really far in, and I looked over at a lady who was looking at it, and then she looked at me and I awkwardly laughed, trying to be like ‘Birds, am I right?’, but she looked confused and said ‘What?’, because it turned out she wasn’t looking at the pigeon, but rather just something in it’s direction, so I said ‘Oh, uh… pigeon.’ and looked around to point out the pigeon that had, with perfect comedic timing, decided to sneak off at the height of my social anxiety, leaving an empty gap in the doorway for me to be staring at as this lady looked on in sheer bafflement.
So, thanks for that, you pigeon asshole.
‘For Halloween?’ you ask. Nope, just because I got bored of having boring brown eyes and decided to get me some weird blue contacts. I was hoping they would look natural, and not ‘I’m either a vampire or a guy with stupid contact lenses in’, but oh well. It’s creepy as shit putting stuff in your eye though, right? I’ve never had contact lenses. Took me about ten tries per eye to get them in, and about it-doesn’t-matter-how-many-tries-because-I-gave-up-and-got-my-girlfriend-to-do-it-for-me tries to get them back out.
Oh, and for the record: these contacts are the one (two, technically) and only component to my ‘Halloween costume’, because I’ll be staying home anyway, stubbornly refusing, as always, to take part in any of society’s tedious tranditions.
So I was at work yesterday when a young kid came in with his father. He was probably about eight years old, I guess (I’m pretty terrible at estimating kids’ ages), and was dressed from head to toe in a full body Spider-Man suit.
Anyway, father and son began wandering the store; the dad was busy looking for presents or whatever, and the kid was becoming increasingly bored and impatient. After a few minutes, he walked over to where I was, tidying. He smiled at me as I turned around, and said ‘You do a good job keeping the shelves in this shop nice and tidy!’ to which I smiled, panicked slightly because I suck at talking to kids, and said ‘And you do a good job of keeping the streets of New York safe, Spider-Man.’
With wide eyes, the little boy stared at me before he cried, with shrill excitement across the store, ‘Dad! I made a friend!’
So yeah, that was cool.
Me: Yes, mother?
Mum: I didn’t text you, so what does ‘yes, mother’ mean? Mind you, it’s always nice to hear from you.
Me: I had a missed call from you earlier. Was that not you? My phone says it was you, and my phone never lies, mother.
Mum: I didn’t call, and I certainly didn’t call early in the morning. I must have sat on my phone or something.
Me: Have you been murdered? Am I now speaking to the person who killed you after you tried calling me for help? Admit it. You have to tell me if that’s true. Come on, man; don’t be a dick.
Mum: I can’t be a dick, I’m a girl; and also, I’m fairly sure that I’m alive. Maybe it was a call from a parallel world.
Me: But why would they have called me? On purpose, you think; or maybe it was solar interference scrambling the satellite signals. Maybe you were calling me from the future. You can’t disprove that.
Mum: Okay, whatever. I’m busy internet shopping. Don’t make me think, it’s scary.
Me: Yeah, the thought of you thinking does chill me to the bone. Tell your knock-off handbags I said hi.
Mum: Handbags are cheaper than psychiatrists.
Me: In your case, however, they clearly aren’t as effective.
Mum: That’s only because I haven’t found the right one.
Manager (female): I’ve put the new girl on the bar with you tonight, so no distracting her.
Me: What do you mean ‘distracting’?
Manager: You just… have a way of distracting the female staff.
Me: Do I?
Manager: You do.
Manager: You just… do. So don’t.
Me: Well, how can I not do it, if you don’t tell me what I’m doing?
Manager: Just… don’t distract the girls tonight. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.
Me: Won’t that be distracting?
Manager: … … … Shut up.
Co-worker: I think I’ll just stick a glass of wine for myself on table 34′s tab.
Me: Well, that’s not very nice.
Co-worker: It’s fine, they’ll never know.
Me: And an old man with severe Alzheimer’s wouldn’t know who his grandkids were; but that doesn’t mean I should murder them.
I was moving around some boxes in the shop storeroom out back when I heard a faint ‘hello’. I came round to the front of the store and saw, already leaving, a uniformed police officer. This is what he said:
‘Hello! Sorry, don’t mind me, I’m just saying “hello”. I’m Yurgen. It’s what I do. Hello! And now goodbye.’
… and off he went.
I either really want, or really don’t want, his job.
I’m super sick, you guys. All flu-ey and shit. Anyway, I emerged from my bed/hovel to get some food, knowing that I’m not well enough to leave the house to buy any (even though I still have to go to work in a couple of hours), and managed to find three eggs. That’s all. Literally, there was nothing else edible for me to have, but three wonderful, beatiful, precious eggs.
You see where this is going already, don’t you? Only in a world as twisted as ours would such delights be offered up before being torn away.
So, *crack* goes the first egg into the mug, and this is going to be such a great omelette; and *crack* goes the second egg, and maybe life isn’t so bad, right? I looked at the third egg. Now, these are duck eggs, which are usually enormous. We have them because Becky’s mum has ducks and chickens. I looked at my so-far omelette. ‘That’s a lot of egg,’ I remarked, or would have if anyone had been around to hear me. ‘Will I need another one in there?’ my hypothetical musings continued. I weighed the egg in my hand; lighter than the rest, and slightly smaller too. ‘Was there something wrong with it?’ I pondered; again, not out loud, because I’m not crazy, you guys.
‘Oh, what the hell.’
With a final *crack*, my greediness was punished, and down into my delicious egg-mixing mug tumbled a rancid, liquidy, barely-developed duck-ish thing. The fluid went on my hand, and on the counter and in the mug and I swear to you now, by the tiny amount of smelling ability I had left in my blocked up nose, I could tell that were my senses at full capacity when that odour hit me, I’d probably have thrown up.
So there we go. Felix got greedy, and now he has no omelette; or any other food, for that matter.
I defy you, stars.