I
I wish I could be one of those people who just let it go.
I wish the driver of the penis-enhancing 4WD that tried to kill us getting away with his behaviour didn’t make my blood boil.
I wish watching people who weren’t even working here six month ago walking off to do the course I was promised more than a year ago didn’t make me want to cry.
I wish that in the face of ongoing injustice I could be as cold as ice.But I can’t. I’m not like that.I wake at 1am and can’t sleep until dawn because it’s injustice that makes me want to give up on the world.
Not only the injustices visited upon me but those that are visted upon my family and friends and even the strangers in the street, I carry those injustices with me too.
I know these are little thing. I know that they’re inconsequential.But all of the little things build up to one big, unbearable existence.
I wish I knew how to forget about it all and I wish that I could take things as they come.
I want to believe everything happens for a reason. I want to believe that there is balance to this world. I want to believe that I can accept the universe’s decisions and that when one door closes another opens.
But when I see fools, cheats and losers getting ahead and I’m falling further behind I lose heart.
Why bother?
Why not cheat and lie and steal?
God knows it’s those people who appear to be wining.I want to believe that that’s all it is – appearance – and that their victories are hollow victories.
But I know that a win is a win any way you can get it.
So I’m tired. I want to quit right now and curl up in bed.
It’s disheartening, sometimes, that this is the world I’m bringing Nugget into.
Frightening to think that this is what my child has to look forward to.
But then I think I’ll teach Nugget to be a fighter too. I’ll teach Nugget to stand up and fight for justice.
I wish I could do that and that it would change the world.
And then I think – I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Having your heat broken each and every day is a horrible way to live.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
ACCIDENT
It happened in slow motion.
Tom pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and a black 4wd, which had decided at the last minute to undercut a truck, shot past with plenty of room to spare.
Tom pulled back onto the highway and began to merge as our lane dictated. The black 4wd swerved back across the line into the merge lane and locked up its breaks.
We hit the breaks. Slid. And the front of Tom’s car crumbled.
Tom screamed abuse but then regained his composure before stepping from the car to confront the driver.
“What?” Tom demanded from the other driver who’d also jumped from his car.
“That’s what you get for cutting off a car doing 80.” The red-haired prick responded.
And so the dialogue continued and I can only remember it in bits and pieces.
The prick told Tom he’d had a bad day. Tom topped his bad day with a detailed description of his. I said I’d call the police. Prick then disappeared. But we’d already exchanged details. We know where he lives. We know what he looks like.
The police were no help. Tom was coming from behind so he’s at fault. The fact the Prick declared he did it on purpose makes no difference. The fact we have witnesses makes no difference. The facts play little part in an incident like this.
What followed is also a blur. Hospital. Worried looking doctors. Uncomfortable beds. Invasive procedures. I’m fine. Nugget’s fine.
Apparently shock is a big deal when you’re pregnant.
My heart rate doubled. My blood pressure jumped dangerously. I spent four hours attached to a drip while Tom waited in the emergency lounge for his turn to come – a sprained wrist.
Doctors took blood tests, urine tests, ultrasounds and internal examinations to assess whether Nugget was stressed or to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid. I had my blood pressure checked every half hour.
At 1am I was ready to go home but instead they wheeled me up to the maternity ward and stowed me in a room full of women destined for inductions the following morning. It took a further hour before I fell into a restless sleep – half afraid that they’d induce me by accident in the morning.
After an intensely boring period of waiting the doctors sent me home at 3.30pm the following day with a clean bill of health. I feel physically fine. I just don’t know that I’ve dealt with it all yet. I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve forgotten something or that it’s not really over.
What’s more disturbing is that I’m not seeking justice. Normally I’d be boiling about this but I’m not. I don’t care. I hope the Prick dies in a fiery wreck but I'm not motivated to do anything to help that along.
In fact it’s worse than that – I don’t care about anything.
Other than Nugget, Tom and myself.
What we could have lost weighs me down. I spend my days waiting to go home and make sure Tom is there. I sit, silently, waiting for Nugget to kick.
Tom promises me that he’s not going anywhere and that Nugget is going to be fine but it’s not up to him, is it?
His words offer little comfort as I obsess over the fact I could lose them at any time and there is nothing anyone could do about that.
Until that fear subsides I don’t think anything I does matters to me.
It happened in slow motion.
Tom pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and a black 4wd, which had decided at the last minute to undercut a truck, shot past with plenty of room to spare.
Tom pulled back onto the highway and began to merge as our lane dictated. The black 4wd swerved back across the line into the merge lane and locked up its breaks.
We hit the breaks. Slid. And the front of Tom’s car crumbled.
Tom screamed abuse but then regained his composure before stepping from the car to confront the driver.
“What?” Tom demanded from the other driver who’d also jumped from his car.
“That’s what you get for cutting off a car doing 80.” The red-haired prick responded.
And so the dialogue continued and I can only remember it in bits and pieces.
The prick told Tom he’d had a bad day. Tom topped his bad day with a detailed description of his. I said I’d call the police. Prick then disappeared. But we’d already exchanged details. We know where he lives. We know what he looks like.
The police were no help. Tom was coming from behind so he’s at fault. The fact the Prick declared he did it on purpose makes no difference. The fact we have witnesses makes no difference. The facts play little part in an incident like this.
What followed is also a blur. Hospital. Worried looking doctors. Uncomfortable beds. Invasive procedures. I’m fine. Nugget’s fine.
Apparently shock is a big deal when you’re pregnant.
My heart rate doubled. My blood pressure jumped dangerously. I spent four hours attached to a drip while Tom waited in the emergency lounge for his turn to come – a sprained wrist.
Doctors took blood tests, urine tests, ultrasounds and internal examinations to assess whether Nugget was stressed or to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid. I had my blood pressure checked every half hour.
At 1am I was ready to go home but instead they wheeled me up to the maternity ward and stowed me in a room full of women destined for inductions the following morning. It took a further hour before I fell into a restless sleep – half afraid that they’d induce me by accident in the morning.
After an intensely boring period of waiting the doctors sent me home at 3.30pm the following day with a clean bill of health. I feel physically fine. I just don’t know that I’ve dealt with it all yet. I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve forgotten something or that it’s not really over.
What’s more disturbing is that I’m not seeking justice. Normally I’d be boiling about this but I’m not. I don’t care. I hope the Prick dies in a fiery wreck but I'm not motivated to do anything to help that along.
In fact it’s worse than that – I don’t care about anything.
Other than Nugget, Tom and myself.
What we could have lost weighs me down. I spend my days waiting to go home and make sure Tom is there. I sit, silently, waiting for Nugget to kick.
Tom promises me that he’s not going anywhere and that Nugget is going to be fine but it’s not up to him, is it?
His words offer little comfort as I obsess over the fact I could lose them at any time and there is nothing anyone could do about that.
Until that fear subsides I don’t think anything I does matters to me.
Monday, September 18, 2006
THE BEAST
The bitch is back.
After a peaceful and ignorance filled couple of years the bitch that is my mother (on Ativan and armed with clinical depression) is back. So far she’s two for two visits.
Her behaviour trashed what were otherwise a perfect birthday (Tom's sterling efforts to make it special making her carry-on all the worse) and the exciting setting up of the nursery.
I had planned on going into details but the conversations are usually too absurd for me to want to re-live. She says something. I respond. She starts crying because clearly any response I make is an attack on her and couldn’t possibly be a joke or the honest sharing of my opinion.
We are not allowed to have opinions or disagree with her when she’s like this. In her eyes we should smile and nod and accept all the rubbish that flies from her mouth. Even then we’d be being condescending and that would simply make us a further target for abuse.
It’s exhausting and with all that’s on my plate it’s the last thing I need.
Of the appalling situation I now find that the one time in my life that I’ve truly needed my mother she’s simply not there for me. She’s there for herself.
In the past her behaviour has stressed and upset me but this time it’s something more devastating. It’s total abandonment and I promise myself that I will never do this to my child.
Every day I am grateful that I have acknowledge and confronted my beast and that while it still exists I can distinguish between mine and it's actions enough to keep it in check. Having this knowledge is power and means that should the beast take control I have techniques to put it back in it's place.
Mum has never accepted depression’s part in her behaviour. She has never been willing to admit that people disown because of what she's said and done. In fact, nothing she ever does is wrong. It’s always someone else’s fault. In her eyes she’s so incredibly hardly done by.
In my life I haven’t had a Christmas, birthday or major event in my life that wasn’t ruined by her carry on. Looking back I can see all that my brother and I did to try and help only to be told we were failures time and time again.
The crying for no reason. The constant abuse and reinterpretation of events to make her look like the innocent victim. The sulking in a corner like a 3-year-old. The surprises she ruined because she didn’t want to get our hopes up about the crappy presents she’d bought.
Like I said. I could quote a hundred stories but I am just too tired.
I know it’s not all her fault. I know the beast that’s crawling through her veins. But it’s her fault that she won’t see the beast. It’s her fault she won’t do anything to combat it.
It’s her fault that she would rather make us miserable than deal with her problems.
The family has pleaded. The family has explained. The family has withdrawn. And still she refuses to see her beast for what it is.
What makes the situation worse for me is that for some God forsaken reason my father uses me as a sounding board. I’ve endured hour-long conversations about her behaviour and been asked a million times what I think he should do.
But I can’t be there for him anymore either. I can’t go back to the way things were just because other people refuse to change.
I’ve changed. I’m not their counsellor anymore. I refuse to be. I sacrificed my childhood to the beast and I won’t go back there.
I’m tired. Really tired. I don’t need this crap right now.
From what my dreams tell me I’m washing my hands of her. I have to. Maybe being completely cut off will encourage her to get the help she needs.
But more than likely she’ll just see it as proof that she’s right and everyone else is wrong.
The beast has it's way with us all and you can either choose to stand up and fight or become it's bitch.
The bitch is back.
After a peaceful and ignorance filled couple of years the bitch that is my mother (on Ativan and armed with clinical depression) is back. So far she’s two for two visits.
Her behaviour trashed what were otherwise a perfect birthday (Tom's sterling efforts to make it special making her carry-on all the worse) and the exciting setting up of the nursery.
I had planned on going into details but the conversations are usually too absurd for me to want to re-live. She says something. I respond. She starts crying because clearly any response I make is an attack on her and couldn’t possibly be a joke or the honest sharing of my opinion.
We are not allowed to have opinions or disagree with her when she’s like this. In her eyes we should smile and nod and accept all the rubbish that flies from her mouth. Even then we’d be being condescending and that would simply make us a further target for abuse.
It’s exhausting and with all that’s on my plate it’s the last thing I need.
Of the appalling situation I now find that the one time in my life that I’ve truly needed my mother she’s simply not there for me. She’s there for herself.
In the past her behaviour has stressed and upset me but this time it’s something more devastating. It’s total abandonment and I promise myself that I will never do this to my child.
Every day I am grateful that I have acknowledge and confronted my beast and that while it still exists I can distinguish between mine and it's actions enough to keep it in check. Having this knowledge is power and means that should the beast take control I have techniques to put it back in it's place.
Mum has never accepted depression’s part in her behaviour. She has never been willing to admit that people disown because of what she's said and done. In fact, nothing she ever does is wrong. It’s always someone else’s fault. In her eyes she’s so incredibly hardly done by.
In my life I haven’t had a Christmas, birthday or major event in my life that wasn’t ruined by her carry on. Looking back I can see all that my brother and I did to try and help only to be told we were failures time and time again.
The crying for no reason. The constant abuse and reinterpretation of events to make her look like the innocent victim. The sulking in a corner like a 3-year-old. The surprises she ruined because she didn’t want to get our hopes up about the crappy presents she’d bought.
Like I said. I could quote a hundred stories but I am just too tired.
I know it’s not all her fault. I know the beast that’s crawling through her veins. But it’s her fault that she won’t see the beast. It’s her fault she won’t do anything to combat it.
It’s her fault that she would rather make us miserable than deal with her problems.
The family has pleaded. The family has explained. The family has withdrawn. And still she refuses to see her beast for what it is.
What makes the situation worse for me is that for some God forsaken reason my father uses me as a sounding board. I’ve endured hour-long conversations about her behaviour and been asked a million times what I think he should do.
But I can’t be there for him anymore either. I can’t go back to the way things were just because other people refuse to change.
I’ve changed. I’m not their counsellor anymore. I refuse to be. I sacrificed my childhood to the beast and I won’t go back there.
I’m tired. Really tired. I don’t need this crap right now.
From what my dreams tell me I’m washing my hands of her. I have to. Maybe being completely cut off will encourage her to get the help she needs.
But more than likely she’ll just see it as proof that she’s right and everyone else is wrong.
The beast has it's way with us all and you can either choose to stand up and fight or become it's bitch.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
NESTING
I don’t want to go outside or leave the house. I don’t want to socialise. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to make idle chatter with family members. I don’t want to hear about my friends/families woes.
I don’t want to be at work. I don’t want to have lunch with colleagues. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to deal with screaming children in lifts. I don’t want to overhear dull, predictable conversations on the train.
I don’t want to walk through the rain to my car at the car park.
I don’t want to hear about what’s happening in the world. I don’t want to be miserable over killings in some far off country. I don’t want to be warmed by charming stories about puppies.
I just want to curl up in bed, preferably with Tom by my side, and let the days slip away.
Is this being pregnant?
Finally things are starting to move. Reaching the halfway mark took so long I thought it wouldn't end. Now I'm finding the second half is moving much quicker.
I'm running out of time.
I have to make sure the house is ready to receive Nugget and to do that I need at least 12 more hours in the day. Of those 12 hours I need to sleep about 6.
It's an odd combination. I'm equally motivated to make major changes and too exhausted to execute my plans.
At night, before going to bed, I find myself walking the halls and mentally listing all that has to be done.
We have to move the drawers from Miss 10's room into Nuggets and the drawers in Nugget's room into Miss 10's. We have to paint the kitchen. We have to renovate the main bathroom and remove the mouldy old walls replacing them with new plasterboard (I am not taking my child into that bathroom!). We need to sand down and stain the nursery chair. We need to wash down the walls in our bedroom. We need to steam clean the carpet. We need to install a door on the ensuite. We need to build a massive shelving system in the loungeroom.
By the time I've finished the list I'm too exhausted to do even the smallest thing on it.
"It'll get done. Maybe not before Nugget's born but it'll get done," Tom assures me.
I don't tell him but that's not good enough. I want the house to be perfect. I want the house to be perfect now.
So I spend my weekends puttering around the halls and doing the little that I can to bring my vision that bit closer to reality.
I've concentrated my efforts on Nugget's room. For now I'm making myself settle for perfection in that one small space.
But I just can't stop myself walking the floors, writing my to do list and worrying myself to the point of exhaustion.
I don’t want to go outside or leave the house. I don’t want to socialise. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to make idle chatter with family members. I don’t want to hear about my friends/families woes.
I don’t want to be at work. I don’t want to have lunch with colleagues. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to deal with screaming children in lifts. I don’t want to overhear dull, predictable conversations on the train.
I don’t want to walk through the rain to my car at the car park.
I don’t want to hear about what’s happening in the world. I don’t want to be miserable over killings in some far off country. I don’t want to be warmed by charming stories about puppies.
I just want to curl up in bed, preferably with Tom by my side, and let the days slip away.
Is this being pregnant?
Finally things are starting to move. Reaching the halfway mark took so long I thought it wouldn't end. Now I'm finding the second half is moving much quicker.
I'm running out of time.
I have to make sure the house is ready to receive Nugget and to do that I need at least 12 more hours in the day. Of those 12 hours I need to sleep about 6.
It's an odd combination. I'm equally motivated to make major changes and too exhausted to execute my plans.
At night, before going to bed, I find myself walking the halls and mentally listing all that has to be done.
We have to move the drawers from Miss 10's room into Nuggets and the drawers in Nugget's room into Miss 10's. We have to paint the kitchen. We have to renovate the main bathroom and remove the mouldy old walls replacing them with new plasterboard (I am not taking my child into that bathroom!). We need to sand down and stain the nursery chair. We need to wash down the walls in our bedroom. We need to steam clean the carpet. We need to install a door on the ensuite. We need to build a massive shelving system in the loungeroom.
By the time I've finished the list I'm too exhausted to do even the smallest thing on it.
"It'll get done. Maybe not before Nugget's born but it'll get done," Tom assures me.
I don't tell him but that's not good enough. I want the house to be perfect. I want the house to be perfect now.
So I spend my weekends puttering around the halls and doing the little that I can to bring my vision that bit closer to reality.
I've concentrated my efforts on Nugget's room. For now I'm making myself settle for perfection in that one small space.
But I just can't stop myself walking the floors, writing my to do list and worrying myself to the point of exhaustion.
Monday, September 11, 2006
IT’S TIME
You are going to die today. Nothing you say or do will change that. How do you want to spend your final moments?
With the death of Steve Irwin, Peter Brock and the five-year anniversary of September 11 it’s a question that’s been on my mind quite a bit.
In 2001 after the initial tragedy it made me change my life forever because, while I didn’t want to die, it is inevitable. The only control we have is not when or how we go but in what surroundings.
I’m not talking – On the couch, facing north, watching Days of Our Lives – specifics. I sure as hell didn't want to die being miserable journalist trapped in a thankless and pointless job, living in a tiny unit and having seen nothing of the world. I didn't want to die having done nothing.
I want to live.
But making a change, making the decision on how we want our life to be, has to be tended to every day.
So we choose a job we love rather than sticking it our at a place we hate – ask yourself, if you were going to have a heart attack would I die happy at this desk?
We choose relationships that are fulfilling – ask yourself, if I died today would everything be said that has to be said?
We choose adventures to make life worthwhile – ask yourself, if I died today have I done all or at least most of what I’d planned to do?
No one is prepared to die. No one wants it or even contemplates it nearly enough. But I remember the gut-wrenching feeling from September 11 didn’t come from all the senseless deaths. I recall the daze of walking around muttering to myself like a mad woman “they just went to work.”
I imagined they hated their jobs and their lives as much as I did and now they weren’t ever going to get the chance to right that wrong. I thought about the waste – not the waste of life but the wasted opportunity if I were to let that realisation pass me by.
From that moment on I vowed I would make a life for myself in which I would be happy to say I have lived. And for the most part, I have.
I waivered. I wasn't perfect. Despite my best instincts I almost returned to my life before. But I am lucky and fate has interviened to steer me straight again. I am thankful every day for that intervention.
Now I will be late to work in favour of hanging with friends or family. I have travelled and seen the world’s greatest beauties. I have a job, while frustrating, that fills that hole without causing any disruption to my life as a whole. I have a husband I love completely and from whom nothing is held back. I have a child on the way who I have wanted all of my life.
Still, there are times I feel as though I have a long way to go before it’s complete. There are rough edges to my life that need to be smoothed away before I am content. Being on this path makes certain I will achieve that goal.
Steve Irwin’s death, while sad, is reassuring. It proves all of the above is achievable. He died doing what he loved. He died with a life complete – a wife and children who he loved completely, charities designed to protect the animals he loved, adventures that will make him legendary.
Peter Brock appears to have a similar sense of completion to it. He was doing what he loved and has died with everything in order.
With Irwin and Brock I wonder how much is appearance and how much is fact. If I choose to accept it as fact then their deaths are less tragic and more inspiring. They are tales of lives completed.
Yes they died too soon – we all do – but in their time they have lived.
It really is something to aspire to.
You are going to die today. Nothing you say or do will change that. How do you want to spend your final moments?
With the death of Steve Irwin, Peter Brock and the five-year anniversary of September 11 it’s a question that’s been on my mind quite a bit.
In 2001 after the initial tragedy it made me change my life forever because, while I didn’t want to die, it is inevitable. The only control we have is not when or how we go but in what surroundings.
I’m not talking – On the couch, facing north, watching Days of Our Lives – specifics. I sure as hell didn't want to die being miserable journalist trapped in a thankless and pointless job, living in a tiny unit and having seen nothing of the world. I didn't want to die having done nothing.
I want to live.
But making a change, making the decision on how we want our life to be, has to be tended to every day.
So we choose a job we love rather than sticking it our at a place we hate – ask yourself, if you were going to have a heart attack would I die happy at this desk?
We choose relationships that are fulfilling – ask yourself, if I died today would everything be said that has to be said?
We choose adventures to make life worthwhile – ask yourself, if I died today have I done all or at least most of what I’d planned to do?
No one is prepared to die. No one wants it or even contemplates it nearly enough. But I remember the gut-wrenching feeling from September 11 didn’t come from all the senseless deaths. I recall the daze of walking around muttering to myself like a mad woman “they just went to work.”
I imagined they hated their jobs and their lives as much as I did and now they weren’t ever going to get the chance to right that wrong. I thought about the waste – not the waste of life but the wasted opportunity if I were to let that realisation pass me by.
From that moment on I vowed I would make a life for myself in which I would be happy to say I have lived. And for the most part, I have.
I waivered. I wasn't perfect. Despite my best instincts I almost returned to my life before. But I am lucky and fate has interviened to steer me straight again. I am thankful every day for that intervention.
Now I will be late to work in favour of hanging with friends or family. I have travelled and seen the world’s greatest beauties. I have a job, while frustrating, that fills that hole without causing any disruption to my life as a whole. I have a husband I love completely and from whom nothing is held back. I have a child on the way who I have wanted all of my life.
Still, there are times I feel as though I have a long way to go before it’s complete. There are rough edges to my life that need to be smoothed away before I am content. Being on this path makes certain I will achieve that goal.
Steve Irwin’s death, while sad, is reassuring. It proves all of the above is achievable. He died doing what he loved. He died with a life complete – a wife and children who he loved completely, charities designed to protect the animals he loved, adventures that will make him legendary.
Peter Brock appears to have a similar sense of completion to it. He was doing what he loved and has died with everything in order.
With Irwin and Brock I wonder how much is appearance and how much is fact. If I choose to accept it as fact then their deaths are less tragic and more inspiring. They are tales of lives completed.
Yes they died too soon – we all do – but in their time they have lived.
It really is something to aspire to.
Friday, September 08, 2006
CALL ME
This is what I’m thinking when you call me…..
“I don’t care about how much you earned.”
“Shut up woman. Shut up. I don’t care who you have to call and I sure as hell don’t care that you’re stunned your employer has ripped you off. I hear it every day and your piddly missing money doesn’t concern me one bit.”
"Woman, if you want me to answer your question you are going to have to let me say more than two words without interuption. Come on. Can you not hear that I'm still talking? Forget it - go about your ignorant ways and I hope it costs you a fortune."
“Damn. Are you senile? I’ve told you twice and now you’re repeating it back to me and you’ve still got it fucking wrong. And you’re an employer. You are walking proof that this world is run by idiots.”
“I gave you two options. I said there are only two options. Now you ask if me if there’s a third one. Yes, you moron, it’s a secret third option kept only for special people like you. The third options is fucking off. There, was that what you were after?”
“Do you not understand no I will not give you any more money? Perhaps if you tell me your pathetic story one more time I’ll change my mind. Really, your husband left you for another man? You’re car’s been impounded because you own $50,000 in speeding fines? You’re having a life-saving lobotomy? No. No. No. Oddly enough our pathetic plight doesn’t change the law. Sure. Scream at me. Your screams will rocket me to the head of this company and I’ll suddenly have the power to change laws that were put into place a decade ago. Now that you’ve vented your spleen… No. Sure. I’ll get my supervisor. She says no in much more creative ways than I can.”
“I’m not repeating myself again. You are a loser and I have no desire to help you.”
“When I ask your name I just want to know what to call you. If you insist on spelling every single letter in such a long, exaggerated fashion, I will call you dick head. I honestly don’t care that you pronounce Cunt as if it were Kent. I would simply like to get on with my life.”
“Really, I didn’t know that you were calling on your mobile. No. I won’t call you back. This is a local call. If you’re too stupid to take yourself to a landline and would actually choose to spend $1 a minute for the next 20 minutes on your mobile rather than forking out the 40c then that is your stupid fault. And by the time I’ve finished padding out the basic speech about how we can’t make outbound calls I comfort myself that your stupidity has been punished to the value of $3.50.”
“You called me. That tells me that you knew why and who you were calling. Well, you’d think it did. To fumble through your wallet searching for your account details after 5 minutes on hold demeans us both and I find it increasingly hard not to ask you to call back when you’re better prepared. Ah, found it. Why did you call? Can’t remember. I’m hanging up. I have better things to do with my time.”
….. it’s been a tough, idiot filled week.
This is what I’m thinking when you call me…..
“I don’t care about how much you earned.”
“Shut up woman. Shut up. I don’t care who you have to call and I sure as hell don’t care that you’re stunned your employer has ripped you off. I hear it every day and your piddly missing money doesn’t concern me one bit.”
"Woman, if you want me to answer your question you are going to have to let me say more than two words without interuption. Come on. Can you not hear that I'm still talking? Forget it - go about your ignorant ways and I hope it costs you a fortune."
“Damn. Are you senile? I’ve told you twice and now you’re repeating it back to me and you’ve still got it fucking wrong. And you’re an employer. You are walking proof that this world is run by idiots.”
“I gave you two options. I said there are only two options. Now you ask if me if there’s a third one. Yes, you moron, it’s a secret third option kept only for special people like you. The third options is fucking off. There, was that what you were after?”
“Do you not understand no I will not give you any more money? Perhaps if you tell me your pathetic story one more time I’ll change my mind. Really, your husband left you for another man? You’re car’s been impounded because you own $50,000 in speeding fines? You’re having a life-saving lobotomy? No. No. No. Oddly enough our pathetic plight doesn’t change the law. Sure. Scream at me. Your screams will rocket me to the head of this company and I’ll suddenly have the power to change laws that were put into place a decade ago. Now that you’ve vented your spleen… No. Sure. I’ll get my supervisor. She says no in much more creative ways than I can.”
“I’m not repeating myself again. You are a loser and I have no desire to help you.”
“When I ask your name I just want to know what to call you. If you insist on spelling every single letter in such a long, exaggerated fashion, I will call you dick head. I honestly don’t care that you pronounce Cunt as if it were Kent. I would simply like to get on with my life.”
“Really, I didn’t know that you were calling on your mobile. No. I won’t call you back. This is a local call. If you’re too stupid to take yourself to a landline and would actually choose to spend $1 a minute for the next 20 minutes on your mobile rather than forking out the 40c then that is your stupid fault. And by the time I’ve finished padding out the basic speech about how we can’t make outbound calls I comfort myself that your stupidity has been punished to the value of $3.50.”
“You called me. That tells me that you knew why and who you were calling. Well, you’d think it did. To fumble through your wallet searching for your account details after 5 minutes on hold demeans us both and I find it increasingly hard not to ask you to call back when you’re better prepared. Ah, found it. Why did you call? Can’t remember. I’m hanging up. I have better things to do with my time.”
….. it’s been a tough, idiot filled week.
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