A few days of genitalia and blood
(No one ever said I want to be a stocker when I grow up part IV)
Yesterday and today have led to the greatest epiphany of my life. Well, not the greatest, but… …well it’s actually not that great. I’ve finally come to realize why my life is a stale excuse of existence. The main cause to scapegoat = The Sparkle Market.
Who wants to hear me whine some more?
For those of you who’ve been reading these sorry, pathetic writeups portraying my greatest anguish and demise, you’ll know that last week’s posting was rather disgusting. Well hold on to your hats (if you’re wearing one).
Sunday was a day to remember. It will be forever scorched onto the permanent memory of my mind. 6:00 rolls around, that means it’s break time for me. I grab a delicious can of Beefaroni, a plastic bowl, some damp salt packets and head to the break room. I prepare the delicacy I’ve purchased for myself and then proceed to sit down to enjoy it. As soon as I take three bites, I notice the large, rusted double doors to the break room swing open and a lady strolls in. I get a good look at her but she doesn’t see me. She’s late forties early fifties, her face is worn, tattered and wrinkling from the unforgiving sun. Her hair is nappy, frizzy and unmanaged. Her clothes aren’t the greatest either, a pair of cutoff sweatpants for shorts which are way too small for her and a t-shirt, which is also too small. As she begins to get closer, I notice her hand is peculiarly placed in her groin area. She still doesn’t see me. She gets even nearer and I see she’s touching herself… no, not touching, rubbing, feeling, kneading her vagina. Whoops, she spots me. She stops and stares. I can see her synapses firing trying to figure out what to do. Should she not say anything, should she explain? A smile creeps over her face, she slaps her knee and begins to laugh stating, “Wow, I really need to go the bathroom, where’s it at?” I drop my spoon and point down the cluttered corridor where the ladies room is located. She thanks me and makes her way to the toilet, all the while fondling herself. I calmly placed my napkin in my dish and chucked it into the trash… another two dollars down the drain. Later I see her pay for her groceries and I feel a sense of sympathy for the poor girl who takes her money.
Ironically, Later that evening a fellow coworker informed me that he had a pimple on his penis and it was killing him. He asked me if I could relate. I just stared for a moment and walked away. What do I do to deserve this treatment? Anyone?
Today was just as eventful and disgusting. I was in the middle of cutting open a bag of potatoes with a razorblade when I cut my finger real horror-show with the instrument. I promptly began to bleed and bleed profusely. So I wrap my wound up with paper towels bound with tape and start to go about my work again. Eventually the bleeding stops and I take the paper towels off and replace them with a band-aid. Later in the day the same coworker who told me about his “acne problem” told me he was running short on money. Jokingly I said he should eat the bloody paper towels I had on my laceration for ten dollars. Sure as the mold that grows on our produce, he went and got the paper towels out of the trash and stuffed them in his mouth. After almost vomiting twice, he decided he’d eat half of them for five bucks. He did and I felt so appalled I paid him to make him stop. I told him to take that five bucks buy a bottle of aspirin and take the whole thing.
Honestly, if anyone doesn’t believe me that these things happen, I have plenty of witnesses and would gladly give you the address of the store so you could stop in some time.
Just because it's disgusting doesn't mean it's not adequate writing...