Some call this PMS, I call it self-assertion.
When people break off plans last minute, or give me a piece of their mind when I’m only trying to be nice, I usually back off and try to remedy it in the most diplomatic and understanding manner possible. Exceptions, of course, include volatile screaming directed at me or being deliberately rude. Then I’ll just scream right back. Louder. Generally, though, I like to keep things smooth-rolling.
Until I’m pre-menstrual. Some women weep hysterically for four days, others wrap their pie-holes around anything that says Cadbury’s or Beacon on the wrapper.
Me? Fuck around with previously-planned arrangements, criticise me unnecessarily, ask me to change my views or self, or generally try to take advantage of my good nature during these four days, and you’ll bear a wrath most unpleasant.
You have been warned.
Left work yesterday ready to tear my hair out. There are few things in life more frustrating than slow Internet. These are:
1) No Internet at all
2) Stupid asshole drivers
Let’s talk about no.2 for two and half seconds. Driving around
His hands start waving.
This story now directly ties into my Don’t Piss Me Off For Four Days rhetoric I was explaining above.
He overtakes me at like 1 000 km/h to stop directly in front of me. Ten metres before a traffic light.
Of all the fudging nerve.
I pulled a zap sign at him.
He, obviously in disbelief, turns around and pulls one back, shouting.
I raised the middle finger on my other hand as well. Also start shouting, with particular emphasis on mouthing the word “Assssssshhoooole.”
He lost it.
He, turning red, started gesticulating wildly, doing ‘I am a fucking loco man’ signals, and fully began climbing over his seat to scream at me through his back window.
I leaned forward, probably bearing my teeth, and made more zap signs, this time with Itye-style vigour.
His car door started opening…and thank God, thank God, the lights changed, so he thought better of it and roared off.
Chop. Joburg drivers. Fuck ‘em.
Then amongst the mayhem of this stupid, irritating Gautrain Taking Over Rosebank, I couldn’t find a parking. Bolted into the Johnnic underground staff parking, relaying some lie to the security guard about having an interview with a sports journalist (Me? Lank.) And limped to The Firs. Shin splints I have had for years, since trying my hand at running at school rapidly kicked in, so I stood like a cripple – immovable – outside the bloody taxi rank. Limping helplessly into the arms of a British tourist who sat chatting to me about fucking Surrey until I could walk to my car.
If I ever see that Polo Playa guy again, I will kill him.