next time, have a lie in. on the universe

Mark my words: I'll forever remember that 25 May 2010 was an exceedingly shyte day.

Next year, I'll take leave and stay in bed. Good GOD.

The conclusive evidence to a day that involved an uphill battle of cascading shit, is half a bottle of Diemersfontein Pinotage.

And an empty wine glass as seen this morning, on my coffee table, next to a wod of pitiful-looking tissues.

It all just went increasingly badly from the moment I stepped outside in a bubble dress and leggings.

The lady at reception lost my couriered license disc between there and my office, (50 metres), a license disc already 5 months overdue, mind you, and that cost a packet as a result. Then eyeballed me to the fiery blazes of Hell because I complained about it.

Then a whole bunch of work and project politics emulsified yesterday to the point where I wanted to bash my head repeatedly on a wall, while pawing at my face, and screaming, 'Screw you all, I'm going to Barbados! Barbados! Barbados!' over and over again, even if I'm not going to Barbados.

Tensions heightening over my immigration, as an agent at Stuttaford Van Lines entered my home and assessed the shit I need to ship over.

She measured every picture, every chair. And as my lounge echoed to the sound of her stiletto's, (I have one couch and a coffee table left), felt very sad that this little Comfort Zone I'd built up over the years, was being dismantled.
Material possessions come and go, but I had taken quite some pride setting up my flat two years ago. And the parquet is looking very nice now that I've scrubbed it to buggery.

Then I found out the budget I'd been given for an company charity project was in fact half of what it initially was. Naturally, because I'm the epitome of organisation and time-management, I've already gone and bought all the provisions for our drive into deepest, darkest Shackville, Soweto on Friday.

Then, I had to fork out almost R7000 to pay off the rest of my car. This final installment was more than what I envisioned too. And frankly what the fuck. If I ever buy a car again, it'll be cash. Christ.

After numerous calls to Wesbank because they couldn't 'find' my transfer because they gave me the wrong bloody reference code. For FUCK'S sake, how hard can it be?

Then I lost my memory stick in my camera, that had a whole bunch of awesome memories loaded onto it.

Then amongst all this general anxiety, and probably as a result of, shouted at my Brit.

So I sat at home, wrote a story, while cradling a glass of the nectar that is born from Dionysus' tit, (Wellington pinotage 2009), and had an anxiety attack with a few tears on a 30 second phonecall to my mother who was currently just waking up in New Zealand.

(She's attending my Kiwi cousin's wedding, in case you're interested.)

They say immigrating is stressful, and I'm beginning to realise why.