I am PMS-ing so I have my FuckOff face on. Everything is wrong and everybody is stupid and that’s a fact. My fact. The end.
I have nothing to wear. I feel fat, bloated, ugly. Coffee doesn’t taste right. And there is something wrong with my Weetabix. Fuck life.
My 10 am is a therapy session. I am waiting at the reception for one bloody hour. The receptionist is listening to bloody loud music. Fuck life twice.
After one hour someone bothers to tell me the patient is not coming. Oh, really? You’d think? I can’t even bother to fake a smile. Fuck life thrice.
My face is now upgraded from FuckOff to FuckOffVeryMuch. I enter a charity shop to look at the books. I fancy something with blood. Not menstrual blood though.
A guy approaches me:
“Hi! Could I buy you a beautiful love story?”
“I only like stories in which everybody dies.”
“Because they are like life”.
“How about the happy ever after?”
I don’t reply. I am thinking he is not cute enough to have this conversation. And how cheap can you be to offer to buy books to a lady in a charity shop? Take me to fucking Foyles! Or at least to Waterstones! My boyfriend took me to Foyles once. He is away at a conference now. I wonder if that’s on purpose ’cause I am PMS-ing. He does have access to my CLUE app. Oh my God, he left on purpose! No he didn’t! Yes he did! No he didn’t! Yes, he did! I force myself not to believe everything I think and I get back to the guy:
“Got to go. Bye now!”
“Maybe one day you can write a story and have me in it!” says the pathetically not-cute-enough-to-talk-like-this guy.
“Sure, but I will kill you”.
Lavinia is out. Lavinia needs food.