22 May 2012
It was one of those days. First the carpool delay, then the broken down bus, and the total lack of connecting trains. That was when the first "Fuck!" would have had slipped through a lesser woman’s mouth. These painted lips would not have that, not for such a small thing. The lipgloss wasn’t her color by the way, she had picked it up from a street vendor at the station since the burned breakfast ruined her morning rituals.
The barista hadn’t hit on her which dampend the mood a bit since he usually did, but what really ruined the day was the fire drill gone wrong a the office. Sprinklers going off on her floor only, transforming her paperwork to an icky mass and making her mascara run, which it usually didn’t.
She got off work seven minutes after five which meant that she missed the train by 73 seconds. Some large fellow stepped on her foot, a kid dropped his ice cream on her skirt, and the travel pass was demagnified so she had to pay a small fortune for her ticket, along with a nasty fine, all while feeling suffocated by the body odor from the snoring old man beside her.
Getting off the bus, she was stabbed and robbed of her mobile phone.
Bleeding and nauseous she crossed the street, only to be nicked by a speeding Porsche driven by an obnoxious looking fellow directly imported from the yuppie 80’s.
Crawling, she got to and up on a bench by the street where she got some help by a former military fellow who said he’d been a medic. He stopped the stab wound from bleeding and stitched it together. Unfortunately, as she rose some fifteen minutes later, he seemed to have forgotten the needle inside her. It hurt.
She stumbled home, stepped in dog poop on her front lawn, got into the house where she clearly had been burglarized. Slowly lowering herself in the couch, surveying the mess and wondering what was taken, she realized she had just put her hand in puke. A junkie laid passed out on the floor, bathing in his own fluids and reeking of piss and shit, all over the Persian rug she’d inherited from her late great-grandfather.
And just when things couldn’t get any worse, a mutated sales man knocked on the door, channeling a mad priest and trying to sell cleaning detergent of an inferior brand.
She slammed the door, turned around to see the cat peeing on her foot, and her 15 year old son coming down the stairs.
"Mom! Isn’t dinner ready yet?"
She was arrested for brutally butchering a whole block of honest citizens, burning down houses and urinating in a mailbox. It’s the little things.
The Little Things • Opuss № I