Supermarket Retard

You know those people who don't seem to be able to cope with grocery shopping? They're perpetually surprised, incapable of finding anything, doomed to be the one to drop the eggs.

Today, and only Today, I have sympathy for them. Today, I joined their ranks for one evening only.

I ran to the Tesco across the road to pick up a couple of extra ingredients for dinner. Due to being a giant food snob and refusing to do things like buy ready meals or jar/packet sauces or frozen pizza, I often have to run across the road for tomato puree, or oregano.

Off I went. I ran into three people I knew and was surprised surprised to see each of them. I'd possibly go so far as to say I was "taken aback." I then walked straight into two people I didn't know. I was incapable of finding anything I wanted, with the exception of tights (I can leave the house in a skirt again!)

I don't trust automated check-outs at the best of times. They've managed to short change me before, and they're stealing jobs from our chavs and students. It's just not on. Even so, I decided that the queue for being served by a real person was too long, and I thought since I was forewarned, I'd be able to check my change carefully.

The machine hated me. It just didn't work. Nothing would scan, it couldn't tell when I'd put the items in the bags (which took me a good minute each to open). It kept repeating itself, as if I was a retard. I started to realize that it had a point.

Eventually I left, paying with card without checking the price. No way it can short change me now, right? Right? Aw sh*t.

Having made dinner I decided I needed to bake a tasty treat. Started off OK before discovering we were ought of strong white flour. Had to go back to Tesco. They were out too, I asked some one to go see if there was any left, the guy found some right at the back of the shelf. Again I felt like a moron, but not as much as when I dropped it. Or as much as when I saw him standing in the queue, turns out he wasn't working, just a guy in a blue shirt.

I can never go back there. But at least I've got every potential item of shopping related embarrassment out of the way for at least six months or so. Maybe I'll just stick to shoe shopping, I am more than adept at shoe shopping.

I Guess it's Started

I went shopping a couple of weeks ago, it's something I enjoy and I happen to excel at it. I purchased a pretty new pair of black jeans, because I haven't had black jeans in ages and quite fancied some. Having worn them twice I've discovered that the dye is not quite stable, and transfers to light coloured socks etc.

Yesterday I decided I really needed to know when and where my maths lectures were going to be held. It would be nice if the maths department told you this, maybe sent out an email, or put it on moodle (the online information part of the course). Generally though, they'd rather not, so you either have to guess, find it on some general information page on the uni website (which I did not find, but Martin did and saved me) or go exploring in the maths department.

I like to think of myself as adventurous, so I chose the third option. It really is a exploration, you never know which noticeboard they're going to put class information on, and there's at least five floors. I left the flat, noticing very light drizzle, and hoping it wouldn't get heavier.

By the time I arrived at the maths building, I was soaked to the skin. I shivered. The building was closed because it was Sunday. I cursed. I went round the corner and picked up some stuff from Boots, considered buying an umbrella, but it seemed a little worthless at that point, and trudged home.

Naturally, when I got back, the first thing I thought to do was go get a shower, especially since shivering was pretty serious by this point, and the rain had become nastier on my trip back, meaning that I was literally dripping when I arrived. So, straight to the shower.

My legs were stained bright blue. It doesn't even make sense! The jeans are black! Grey I could understand, but blue? This stuff is aparently also sticks to skin better than it does to denim, judging by how long it took to get off.

At least now I have the wisdom to not wear them in the rain until I've washed them a couple of times, but I'm pretty sure I'll forget this the first time I wash them, and I'll dye a couple of shirts a horrible shade a blue-grey.

Glasgow is already trying to ruin me. Don't worry though, I'm already plotting my revenge, that's another thing I excel at, although taking revenge on a city's bad weather is going to be tricky, and may take quite a lot of plotting.

Everything is Perfect Forever

This morning, I awoke the way I normally do - barely. Having stumbled about blindly and yawned a lot, I got to the point in my morning routine when I needed to get dressed. Part-way through doing so I had one of the single worst experiences of my life.

I glanced up at the mirror, and discovered that one boob was bigger than the other.

Overnight I had become a freak. I had always believed that all the stuff about everyone having one boob slightly larger was urban myth and designed to terrify children - as far as I was concerned, anyone who was wonky was also a freak, and should be hidden inside under layers of badly fitting clothing. Now I too was a freak.

Tears were close, I went through the seven stages of grieving. Denial came first, I turned on a better light and altered the angle of the mirror, in the vain hope that my eyes were simply playing tricks on me. It semed they were not.

Guilt came next - if only I had not mocked others for being hideously malformed, perhaps this would not have happened to me. My cruel jokes were finally being played back to me with alarmingly harsh irony, which I did not appreciate.

I quickly ran through the rest, promising to be a better person if only they'd even up. Wondering how this could have happened, trying to rationalize the situation. Disgusted by the possibility of having to buy padded bras and take out half the padding.

I refused to move onto acceptance. Desperate, I jiggled once more in front of the mirror, in the hope that I could possibly "bounce" into shape.

A balled up sock fell out of my bra.

Everything is perfect forever.