I don't know why I am, I just am, that's all. I'm not violently angry. I don't kick and scream and threaten people. Well sometimes maybe, when they try to run me and my bike off the road in their car. But I'm still liberal and egalitarian and caring.
But I am angry.
Although I do empathise a lot, put myself in other people's shoes - even during faeces/ aircon moments - and I never get the red mist so bad that I lose all control and strike out. That would be really poor form.
But I do get the red mist. It's very controlled, and most people see it as comedy anger, a bit like Alan Partridge when he's furious. Although I don't grab people.
So I quit my job today. It was said in a moment of anger at my semi-retired company director, but I have been working like a Trojan for McDonalds wages, and have even taken to driving the van home and doing a delivery on the way. I haven't had a proper lunchbreak in two years, I'm bloody brilliant, me, etc etc.
So when my Boss boss chose to berate me, a random flinging of his weight to remind me of my place within his domain replete with screaming and swearing (I seem to have this effect on people), I snapped, particularly as his tantrum was completely unwarranted. So I had a tantrum of my own, told him I didn't deserve a single word of his outburst, and that I intended to tender my resignation. Then I continued to answer phones all day to a bunch of cunts who were all having emergencies and all needed their shit right fucking now.
On top of that, my personal hotmail account has been switched to the godawful Hotmail Live version against my wishes only to sieze up ever since, causing me to fire off emails from my work account to call them bastards.
Then I fitted my portable harddrive from home into my boss's computer so I could fire off some urgently needed documents for Chopper's impending stag tomorrow. For some inexplicable reason, my harddrive decided to ejaculate about half a dozen porn videos onto his desktop.
I am now shitting it when he finds them tomorrow, but then I've sort of resigned in a sense, so I guess it doesn't matter.
But I did do some work. In fact, that's all I did, work consistently, concentrating on orders and admin and a whole host of shit that won't matter next month, never mind in one hundred cunting years, while people rang me up perpetually.
One fucker phoned five times throughout the day, five times, to ask the same fucking questions about the same fucking bags. And I had more than my fair share of French kitchen staff phoning up for more of their sodding bags.
"Ze medium ones."
This always makes my blood boil. Really boil. Remember that red mist I mentioned earlier? We can sell seven different sizes of one coloured bag at any one fucking time, as I've said before in an earlier post, and as I had to yell eight times today.
"What medium one? What fucking medium one? You didn't even mention a colour. Am I clarivoyant? Do you really think I'm sitting here drumming my fingers on the table, my encyclopaedic knowledge of every fucking spoon you've ever bought from us just swimming around my head waiting for your call? MAKE A FUCKING LIST, LIKE I DO WITH OUR SUPPLIERS. It's not just common sense, it's common courtesy. You do realise you are interrupting an order I am trying to concentrate on completing and you're making me drop it for this bullshit. You do this every time, every single fucking time, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING CUNT."
Then I put the phone down to double check against their previous invoices just as soon as I finish what I was doing before I picked up the phone when the phone rings again and it's some posh woman from Mayfair who snaps 'I want my bags.'
My nostrils flare, a vein in my head throbs. 'What - ones?'
'The small ones.'
'But your 'small' is just one of seven that we stock. We may have bags that are too small even for you, so ordering a generic 'small' will result in your potentially receiving the wrong bag and our overworked delivery guys will have to go back to you the next day. WHY DO YOU PEOPLE CONSTANTLY PHONE ME UP AND DO THIS? DON'T YOU EVER WRITE THINGS DOWN? YES WE'VE GOT YOUR PREVIOUS ORDERS BUT I HAVE TO CLICK SIX DIFFERENT ICONS AND SELECT FOUR DROP-DOWN MENUS AND READ EVERYTHING OUT TO YOU LIKE THE LAZY, SELFISH INEFFECTUAL BIPEDAL HOMINID YOU ARE, YOU FUCKING OXYGEN THIEF!'
I hate them.
I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM, I HATE THEM.
THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT. No, the customer is a supercilious, arrogant, timewasting fuckheaded retard.
We've recently started using the answerphone to give us more space. The net result has been three times more emails to sift through, and tons more faxes.
And this bit's great... The fax cuts our Internet off.
Don't know why, don't really care. I just know that when the fax rings, I'm always doing something trixy online, or else I'm on the phone to some cunt who 'wants what we had last time.' Then 'click', no more data.
And on top of all that...
* I am perpetually tired. Any sleep I get is never enough, and I always wake up 'fuggy'. This tends to last about 8 hours.
* I can't grow a decent beard. My last most recent attempt, during my writing marathon gave me what Nothing Man dubbed a 'ginger chinstrap.'
* When I ultimately shaved, my sensitive skin broke out in fucking spots.
* I think I will die perpetually unfulfilled, with anger management issues that went unresolved.
* I walk too fast, and thus sweat freely. I find it very hard to walk slowly.
* But I also get cold easily, and I'm not sure why. My body temperature is all over the shop.
* I don't walk very well either, certainly not like a Gangsta rapper. Despite being stocky (i.e. fat), I walk more like a gangly Jimmy Stewart with a dwarf on his back.
* And I look like a cunt.
* I lack a sense of direction - in life terms, that is. (I'm done with the 'walking' bit.)
* I also lack routine and order, unless it's daily chainsmoking and eating Tescos pizza because I can't be bothered to cook.
Always the same old shit. Always, always, always.
And tomorrow, I've got to get up early to commit (i.e. buy) an arrestable offence (i.e. drugs) and in broad daylight on behalf of this impending stag party, then I get to drive a minibus full of blokes getting drunk.
So that'll ensure a restless night panicking about unnecessary things.
Shit, I'd better pack. God, I'm tired.