up youres ziggy with a waa waa brush

anyone whoose had too work in customer service//retail//hospitality//human slave trade etc. will understand the everyday "perils"  of the workplace that may indeed turn you intoo a retarded little bitch.

case study no# 1 NO I DONUT THINK YR FUNNY AND NO I DONT WANNA DATE YOU ETC. YOU MAKE ME SICK. 

lets see upon greeting you i explain that there are currently no tables available and you may have too wait too enjoy yr gourmet food etc. come on, its only FOOD if yr really that hungry go eat some low carb trail mix available at yr convienece!! (NOT) what about that table! you exclaim pointing in the direction of the childrens table. "NO" i reply politely while you and yr gaggle of 'buds' punch each other in the balls and laugh hystericly. so you decide too order takeaway.. mispronouncing everything from the name of the establishment down too the morsell of meat yr about too consume.

i ask you for a name for the order you give me a shit eating grin, say something common and annoying like "dave" funny how yr crappy name sums you up hey? (sorry any cool daves we may meet in future) want my number too? you ask. i say nothing. seriously, if i wanted too get all "down town" with you i probably would have avoided this awkward moment IE. BEAT IT.

case study no#2 SIT THE FUNK DOWN! SHUT THE FUNK UP!

yr loiterring in the doorway kind of looking like you have a giant diarrhoea storm welling up inside of you and yr all dumbfounded and kind of donut know what too do. i ask if you would like directions too the bathroom you explain you are "just looking" and i advise you that if you would like a table i may direct you too one. you, unwillingly, follow me. when we arrive at the table i pass you a menu and let you know too order at the end of the counter when you are ready. you are still not sitting down. i explain too you that if you would like too dine in it would be a good thing too sit down seeing as ppl are swooping in constantly and jerking the outgoings out of their barely left seats. you put yr stupid face real close too mine and i can see yr bulbus, middle aged, red, sweaty nose shining so brightly in front of me i almost feel like stabbing you with a closeby ladel so as too regain a clear path of vision. 

you start throwing a fit "ive never been here before I DONT KNOW WHAT TOO DO, WHAT DO I ORDER?!" before slumping intoo the chair.

i proceed too read the whole freaking menu aloud, suggest something for you too order etc. etc.

i just really dont know where too begin on what about you pissed me off. you were like the worst enemy i had never met. the long lost nemesi. the insanity too my sanity. dear god.

SO, if you see me out, im sitting there with the angry face on and you ask me why i look so morose and i reply i hate you...

its sincerly not you. and its not me either. ITS EVERYONE ELSE.

and if i have pissed you off, dear reader with my spelling errors and manic punctuation.. 

just choc chill. or choc supershake. whatever.

Injuries.

For as long as I can remember, I have been fucking myself up wicked ways. There was the time I tried to hoist jump a fence because I was too lazy to walk the 20m around it at Fremantle Train Station after introducing James Morton to Passion Pop in the Hydey Car Park, and this happened.

That's a broken nose, and a whole bunch of facial contusions, thanks guys. The best part of that happening was when a kindly Aboriginal man took one look at me, and said I looked cold, conveniently neglecting to mention the blood all over my face/shirt. Thanks dude!

Then there was the 2 week period this year where I fell down a set of stairs that I walk up/down on average every 2 days, gave myself concussion by walking to the toilet in the middle of the night, getting my feet caught up in clothes, falling and hitting the corner of a concrete wall, and I got kicked off a bike at 3am near Amps.


This doesn't look that impressive, but that's because Spaks only took the photo of my face, instead of all over my hands and arms where I had been putting the blood. I asked some shit idiot for his beer outside Amps and he got angry at me when I used it to wash all m' O positive off me. Interesting sidenote, I got not ONE drop of blood on the peppermint green hoodie I was wearing at the time.

Then there was this. I was basically being a sick cunt, drinking Coops Red, standing up in a shopping trolley, when a Russian Lawyer kicked the trolley. You can guess what happened next.

That's right, I pretty much have 4 knees here. The Russian Lawyer felt really bad and he is in the Peace Corp now. Or the UN or something. I choose to believe that there is a direct correlation between that and him kicking me out of a Coles Trolley onto bricks. Interesting side note #2 - his high school girlfriend is this girl http://www.myspace.com/yaramusic

I think the injuries I have at the moment are probably the most severe - I'm used to the bruises, sprained ankles and bumps on my head that come with being an unco bitch, but like, Jesus, are you going to let up soon? I am currently nursing a pus fulled knee, a snapped off front tooth that was put back on with an "experimental" procedure that involved scraping most of the nerve out, sticking medicine on it and then jamming my tooth back on, 2 stitches in my mouth/lip that make me puff out like the niggerest nigger you have ever niggered and a broken calcaneus (ie heel bone, the worst thing to break apart from shattering your fucking knee.) Oh and I got a tetanus shot too on the weekend.

The rest of the year better be coming up Gracey. I am wishing to somehow get onto the confectionary track that Ben Menzies is on, for a super sweet, affordable, rad house in the next few weeks, and for basically urrthing cool to happen to me, ever.

WHAT UP GAP TOOTHED BITCH?

This was basically me, last night. Except approx. 1 more litre of blood. And me being a girl and shit. I now have no right front tooth. The triage nurses were pretty impressed about how rough, rugged and raw I am. Coming into emergency, looking like a battered wife, with a giant red cast on my leg. I was actually wearing a wife beater, also, covered in dirt and blood. Ironic, huh.

Fuck you, crutches. Fuck you, rain. Combined you make a lethal weapon that involves me sitting on Cameron Stack's lap in the front seat of a 1960's Citroen that weighs about as much as a can of sardines, crying my eyes out and using an LA do-rag to mop up the copious amounts of blood gushing from my mouth. What up, Royal Perth. Cheers for the stitches and the fact that I sat there waiting for treatment in the corrider of the Emergency Room for 3 hours because my Dr. slipped over and sprained her little weinor ankle, which obviously rated high above me.

I think today to cheer myself up I might do a photo shoot of the C.O.D. eating a bucket of chicken with me with no front tooth. Right before I spend excruciating hours at the dentist at 2pm. Better get as many photo shots of me being a gap toothed bitch in as I possibly can in the next 2 hours. Hit me on my digits if you want to partake. Obviously you all do.