It is becoming apparent that every time I have a lovely day, the evil energies in this world work so terribly hard to present me with something spawned from the complete opposite.
I had a great day today. I soul searched, I went out of my comfort zone and said things I normally would not have said and did things I normally would not have done, such as go to another building on campus, which happened to be hosting some social justice event. For the sake of being there, yes, I accepted free popcorn and I ate a free veggie pattie enclosed in plain bread. I heard silly opinions and strolled around with a good friend, bumped into two of my past lecturers who were equally as happy to see me again - all in all, I decided to revel in today and in my existence and let go of all inhibitions.
And it was great, and I really felt in one with my soul and I found that I was truly happy today, more than the happiness I have felt on other days. I beamed with delight despite my tired state. After another cup of coffee, tiredness was utterly diminished and happiness remained, and after about eight hours on campus, I decided to call it a day. I got into my car, dropped my good friend off at the train station, and headed home.
Just as I was driving back through the campus to make it back home, I saw a middle-aged man wearing a fluorescent worker's jumper squeezing himself out of the yard behind my campus' steel wire fencing. He had, I assume, made a cut in the bottom of it prior to my witnessing of this, and managed to pull himself and a trolley full of salvaged metals to the extent where it gave him trouble to push it. I knew immediately that this man was stealing salvage from this site. Originally, I would have called the police and notified them of this, but then I hesitated. I stopped my car for a minute and thought, what if this man has a family and is behind on his bills? He did not look as happy as I felt today, thus I concluded that I will let it be so as to absorb some good karma later on, and drove off.
I arrived home. I parked out in front of the fish and chippery, which is situated next to my father's shop, and just as I was stepping out of the car a bald man leaped outside of the fish and chippery and poured a bucket full of some sort of liquid substance underneath my car. It began to slide closer and closer to me. "Did they release a fish?" I jokingly asked the lady who witnessed this, who was standing next to the outpouring of this strange liquid. "Pardon?" she replied. I asked again. "Oh no," she returned, "Harriet vomited."
I felt queasy at that moment. Did that lady mean to tell me, assuming that I knew who on earth this 'Harriet' was, that the liquidy substance crawling up to my feet was vomit? Right after that, the man returned with another filled bucket to flush it all even further out to me, faster. Without hesitation I ran to the back of my car and retrieved my art supplies from my day of study and locked the car, ran away from the seeping pool of vomit water building up beneath it, stood at a safe distance and stared at the scene in disbelief.
Was this a reenactment of the time England was affected by the Bubonic Plague? Was I being pranked? Was Ashton Kutcher going to pop out of my shop with his camera crew and scream that I was 'Punkd'? I sure hoped so! But all of that did not happen. What did happen, was that the bald-headed buffoon of a father of this 'Harriet' did not courteously pour his daughter's vomit onto the patch of grass right beside the shop, he thought it sensible to firstly spill it all over the pavement in front of the fish and chippery and my father's shop, and pour it right beneath my car after he saw me stepping out of it. I would have preferred the liberating releasing of a fish.
After having spent an entire day at my university without the taste of food, I come home hungry to the sight, smell and almost the feel of Harriet's vomit, without even being acquainted with her. I had learnt her insides and her sickly story involuntarily. I stepped inside without wanting to cause a problem with her helpless parents, and stared blankly at the amazing food that my mother had just finished cooking that was waiting for me. I walked off after explaining what had just happened and my family stared at me n disbelief, not at the fact that that just happened, but at the fact that I did not retaliate.
Please, loving parents of all Harriets and non-Harriets out there, be sure not to spill the vomit of your child on or near strangers, especially when you have the convenience of a garden bed nearby. Next time this happens, I will projectile vomit onto the parents. Do not make yourselves prone to being a victim of my projectile vomit.
Just as I was driving back through the campus to make it back home, I saw a middle-aged man wearing a fluorescent worker's jumper squeezing himself out of the yard behind my campus' steel wire fencing. He had, I assume, made a cut in the bottom of it prior to my witnessing of this, and managed to pull himself and a trolley full of salvaged metals to the extent where it gave him trouble to push it. I knew immediately that this man was stealing salvage from this site. Originally, I would have called the police and notified them of this, but then I hesitated. I stopped my car for a minute and thought, what if this man has a family and is behind on his bills? He did not look as happy as I felt today, thus I concluded that I will let it be so as to absorb some good karma later on, and drove off.
I arrived home. I parked out in front of the fish and chippery, which is situated next to my father's shop, and just as I was stepping out of the car a bald man leaped outside of the fish and chippery and poured a bucket full of some sort of liquid substance underneath my car. It began to slide closer and closer to me. "Did they release a fish?" I jokingly asked the lady who witnessed this, who was standing next to the outpouring of this strange liquid. "Pardon?" she replied. I asked again. "Oh no," she returned, "Harriet vomited."
I felt queasy at that moment. Did that lady mean to tell me, assuming that I knew who on earth this 'Harriet' was, that the liquidy substance crawling up to my feet was vomit? Right after that, the man returned with another filled bucket to flush it all even further out to me, faster. Without hesitation I ran to the back of my car and retrieved my art supplies from my day of study and locked the car, ran away from the seeping pool of vomit water building up beneath it, stood at a safe distance and stared at the scene in disbelief.
Was this a reenactment of the time England was affected by the Bubonic Plague? Was I being pranked? Was Ashton Kutcher going to pop out of my shop with his camera crew and scream that I was 'Punkd'? I sure hoped so! But all of that did not happen. What did happen, was that the bald-headed buffoon of a father of this 'Harriet' did not courteously pour his daughter's vomit onto the patch of grass right beside the shop, he thought it sensible to firstly spill it all over the pavement in front of the fish and chippery and my father's shop, and pour it right beneath my car after he saw me stepping out of it. I would have preferred the liberating releasing of a fish.
After having spent an entire day at my university without the taste of food, I come home hungry to the sight, smell and almost the feel of Harriet's vomit, without even being acquainted with her. I had learnt her insides and her sickly story involuntarily. I stepped inside without wanting to cause a problem with her helpless parents, and stared blankly at the amazing food that my mother had just finished cooking that was waiting for me. I walked off after explaining what had just happened and my family stared at me n disbelief, not at the fact that that just happened, but at the fact that I did not retaliate.
Please, loving parents of all Harriets and non-Harriets out there, be sure not to spill the vomit of your child on or near strangers, especially when you have the convenience of a garden bed nearby. Next time this happens, I will projectile vomit onto the parents. Do not make yourselves prone to being a victim of my projectile vomit.
No comments:
Post a Comment
What do you think about this post?