Don't Make Me Angry. You Won't Like Me... When I'm Angry

Have you ever had a morning where you feel like you can relate to Bruce Banner?

You wake up, you haven't even had enough sleep, and the moment you open your eyes someone is there to guarantee that whatever side of the bed you woke up on, it's the wrongside.

Not a good morning, not a wakey-wakey-rise-and-shine, but a 5 minute monologue basically telling you that you're not good enough. For anything. Where even your clothes come under scrutiny and regardless how precariously you've balanced your entire schedule, the person(s) in charge of the monologue decide that the best thing for you right now is a huge spanner, a great, greasy, glistening spanner in the works lubed up with auto-guilt.

you haven't even had a chance to figure out what day of the week it is. You're not even sure if you're awake, but it's all there. A roaring rampage of criticism and cynicism loaded in a twelve gauge shotgun shoved right into your rectum.

Before you know it, you've gotten your bearings and the people in charge of this barrage of bile have left the room and if you just so happened to have been dreaming of nubile nineteen year olds coated in nutella it doesn't matter anymore. Bring out the green contact lenses and get ready to rip your clothes. Your two steps away from discovering just how flexible your boxers are. Tell Lou Ferrigno to stand by.

You're in this mode when you shower. You're in this mode when you get dressed, retorting to the attacks you experienced earlier by wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt of the Snickers logo with the word 'Slacker' replacing the product name. You get into your car and remember you're also more strapped for cash than an ice-cream man in an igloo. You count the coins you've saved for that rainy day and carry the shrapnel in your pocket, seperating 20 cents coins in your left and 50's and 1's in your right. You remind yourself that next Tuesday is payday and tell yourself the same thing you tell yourself every end of the month - "next pay cheque, I'm going to spend wisely". Hah.

The other drivers on the road don't help matters much. No one signals, slow drivers inexplicably drive on the fast lane and cars park in the slow lane. Somehow the only thing that keeps you sane is the 'Mission To Burma' CD Tony gave you the night before.

Actually, the CD helps quite a bit. You calm down a bit more and feel a great sense of release in the proto-punk pioneers.

Then the parking attendant yells at you.

Yes. The fucking parking attendant.

Although parking attendant is too nice a term for this person. Let's face facts, he's a fucking kuli who's job it is to sit in a fucking box and give out tickets. Yes, it sounds like a terrible fucking job but it does NOT give you the right to fucking YELL at the general FUCKING public!

Imagine it: you're in your car, you get your parking ticket, you look at it and notice something's missing: the RM5 stamp. Hoping you don't get gyped, you ask, politely, where the stamp is. And what kind of reply do you get?

"YOU PAY LATER YOU COME OUT PAY YOU GET OUT LATER OUT PAY WHEN YOU GET OUT LATERLATERLATER GET OUT!!!!!!!!!!"

Green contact lenses. Tell Lou Ferrigno his lunch break's over.

And I thought Monday's were bad.