For most days of the year, I like to think of myself as an overall friendly, kind person. I’m a courteous driver. I’ll step aside so you can go first at the supermarket checkout if we get there at the the same time. I’ll pretend to be interested in your dog stories and I’ll listen and nod politely when you give me a play-by-play about a) your ‘fascinating’ dream or b) the movie you watched over the weekend.
There are days when I’ve let one too many people cut in front of me in traffic without getting a thank you wave in return. Days when someone will hit the checkout at the same time as me and instead of letting me go first with my two items, they push through with their OVERFLOWING TROLLEY OF SHIT so I have to wait for half an hour while the sales assistant weighs the 2000 items of fruit and veg in their stash. On those days, there are no other registers open except for the self-service ones, which I refuse to use because they literally make me want to punch myself in the face every time that robot voice tells me that there’s an “UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGAGE AREA”, which happens every single time.
On those days, everything that comes into my line of vision is seen though eyes that have been tinged red by the fire of Satan. I call them my ‘hate days’ and thank Christ they only happen a few times a year because they are REAL… but somehow, also refreshingly liberating. The rage is generally limited to the confines of my own mind, (or some serious huffing and puffing if stuck behind a slow walker), but if you could hear my thoughts on those days, I reckon I’d make Cruella DeVil look like Mother Teresa.
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