Magical Tipsy Toes

I realise that to find a clean toilet is quite feat at seafood restaurants. It’s not dirty or anything, it just smells of fish or crabs and just a whiff of it makes my bladder cringe and my piss shoots right back up. Now it would be ok if my piss doesn’t make an appearance while I’m driving….but as arse luck would have it…when you gotta go, you just gotta go.

A recent “i need to piss badly” episode of toilet finding along North Bridge road. I was out by myself one silly evening. I didn’t have a clue where I was and quite honestly it was one of those days that being lost was one of the best things. Or, so I bloody thought.

What in the blazes was I suppose to do, when I needed to pee so fricking bad and there was no toilet in sight. I would have peed behind some sorta bushes of such…but unfortunately, the area was just packed with people…and I wasn’t ready to bare my ass just for an urgent, hold my vagina to controled piss.

So a pee-dancing I went…..the kind where your legs are all over the place, at the rate my legs were crossing and uncrossing, I’d have probably given Michael Flatley a run for his money! I had to stop myself several times along the way cause my bladder started to hurt and my legs were getting really wobbly.

About forty five minutes later, I was resigned to the fact, that I was going to just wet myself. I didn’t care anymore. I’d just piss my pants and pretend that nothing happen. I would carry my piss shame silently and openly.

But luck was smiling down at me. A gas station further down the road. I don’t think I’ve ever walked that fast in my life. I almost broke into a run. I think the cashier was slightly weary of me when I dashed in….and rightfully so…I mean, the pee-dance isn’t exactly an elegant ballet piece. It’s the HURRYUPMOVEOHDEARGADHELPME kind of movement with the legs…and I had to smile too because I thought that would seem all is ok…but thinking back, the poor woman at the station must have fricking thought I was nuts.

But I reached nirvana, squatting nirvana….with ease due to the piss.

Maybe I don’t drink so much water when I go out by myself. I always seem to get into trouble.

Phone Directory : 100

MacDonalds Hotline : 6777-3777

It’s 5plus in the morning. Nita, Uma and myself decided that MacDonalds was in order after a strange and whimsical night. So we decided to call Macs to have them deliver two hotcakes with sausage meals.

Nita then proceeds to dial MacDonalds hotline….then she was instructed by a mechanical voice to press #1 for new orders. However, due to vast modern day technology….it dialed the 100 number. She then proceeded to press the talk button on her mobile causing a call to be made to the operator.

Now see….Nita had no idea she was dialing the 100 number instead!! So….this was what went on….

Nita : Hello…

Operator : Yes, can I help you?

Nita : Can I have 2 pancakes

Operator : Is that 2 in a numeral or in a word as in T-W-O?

Nita : No, just 2. Just 2 hotcakes!

Operator : Which number is that?

Nita : Number 2

Operator : Ma’am what’s the name

Nita : Ohh…you’re asking me for my name. Sunita. (she then proceeds to spell it out)

Operator : Yes, but what number is it??

Nita : Oh you mean my phone number….its 97******

Operator : I’m sorry ma;am. We do not have a listing under number, name or Two
pancakes

By this time…I was rolling on the floor laughing….and then something happened in Nita’s head…something clicked….and she realized she had dialed the wrong number….

Now while this was happening…our dear Uma was struggling in the toilet…so she started banging a little….while Nita and myself were laughing about…till we finally realized she was locked in the toilet….

Strange and whimiscal eh…

I thought when I woke up this morning I wouldn’t feel anything. That the feelings would just slip off me like a coat and fall onto the floor.

I was wrong.

I feel it clinging on my skin. It’s grown tighter and it refuses to budge. I am trying to pretend it doesn’t exist. But it does. I can’t seem to shake it off anymore. It’s like I’m a can of baked beans that’s tired of being in the back of cupboard and is ready to explode because the expiry date is nearing.

I used to feel sad. Sad that my parents think that way. Sad that I am such a disappointment to them. Just because I don’t dress more girly. Or because I rather hang out with people who don’t make me feel like I’m such a chore to be with. I used to feel scared. Scared that I’ll upset them more. Scared that I might get whacking.

Then one day, something snapped. I didn’t feel sad or scared anymore. I began not to care. It was tiring. Tiring when I tell you who exactly I’m hanging out with and only have use it against me. Tiring when I tell you where I am and you think I’m somewhere else. Tiring to keep apologizing because I don’t want to have you keep shouting. Tiring to keep worrying if there will be another shouting match when I get home. I’m tired of emotional blackmailing. Tiring when I try to involve you in my life and you turn around and tell me I don’t really amount to anything. I look like I have a problem when I come home? You’re right I do. You never thought I’d be this way? Yes, it was always in me…this person you say that I am. This mean, selfish and horrible side that I have. It just took a while to come out.

You say you know what I’m up too outside? Good…maybe you can fill me in on what’s going on with my life. Because I have no clue myself on this secret lifestyle I’m leading.

So I don’t carry handbags…or wear dresses and skirts…or even put on make up or wear heels. It doesn’t mean I’m not normal. Does it?? Yes, you’re right….if I somehow don’t see your point or where you are coming from, it must mean I’m stupid and ungrateful and therefore it gives you the right to spit at me.

So the sadness has disappeared. The scared feeling is beginning to ebb away. And anger has taken over. A bubbling pot of anger is left. It’s going to erupt. I’m good with controlling emotions…but the end result is this crazy ass headache I keep having. Now every little thing agitates me. They say you are who you want to be. So when you ask me how I feel when you tell me I’m a disgrace….or when you say you want to give me problems after problems because you think I deserve it…or when you say I’m arrogant because I can’t be fucked…. I feel angry. And I’m not scared of you or sad because of you.

I’m scared of what I might do. And I’m sad that I might really do it.