Wednesday, September 16, 2015

"It's Just a Joke"


I could sugar coat this for you
...but I would just eat it right?

Let me tell you that the reality
isn't a glazed sickly sweet
Because when my fingers met the back of my throat
desperately scraping for beautiful
the acidic bile burnt my taste buds
and the sad emptiness of my stomach
felt like an achievement
So easily you purged your vile hatred
masked with a thin comedic veil
to the entire world while six years ago
my young, inexperienced hand shook
attempting to write through persistent tears
apologising and explaining
why their sister, their daughter, their best friend
sliced a razor through her thick, fat flesh
and bled to death

Let me tell you that the reality
wasn't a glazed sickly sweet
it was just fucking sick
Had I have heard and felt your words
at the impressionable age of just fifteen years old
My family would be mourning their loss
my best friend would have grown without me
and I would not have discovered my own beautiful
No, not your petite size six angelic blonde
feminine curves and structured cheek bones
I am triple your frame, soft and big
with crooked teeth and chubby face
I am the gorgeous humanity you lack
compassion and understanding and warmth
No, not your pathetic attempt at comedy
where the irony lies in the laziness of your 'humour'
you are not brave nor controversial
you are pitied

Let me tell you that my reality
isn't one of your punchlines

you are the joke

Monday, September 14, 2015

Cute Coffee Boy

Fuck I'm tired. I yawn wide and ugly, like a snake dislocating it's jaw to swallow an entire deer. Imagine if that's how Bambi ended, I ponder. Like, right after it's mother is brutally killed by hunters - in a damn child's movie - a giant slimy snake slithers up and swallows Bambi whole. Bambi... more like Bam-bye bitch, I laugh to myself at my own lame joke. Oh man imagine the kid's faces as the credits ro- "shit!" My thoughts are interrupted as I feel something hit my leg. Looking down, I see a blob of flesh and drool. What the fu-oh my god... The tiny spawn of Satan bursts into loud screeching tears as their mother quickly scoops them up off the floor. She holds it tightly to her chest and death stares me.

"Holy fucking shit, I am so so so sorry!" I plead to the mother, "I didn't even see your little...," I swallow hard attempting to call a child an endearing name, "angel... there. I was just like, totally in my own head thinking about... uh," my eyes dart around the room with my brain working a million miles an hour to avoid telling her I was thinking about murdering Bambi with snakes and bad puns right before I almost crushed her child. "Uh, just taxes... those damn shitty taxes you know," I fake laugh through my pained expression at the awkwardness of this whole situation. Taxes? Really Bethany? I should have said something like pregnancy or motherhood to relate to her or something.

"Watch where you are fucking going next time," she hisses at me. Woah. "Again, I am so sorry I just have so much shit going on in m-," she rudely interrupts my second apology. "Don't you dare swear around my child!" she says as she dramatically covers her gross little clone's ears. Did... she... not just swear at me like, two seconds ago? I squint my eyes in disbelief at her. "I... uhhh... okayagainI'msosorryhaveareallygooddaybye," I quickly blurt out as I adjust my bag and begin to speed walk away from that mess. UGH I am never, ever having kids!

I walk up to the counter of the cafe and place my bag on top, rummaging through all of the unnecessary shit to find my purse. Pens, gum, notepad, two receipts, five lipsticks, soy sauce sachets, oh look another lipstick, hey, a tampon... "Hey." I slowly look up to the love of my life behind the counter. His eyes flick down to my hand holding the tampon. "Oh! Hey!" my face blushes a deep red as I hastily chuck it back in my bag and grab out my purse.

"What can I do for you?" he smiles. Oh god you don't even want to know. "Uummmm," I look up at the menu, trying to compose myself. "I'll just get a..." proposal "...hmmm..." an opal wedding ring thanks "just a regular vanilla latte please." His muscles and veins move in his arm as he presses the buttons on the till for my order. Hypnotised, I think of how damn cute our kids would be. I bite my lip thinking of all the things he could 'do for me'. "Hello?"

"Huh? What?" I shake my head out of the dirty x-rated thoughts that would make a brothel look like an old folks home. He laughs, "I said that'll be $4.90." "Oh duh, right! Sorry," I roll my eyes at myself and smile sheepishly, "just uh, thinking about taxes..." I fake cough to try to cover my obvious lie. He half-smiles at me and turns to the coffee machine. Something is wrong. Yesterday he complimented my hair but he didn't today. Do I not look as cute today? I run my fingers through my hair as I stare at him. Maybe this isn't true love. Maybe I will be alone forever. I'll have to break it off with him, he'll probably be devastated. Call off the wedding! I watch as he froths the milk like the milk frothing champion he is. God damn I'll miss that. Goodbye my loverrrrr... uhhh what's his name? My eyes search for a name badge. I guess I'll just call him Cute Coffee Boy? Before I could think of ways to dump him without hurting his feelings - despite him not knowing that we are actually together - he looks up at me with those beautiful brown eyes.

"Won't be long, Beth," he smiles. The wedding is back on. "Yeah that's okay no problem take your time!" I gush. Beth? Beth?! A nickname?! I guess you could say things are getting pretty serious... I can't wait until we're living in a cute Queenslander house in the outskirts of the city. I'll be working from home as a writer, raising our two beautiful and gifted kids Celeste and Sebastian. He will own his trendy, upmarket cafe that will earn enough for us to retire young and travel the world. I sigh loudly at my daydream.

"Here you go!" he gives my coffee to me and I resist the urge to stroke his hand. I smile at him and walk away from the cafe, thinking of his plump lips and how much I'd prefer to be kissing them than this coffee cup lid. My face screws up at the bitter taste. He must have forgotten the vanilla syrup, damn... I guess I'll have to go back to him... I smile, turning around on my heels and begin to walk back as I see a gorgeous, model-like blonde strut up to him as if she knows him. Hmm must be his sister? I notice the vastly different skin tones. Adopted sister? I watch as they kiss on the lips. He must be really close to his sister I guess? His hand slides down from her lower back and gropes her perfect butt. Okay that is really weird and has to be slightly illegal... My facial expression drops of all emotion at the realisation that that perfect female specimen is his... no, don't say it... girl... ughhh... friend. Girlfriend! I cringe so hard my hand crushes the cup and hot coffee spills over, burning my skin. "Fuck!"

The physical burn doesn't hurt as much as the devastating heartbreak I'm feeling watching the love of my life with another woman. My stomach feels like it's splattered to the floor and my mouth is as dried up as my happiness. The coffee I'm holding is now like sweet liquid sugar in comparison to the bitterness pulsing through my veins. I hate everyone and I am dying alone. I sigh at my melodramatic thoughts and dump the coffee in the bin, just like he did with my heart... whatever his name was. Goodbye Cute Coffee Boy for I can never return to relive the betrayal you poisoned this cafe with. A cafe that was once filled with beautiful memories of our fleeting eye contact and boring small talk.

Reaching into my bag, I grab out a few napkins to wipe the coffee off my hands. Before I'm able to clean off the last remaining evidence of my short lived love affair, my bag slips from my shoulder and spills all of the contents on the floor. "Great!" I moan. Defeated, I drop to my knees and begin picking up my stuff, wishing it was this easy to get my actual shit together. A hand reaches out and helps me gather my things. "Thank you but you don't need to do that," I sigh. "No it's okay. One of those days huh?" I look up to see the face that belonged to the sexy deep voice. His pretty green eyes crinkle with a warm friendly smile. "Yeah, they seem to be every day," I laugh pathetically as we both stand to our feet. "Oh, you forgot this," he says as he hands me that god damn tampon. "Oh shit... thanks..." my face feels like it's on fire from blushing so damn hard. "No problem... have a good day, hey?" he smiles and winks. "Y-you, uh, you too," I stammer like a fucking idiot and watch as he walks away. Oh my god.

I'm in love.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Customer Disservice: Cash Money

"That'll be $90, thank you," I smile politely and hold out my hand patiently.
The customer sighs and takes what feels like two years to find their purse in their over sized handbag. Is this some Hermione Granger shit? Are they rummaging through their magical tents and vials of Polyjuice Potion? My patience is quickly replaced with frustration as the line behind this customer is beginning to fill with more demons. I mean... customers. Having enough time to crawl the Wall of China, I tie my hair up and take off my cardigan to prepare for the shit I will have to deal with. I mean... customers.
The customer grabs two $50 notes from their wallet and flings it towards my chest. I stare at the cold hard cash, a few centimeters away from my cold hard heart. So. This is what they want? Alright.
I hand them their change and receipt with a saucy wink. They cringe, out of pleasure obviously, as they walk away from my counter.
"Next please!" I holler into the cesspool of lifeless bodies. I mean... customers. I ask them to fill out the delivery form while I type in their details in the computer.
"$120 thank you," I again smile politely and hold out my hand. They reach into their wallet and flick their cash at me, completely missing my sausage fingers.
"Well, if this is what you want..." I take the money and tuck it into my bra strap.

"What are yo-" shushing them with my finger to their crusty lips, I use my other hand to undo the two buttons on my polo shirt. "Sshhh, I got the hint," I coo in my sexiest deep voice that sounds like a lion on heat. If the lion was actually a goat being strangled.
Reaching for my phone, I put on Partition by Beyonce on the loudest volume. I keep eye contact with my customer as I mouth the words to the song and push the computer off the desk. It's loud crash to the floor only adds to the moment. Hitching one leg over the desk I awkward-sexy climb up onto the desk, almost losing my balance and falling into them. They would have to pay more for that. Before I could begin twerking, I am roughly pulled down from my stage.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" my manager yells.
"Language!" I scold, "We have customers in our presence!" He grabs my arm and speed walks me in to the back room, away from my fans.
"Explain yourself!" he exclaims as he crosses his arms, as if he's talking to a dog that just shat on the carpet. Well, this bitch is having none of that. Rolling my eyes with my hands on my hips, sass oozing from every pore of my body I shoot back, "I was only doing my job!"

Sweat beaded on his forehead where a vein was about to pop. It was really concerning. "Are you okay, you look constipated? Did you want something to help? I've got a packet of Extra, just eat like 10 of those at once because one time... or a few times... I was way too keen on those and man it really gets the guts goin' if you know what I mean," I laugh, "Like a natural disaster."
He puts his fingers to his temples and exhales loudly. "Stripping is not apart of your job," he says through gritted teeth.
"I... don't... understand," I say, twirling my hair with my fingers, "customers have been making it rain on me all day, I thought I'd just give them what they were pretty much asking for?"
I hear his teeth grinding in his mouth, he is visibly upset with me. Did I not dance enough before going straight into twerking? Should I have removed my top before the twerk? Was it the song choice? Or was it the whole smashing the computer thing? I do need to work on my choreography.
"You're fired," he says softly.
"Okay but I need to finish this strip because the customer already pa-"
"GET OUT."
"It was the song choice, wasn't it?"

Saturday, September 5, 2015

Customer Disservice: Lucky

The restaurant closes in about ten minutes and you sigh out loud in relief at the thought.
"What're you up to after work?" your co-worker asks with a half smile, as he wipes the same glass he has been wiping for the past half an hour.
"Oh... not much," you reply, watching his half smile slowly drop. "Just hanging out with a few friends, having a few drinks y'know."
His smile returns as he nods and says, "cool."
Yep. Cool. Juuust catchin' up with friends. That's you! You social butterfly, you. Your eyes glaze over as you imagine yourself finally reaching home after being on your feet for eight hours, ripping those fucking uncomfortable pants off and rejuvenating your soul with a glass of wine. And by glass of wine you mean the entire bottle. Oh and of course, the whole friends things! Yeah! The entire gang will be over... Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, Chandler, Joey and Monica.
Your daydream is abruptly cut as you see Satan approach the door. Rubbing your eyes you realise it's actually something worse... customers.
The little bell rings as they swing open the door, the jingle burns your ears and your hands clench into fists. Taking a deep breath you approach the demonic life ruiners - uh..., you mean, customers.
"Hey! How is it going?" you greet them in a strangled sickly sweet voice, "sorry to inform you but we actually close at 10pm!" you force yourself to smile wide.
"Oh, lucky we came at 9:50!" The couple giggle at their own unfunny joke as acidic bile rises to your throat and a fiery rage pulses through your veins. You glance quickly to the manager who gestures that the customers are welcome. Your smile drops off your face and a crimson red flushes your neck and cheeks as you attempt to compose yourself.
You stare right into their measly souls with your blank eyes and deadpan expression. Swallowing hard, you whisper in a deep demonic voice, "please eat shit and die."
The couple's smiles slowly melt away and their brows furrow in confusion. "Sorry... what?" they clear their throats nervously. You clench your eyes shut and think of all those bills that are due this week. Grinding your teeth you look back to them and exhale loudly.
"I said," your eyes brighten and your mouth forms a warm welcoming smile, "please try our new pie!"
The couple's shoulders relax and they let out a hearty laugh as you guide them to their seats while thinking of all the ways you could tear their soft, supple flesh from their weak pathetic bones.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" you ask sweetly. Your tone of voice is the complete polar opposite of all the homicidal thoughts clouding your head. You already knew how to dispose of their bodies. Thanks, CI channel.
"We just sat down," the couple don't even make eye contact when they snap back rudely, "jeez give us some time."
Some time? Some... time? You spin around on your heel and walk away, biting your bottom lip to prevent saying a colourful string of profanities that would leave you jobless.
You walk up to your co-worker and they immediately notice your frustration. "Lucky we got here in time!" he mocks them in a stupid voice in an attempt to make you laugh.

You pick up a knife in front of you and stare into the reflection. "Yes," your voice flat and monotone, "they are lucky."




Inspired by my dear friend Keira

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Job Application: Store Clerk

"The party is here," I holler, as I make it rain with hunnits of copies of my resume on the store floor of Bras N Things. Beyonce's Partition is playing loudly from my phone as I strut to the counter with my five dollar rip-off Raybans on. 
"What kind of party, you ask?," I slowly take off my shades and answer the question that no one actually asked, "a part-time-employee-ty." I wink at the visibly impressed (or uncomfortable, I can never tell the difference) store clerk. She is so blown away by my confidence that she is left speechless.

I promptly change the song on my phone to Sisqo's classic, Thong Song. Grabbing two piles of g-strings, I hold them in my clenched fists and use them as pom-poms as I interpretive dance my passion for wanting to work with boobs and lingerie all day everyday.

Staring intently at me, the store clerk frantically reaches for the phone, probably to call the CEO to let them know they have found the new regional manager. Me.

My face is flushed red and dripping with sweat from the intensity of my moves. "THONG, THONG THONG THONG THONG," I scream-chant as I throw the g-strings in the air and twirl around as the soft lace gently falls around me.

Doing The Vogue, I reach for the biggest bra I could find. I cover my head with the cup to blind myself and heighten my sense of touch. Dropping to the floor, I attempt to sexily worm my way over to the fetish costumes to get real freaky but my plan is foiled as I'm aggressively pulled up from the ground by a pair of strong hands.

I twerk in resistance as the security guard rips the bra off my head and drags me out of the store.

"I'll start Monday!" I yell and smirk to myself. Nailed it.

Customer Disservice: Misquote

"Okay so your delivery is $155," I say with a smile.
"What?!" the customer's face begins to glow bright red, like a monkey's ass. "But we were quoted $145!" they exasperate. Oh no. How awful. Yawn. Here we go. I clench my teeth hard and smile, my eyes vacant and my soul non-existent.
"They must have misquoted you, sorry about that! We are a different company, let me show you our... giant... board over here with the prices..." I talk to them with an overly cheerful voice like a kindergarten teacher speaking down to her petulant children. Except these ones were overgrown, weren't cute and had a shocking sense of self-entitlement. They groan as I walk them less then thirty centimeters away from the counter to prove them wrong. This is one of my favourite things to do.

"As you can see here, it adds up to be $155," I grin to mask my grimace.

"That is FUCKING ridiculous!" they shout, "We know it's only ten dollars but WE were told by those staff that it was less! Misquoted?! Why can't people do their fucking job around here?! This is a disgrace! I feel sick, I wish we never came here..."


Their voices fade out as my eyes glaze over and my brain replays the episode of The Simpsons. The one that the newspaper says 'Old Man Yells At Cloud' with a photo of Grandpa Simpson. The similarities between that and the old couple in front of me were uncanny.

Their ranting and raving finally died down to a few huffs and puffs and "fuckin' idiots"'s.

"Okay coolies so are you paying cash or card or nah?"

Sweet satisfaction melted my bones as they keyed in their pin number, paying the correct amount for delivery for their huge, expensive kitchen order. Sweet, sweet success.

Customer Disservice: Greetings

"Hey, how's it going?" I politely greet the customer.

"...you're not going to make me actually answer that question are you?" they spit with acidity. It burns right through my soul - or it would, if I had one.
Oh... oh wow, oh god, I'm- I'm so sorry it must be so fucking awful to be able to drop a few thousand dollars on a single shopping trip?? Are you okay? Do you need a snack? Are there any other problems you're having that you would like to passive-aggressively take out me? Just punch me in the face!! Right here, on the cheek bone. Make sure your expensive diamond wedding ring slices my flesh open for that dramatic blood splatter. Will that make you feel better??? Once you've knocked me out cold, just run my body over with your fully paid off, shiny car! Crush my delicate bones under your beautifully aligned tyres. Haven't had enough? Take a dump on me and wipe your ass with cold hard cash while you cry about it. Cool! 
"No," I reply.

Customer Disservice: Please

"Ineedadeliveryformykitchen thanks," the customer says as they shove the sales order into my perfectly caked face. 
"Okay, I'll just get you to fill out this form please," I say softly, trying to control my tone to not sound like the sarcastic bitter bitch that customer service has moulded me to be. Just kidding, it's not my job's fault that I was born this way.
"You could have said please," they scoff as they pick up the pen to fill the delivery form out anyway, despite not hearing me say please. I wanted to roll their neck as fast as they rolled their eyes.
"Sorry?" I question, when I really want to roll up my sleeves and ask 'do you want to take this outside?' and one on one this mofo.

"Did you say please?" they stare into my soulless eyes and interrogate, just like my mum used to do when I was little and I've eaten an entire packet of gum in half an hour. Except this time there won't be any chewing gum laxative induced diarrhoea to uncover my lie and the only person full of shit is this stupid ass customer.

"Yeah, I did," I shoot back.

They pretend to ignore me as I start humming along to 'I Don't Fuck You' by Big Sean. Instead of starting my day with coffee, I start it with that song to prepare me for a day of people just like this one.

You lil stupid ass bitch.

Customer Disservice: Baby Bonus?

"How the hell do I get out of this bloody place?" the customer asks me in an angry tone with fire in his eyes as if I was his wife that dragged him here to buy furniture they didn't need.
Tiny remnants of one dollar hot dog shoot from his crusty mouth and hit my face like tiny bullets lubricated by slimy saliva. I swallow hard and recite the lyrics to Titanium by Sia in my head in an attempt to regain strength. I remember that not only is my dignity not a strong metal - it's also non-existent. I attempt to smile but my face muscles are too weak to hold the weight of a lie.
"The car park is just one level down through those... giant... elevators," I say through gritted teeth while pointing to the two massive silver doors where people are frequently passing through less than three meters away from my desk.
The customer looks in that general direction and grunts as he walks away, brows furrowed with confusion. I'm not sure if he knows what day it is, let alone grasped what I had just said. I begin to contemplate leaving my job and living off centrelink payments.
"No, that wouldn't be enough..," I think, "I'd need something else... baby bonus. Yes. That's it. I'll just get pregn-", my thoughts are abruptly interrupted by shrill screams coming from the tiny lungs of the customer's children. There are what feels like hundreds of them throwing ice cream, pulling hair, peeing pants and raising hell. Just like tiny clones of their parents... except less hell.
My life as a pregnant adult-sized baby living at home off of centrelink without money for necessities like high end makeup flashes before my eyes. Heart palpitations beat rapidly in my chest as my breathing gets heavy and hands sweat with nervousness at the thought of having to look after another person when I struggle to look after myself.
The sight of a customer walking to my counter allows me to calm down and breathe a sigh of relief. They are mid-chew on a hotdog. "Spit on my face," I whisper.
"Excuse me?" they ask.
"I said nice necklace," I smile warmly with the gratefulness of having a good job flowing through my veins, even if I complain a lot. They continue looking at me with an incredulous expression. My eyes drop to their bare neck. Shit.

Customer Disservice: Cats

"G'day," the old man greets with a stern look on his face. "'ow much would delivery be if I live just behind 'ere?" he asks as he wipes left over tomato sauce from his bushy grey moustache.
"Delivery will be $60," I say, smiling. Not because I'm being polite but because I'm thinking of cats. 
"Bloody 'ell," he looks at me like I stopped serving him Victoria Bitter at the local pub because he was too drunk and began getting aggressive with a few blokes at the pokies after having an argument with his wife about his drinking and gambling problems that are affecting their marriage and relationship with his kids. "Nah, I wouldn't pay that much," he says as if I had a single slither of a fuck to give, like I would fall to my knees and beg him to get his mattress delivered by us.

"Okay," I smile at him at he walks away, staring with my eyes glazed over and vacant. Cats.

Customer Disservice: Stupid Question

The customer tentatively reaches for the pen to fill out their home delivery form. I keep one eye focused on their sloth-like movements and another eye fixated on the computer screen, staring at Yonce's Met Gala dress.
"Beysus Christ," I whisper to myself in a Beyonce-induced trance.
"Excuse me?" I flinch at the customer's shrill voice. 
My left eye darts from their hands to their face and they recoil in what looks like fear. Or disgust. Both probably, as my eyes are set in completely different directions. They are bloodshot and watering from the strain and force of attempting to do my job while simultaneously worshiping Queen Bey.

"Fill out the form please," I request in my best robotic monotone voice as I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. Because it is.

The customer begins to fill out the form as I chant the lyrics to Partition in my head. My song prayer is cut short when the customer rudely clears their throat to speak. I close my eyes and brace myself.

"So, like," they begin to speak. I clench my eyes hard and breathe deeply through the nose, "when it says 'address', do you want the delivery address, or...?"

My intake of breath is abruptly cut short by the stupidity of the question I have heard too many times before. A strange, inhumane noise erupts from my throat that would make any experienced exorcist shit themselves. I exhale and regain my composure.

"No," I whisper as I open my eyelids, with both eyeballs now focused on the customer. As they are completely trapped in my soul destroying glare, I gently grab their wallet from the counter and put it in my skirt pocket. "Don't," I say, "don't give me the delivery address for your delivery for us to deliver your delivery to you."

The customer is confused. "Bu-," I shush them my pressing my soft sausage finger to their crusty lips.
"Shh, quiet," I coo. My three middle fingers begin to run up their fleshy face, catching on their top lip and nostrils. The customer's nervous sweat helps glide my fingers to their wrinkled forehead.

I place my palm flat on the large surface of their forehead and gently push them to the exit of the store.
We reach the doors and they automatically slide open. I push with my palm and they stumble backwards through the doors.

"Come back after you have thought about what you have done."

Customer Disservice: Public Holiday

"Your delivery is Monday," I say as the customer looks at me, wide eyed and confused like a deer in headlights. 
"M-monday?" they stutter. 
"Yes, Monday," I sigh in exasperation as this feels like the 2000th customer that can't fucking comprehend what I'm saying. There are six hours left of this. Six. Hours.
"But Monday is a... a public holiday?" they whisper, tears welling in their eyes as they stare into my dead gaze. I feel whatever is left of my soul melt in the fiery rage that is my frustration. They are baffled at the prospect of delivery being on a public holiday, as if it's an impossible feat.

"Yes," I say sternly, "Mon. Day."

Their brow furrows harder than mine when I'm trying to work out simple maths. Any harder and it would be death by brain strain. Is that possible, I wonder? I try to think of other ways to confuse them to test this theory.

"Easter Monday?" they once again question, interrupting my plans for their demise. "It is a public holiday, you know." They inform me, ignorant to that fact that some people still actually work public holidays. They inform me as if I wasn't counting down the days to be paid double time and a half for this shit.
I take in a deep breath and exhale loudly. How dare they?

Closing my eyes, I place my fingers on the side of my head and massage my temples. The background noise of children screaming and people sucking on one dollar hot dogs slowly drown out into a soft hum.
I take a deep breath in through my nose and then a shrill screech irrupts from the depths of my throat.
My eyes are clenched shut as I scream loud and hard. So hard that the muscles in my throat strain, swell and begin to bleed. Blood fills my throat quickly as my scream diminishes to a gargle, like a Listerine ad directed by Quentin Tarantino.

I collapse to the floor and violently choke, blood flooding from my mouth and onto the cement floor. With my last bit of strength I write a message in the crimson liquid. "Fuk u," the customer reads out loud as I close my eyes and smirk for the final time, finally at peace.