Today I drove only 200km, but by the end of the day (9am-4pm) after listening to the same CD four times before realising how much I hated it and then being forced to sit in silence as there was too much Justin-freaking-Beiber on the radio, I came to the conclusion that driving a lot sucks sweaty, hairy, Portuguese, male prostitute ass.
I help manage the Cape Town branch of a promotion company. I loved the work, it was great fun- until today when I had to go to each of the events which were taking place in order to take photos of my “little sweetheart” promoters.
Milnerton->Tokai->Parow->N1 City->Brackenfell->Franschoek->Milnerton.
Fuck. My. Life.
I thought I would be clever and take supposed “shortcuts” which resulted in the trip being about two hours longer. It also took me into what a friend of mine refers to as “gum country” where I feared gangs of teenage miscreants standing at street corners; wearing black pleather jackets over white wife-beaters, baggy jeans which somehow floated just below their rectums and boots with metal toes.
Most of the “women” had crew cuts with tattoos of skulls and snakes on the back of their heads. They all had hardcore arm muscles and chains hanging out of their pockets. It was weird. I think they must shop at the same place as the miscreants. It's either that, or the fashion in “gum country” doesn’t vary much.
The men around town either looked like the above mentioned miscreants/”women” or would be accompanied by what seemed to look like an average family. These families were very sparse but the one common link between all of them, was that the fathers all carried kids on their shoulders. Letting them roam free on the ground obviously wasn’t a wise move, as a metal-toed boot could make easy contact with a small child’s head.
Another issue which I encountered is that at each and every parking lot I managed to lose my car, Geraldine. All the parking lots were built large enough to house the cars of the whole of the Asian Empire. I was already at a disadvantage as I have no geographical skills whatsoever and now I had to deal with this madness too:
In Franschoek I felt a glimmer of hope as I got to eat about 18kg’s of cheese at the Cheese and Wine Festival. Problem was that half the crowd was as hammered as the folk on the Tiger dancefloor at 3am. Avoiding them was the trick. Anyone whose eyes were glazed over and had a swerve in their step was to be avoided at all costs or you risk them trying to lean on you for support, attempt to engage you in riveting conversation or, as I witnessed (thankfully) from a distance, throwing up on your shoe.
All in all on a scale of 1 – incredible, I would give my day a particularly average 4. No, I lie; I would give it -2.53. It was a really, really crap day. In the larger scheme of things I rate I should stop being such a whiny bitch. But right now that’s exactly what I am: a whiny, complaining bitch.
And on that note, in the wise words of a friend: “Puberty is going to hit Justin Beiber harder than Chris Brown hit Rihanna”. Damn is he a whiny bitch.
