First I could not find the invisible tape.
Then I stubbed my toe on the refrigerator. Now the fridge is suing for unlawful contact and cursing after it warned me repeatedly to “step away from the refrigerator, chunkette.”
At the bank, the line was so long I had to re-shave my legs. The teller looked at me suspiciously then abruptly shut her window. The next clerk was counting on his fingers just like I do so I felt comfortable. He urged me to stop placing threatening photos of Bonnie and Clyde on my checks and I agreed to desist if he would just deposit some currency from his account into mine every once in a while.
I did not hear his response but the guard who escorted me out of the building suggested I bank by mail with an offshore financial institute. Or he said something about an institute. I forget.
Learning that post offices soon may be closing in my area, I drove to the main branch. I took a number that either was for the next postal person or my zip code. One employee was filing her nails, two others were playing post office and giggling. A man in uniform looked at his watch and me every two seconds because it was close to 5 p.m. He then suggested I buy my stamps at the machine. That sounded sensible.
I inserted my dollar bills and they were promptly rejected. Being rejected by a beauty contest (as if that is even a remote possibility) is one thing — but a machine? I tried again. No luck. Not even an explanation such as “it’s not you, it’s me.” It is the not knowing why that still haunts me. How will I become a better person or a proper inserter without clarification?
I realize this was just one bummer day in a lifetime of joy. These wounds will heal. I believe there will be other banks and equipment that will find me suitable. In the scheme of things, I do have so much to be grateful for, since wine and chocolate have been deemed healthy. But I must keep asking why, oh why, can’t they prove that crisp bacon and margaritas with salt on the rim truly promote longevity.
I do not want to live in a world of exclusion and discrimination. I know only too well how that feels, thanks to bigoted money devices, humorless bankers, and ice boxes, too.
I need unconditional love; something that has never turned me down or vice versa. A margarita (the drink!) with rumaki sounds just perfect. (Water chestnuts wrapped with bacon, sometimes, chicken livers too, baked till crisp)
So delicious and comforting. Perhaps I’ll have two Margaritas. Afterward, finding a magic tape dispenser with a beeper may no longer be first on my bucket list.
This day may turn out swell after all.