So there I was again. At the goddamned YMCA for my daily swim.
Some Jesus freak, who first Jesus’d me back in December, stopped me in the hallway this morning (by physically blocking my path to the pool), in order to tell me how much “better” I look. And then, she proceeded to have a great idea: “You should open your own ballet studio!”
Go ahead and twist that knife the Universe shoved into my back, why doncha?
Obviously, she has never been a business owner, or worked tirelessly, trying to keep a business afloat. Let alone tried to do it while crippled, in unyielding pain, and on drugs. “Whatever.” I grumbled at her, “You can see that my leg is shaking. I have to get in the water.”
I walked away.
I limped out to the pool deck.
Some overly cheerful aquaciser, full of saccharine and straddling a noodle, yelled out to me “I like your shirt!”
I was wearing whatever shirt I slept in. I looked down: a wrinkled green tee that says “ACHIEVER” on it.
It’s a reference to The Big Lebowski. It’s a reference I knew this lady didn’t get. I scoffed. “Yeah, thanks.”
She then chimed (in a sing-song sounds-like-someone’s-got-a-case-of-the-Mondays tone of voice),”Uh oh, looks like you’re in a bad mood today.”
Oh no, she di’nt… “I’m in a bad mood every day,” I snapped back.
She then tried to argue that I am not actually in a bad mood every day because I don’t look like I’m always in a bad mood…
I kept walking, but started uncontrollably muttering a bunch of stuff under my breath walking to my deck chair. I probably bore an embarrassing resemblance to Yosemite Sam. “As if I’m supposed to be in a good mood for you” … “Who are you to argue with me about how I feel!?”… “You think I want to come here? That this is fun for me?” … “How dare you judge me based on how you think I look!”
And punctuating the half out loud rant: a hearty “fuck you, lady.”
She may or may not have heard me. I don’t think I care.