Whinge-fest

I'm alive and have managed to resist punching anyone in the face thus far... which was a major achievement considering the mood I was in last week. Mind you, the skanky chick that threw herself into my path during my mad dash for lunch today obviously didn't realise the risk she was taking. It might be for charity but that doesn't give her the god given right to be obnoxious. And dress like a "giving it away for free cause noone would pay for it" trollop. DO NOT GET BETWEEN ME AND MY BOOK READING DURING MY LUNCH BREAK!

Don't get me wrong, it isn't that I'm tight fisted. It's just that I have, with due consideration, chosen three charities that I donate to monthly, and that is as much as I can afford. Normally I explain this, but as she was the third of these red clipboarded types to step in front of me in a matter of three minutes, my patience had worn thin. She got away with a grunt and sidestep.

While I'm on a whinge... what in god's name have I done wrong in my life that I am condemned to spend my days trying to avoid the unpleasant sight of arsecracks everywhere?? On the train, in the lift, in the shops, anywhere that requires the slightest bending and WHAMMO. Bum crack galore. I don't care how much you paid for your crack and flap wax... I don't want to see it!!! Once it was just a well earned right of the brickie, unable to keep his shorts any higher due to his equally well earned beer gut, to flash a bit of bum cleavage. But now, every second woman seems to be spending her life hitching up her duds over the not so subtle g-string. I mean, if I was still a smoker, at least it would give me somewhere to ash... but as it is, I can see no benefits. Cover it up girls and boys.

Ok, used up all my whinge vouchers... going muttering off to bed.

Till next time.