I come upstairs to find ALL the lights on. It doesn't make much sense to me, how a 16 year old girl who takes up less than one metre squared space requires six light bulbs to illuminate her immediate vicinity. And when I very politely point this out, I receive the eye roll and sigh, which very accurately communicates the 'I really don't give a shit about anything you're saying but if I attempt to pretend to care maybe you'll dissolve into thin air and I can stare at the wall in peace' whilst not actually communicating a whole lot. Well excuse me for being a complete smeghead but I didn't sit in the dark for an hour last Saturday night for Earth Hour to have all my saved energy wasted by my visually impaired sister. Actually, it should have been renamed NSW hour, as apparently we are the only ones on the entire planet who want to think we're doing something about global warming. Hah. Don't get me started.
And now the taps are running what little is left of Warragamba Dam down the drain faster than the groinal thrusting speed of my ex-boyfriend's sex starved mutt, whilst she is most likely standing in front of mirror waging Battlestar Clearasil with her pimples and redecorating the mirror for the third time this week. And its only Tuesday.
Perhaps now is the time to go undercover and conduct a reconnaissance mission in the deepest, darkest depths of her room, which I quite fondly refer to as the Pit of Doom, in search of my favourite black bra. For reasons unknown, my underwear seems to migrate into the Pit of Doom from time to time, most likely to be worn for the Boyfriend from Hell. Ugh. Not that I want to be thinking about that in too much depth, but the drawer environment of the Pit of Doom is distinctly Third World compared to my silken lined lingerie drawer. Hey, its called the Pit of Doom for a reason.
Work tomorrow. Which isn't the best idea in the world since I'm now generally so rude to the customers that the company's probably operating at a loss having me there. I do, in fact, think I am turning into Dylan Moran. I find myself yelling at the old ladies 'Come on, the shops is closed, everybody get out' and worse 'Do have you to bring this jumper back? Because now I'll have to write it up as a refund, re-price it, find a hanger for it and somewhere for it to hang, only to have someone else buy it and return it again later because its so hideously ugly and why didn't I realise before?' Then my boss inevitably gets the shit at me and I start calling her a smegheaded gimboid. She just laughs idiotically, having no idea in slightest what I am on about, because she's American, and lets face it, they don't a clue about anything.
Come to think of it, my life is beginning to turn into a British comedy show. No normal person has incorporated words such as 'smeghead' and 'gimboid' into their everyday vocabulary.
Ha ha ha. So true.