Notes From A Walkman Junkie: Sometimes I Overreact
So I was having a Snapple on a typical evening at work in the gallery when a gaggle of shrieking teenage girls walked in — disturbing my once-peaceful Snapple fact (there are more chickens in the world than people) bliss. The intrusive pack consisted of five girls, each equally loud and all sharing the predilection for using the word ‘like’ more than anyone ever should. Though I tried desperately to ignore the senseless garble, one of the girls’ shrill voices was overwhelmingly present as she relayed the results of her recent physic reading. She spoke of the following discoveries and revelations: She is going to marry a man whose name starts with either a P, R or T — let’s just say it will start will start with a letter. She is going to have twins and “be like famous, like, overseas”, and music and water will always be a part of her life — I would have added eating, sleeping, and breathing just for good measure. I then offered a silent prediction of my own — if I had to endure one more minute of her incessant yammering, she would be flogged with whatever I happened to find handy — mainly hula hoops, gnomes and sparkly balls.
After a while (what seemed to be the duration of the entire Lord Of The Rings trilogy back to back), the strident group of gals finally left and I assumed that my evening was bound for improvement. Regretfully, this was not the case. The evening was drawing to a close and I began my very specific (OCD) process of closing down the gallery. Mistakenly, I decided to change things up a bit and take the trash out through the back before finishing my usual closing ritual (nothing weird). I locked the front door and headed out the back to dispose of the trash. Just as the back door firmly clamped shut behind me, I remembered that it locks automatically. Though I knew I was in a bit of a bind as my keys, purse and phone were locked inside, I remained level-headed (immediately started to panic, sweat and cry). I quickly devised a reasonable plan (marching aimlessly down the street, sobbing, with a bag of trash), but soon came up with a slightly better solution — turning back, pitching the trash — more sobbing — then swiftly trotting towards my friend’s house who lives nearby.
I knocked on his door, calmly (long, steady, rapid knocks in between pacing back and forth, weeping) waited for him to come downstairs, and collectedly (hyperventilating — there was snot involved) presented my minor dilemma: “I’m locked (huh-hee) out of the (huh-hee) gallery and have (snot) no phone (huh-hee) and (cough) no keys and (huh-hee) no car and (wheeze) no apartment (huh-hee) and no bunny (wheeze again) and no sushi — now we (more snot) can’t get (huh-hee) sushi.” Fortunately my friend (who could both breathe and form rational sentences) was able to contact one of my coworkers allowing me to once again have keys, a phone, a car, an apartment, a bunny, and sushi.
I am attaching Saturday by Electrelane as it was the song that happened to be playing in the gallery while the back door slammed behind me–hence, briefly ruining my life.