Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Milk, Milk, Lemonade

I am not having a very good day today. Asides from being told by by Skin Candy manager Hollie Shannon I am not entitled to a refund on the tattoo that was clearly inked against my specifications, I had to endure a man asking me what time I finished work, in lieu of asking me for payment in the newsagents round the corner from work this morning.

Me from the past doesn't put things quite so eloquently.

Last week he'd been asking me whether I lived in the area. "No, I work around the corner". As usual, wary I'd already volunteered too much information, I skedaddled back to the office.

I've had to stop going to the newsagents near my house because of a similar gentleman.

One night I stopped by at the same time he happened to be finishing his shift. We struck up a conversation that was pleasant enough. But then I wondered whether he was genuinely heading home, or fancying his chances. I thought I could either walk for miles and pretend I lived somewhere else, or I could just duck into my house. Being cream-crackered, I foolishly chose the latter option.

So now I have to endure conversations like "You're really lucky to be living round the corner".

Yeah, really lucky to be living in Hove, a guaranteed half hour walk EVERY TIME, from wherever I need to go.

"Why don't you get the bus then Karen?" you cry.

"Because it's full of weirdos like him!" I explain.

And then the trouble is you're stuck with them in a tin vessel, while they perv at you, invade your personal space, either being mildly irritating or terrifying the bejesus out of you.

Last time, Newsie Bloke near me said, "you don't come in here often enough! You should be in here every day! If you don't come in, I'll come round your house!"

I don't go there anymore.

Coming back today, I was struck by a wild thirst for lemonade.

This being related to eating/drinking, it was a craving perfectly suited to Twitter.com:

Then this exchange occured, perfectly demonstrating lack of humour at Brighton's local paper, The Argus, lack of empathy towards residents, and poor investigative journalism skills.

I can't tell if that's an actual thing, or yet more sarcasm.

A shame Sarah Booker-Lewis is so busy running a newspaper website (i.e. pissing about on Twitter) that she didn't bother to take a few seconds to scroll through my tweets. She might've found a juicy story about a dodgy tattoo shop to report on.

I pretty much mention harassment whenever it occurs. It's not a "hey woe is me I'm so purrrdy I get hit on all the time" kinda thing. I don't think that at all. Generally due to the calibre of men delivering harassment, and because of things like bets at school to hit on the ugly chick - a.k.a. moi. There's still a part of me that thinks that's why it happens. Because I'm funny-looking.

Oh yeah, I had a group of men discussing me like I couldn't hear on the way back from the tattoo place and all.

The point is: FUCKING GET ANGRY. Report this shit, ladies. Tweet it. Blog it. Call anti-social behaviour lines. Take licence numbers, take mental notes of appearance. Write down what exactly was said. Stop ignoring it. Stop brushing it off as 'normal', because then it WILL become the norm.

Get. Angry.

Anger is an energy.