I got drunk on red wine last night. For a part of my uni course I had to find an entrepreneur, interview him/her and conclude my findings. I decided to interview the man that owns the shop I work for. I had originally opted to interview him over email but when invited out for dinner, although the thought scared me more than the idea of fisting, I knew I had to go. The location was a Vietnamese restaurant and I somehow managed to refuse a starter so I wouldn't be seen as a lard ass and then choose the hottest thing on the menu. I handle spices the way I handle a cheese toastie, pretty well, so I thought everything would be fine. But no. I managed to bite into a huge jalepeno chilli which set my beak a bubbling and my eyes a dribbling and all I had to wash it down with was a bottle of red wine. I chugged and I chugged and my interviewee watched in horror as I drained glass after glass of the potent stuff which I can never usually drink. I was then wasted, like non-focusing wasted, for a good hour and can't remember much of what I was told in that space of time. I took notes which help me as much as low fat cheese helps a hangover because my drunkeness led to very drunken scrawls which wouldn;t look out of place in a nursery school sandpit. My usual quiet, madly blushing self had even started to get quite vocal when I was aware of the 'birthday party' sat beside us getting their coats. I had already noticed the gobby chick with a face longer Dumbledore's beard who clapped and whooped as she pretended to down her flaming Sambuca. I had already seen her looking at me oddly at least 4 times throughout the course of the evening. But when they stood up to leave, and most of the others had left the building and were tucked up in bed, she was still there, lingering like a Cranberry. She said to the boy who hadn't taken his beanie hat off all night to try and disguise his lank hair that was popping out the bottom, "I can't do it?" When he enquired as to what she was talking about, she blatently turned to face me, even made eye contact and nodded her head in my direction. I felt my blush grow up my neck and work it's way through to my toes. Never have I felt so uncomfortable in my life. Everyone knows I'm more paranoid than a habitual pot smoker but this was no paranoia. I was the only person in the vacinity that that head motion could have been directed at. Clearly a few options went through my mind, 1) She thought I was famous (come one, sure I look like someone famous and cool??!) 2) The boy fancied me (well he was not entirely beautiful and I had seen him looking at me once) 3) she fancied me (her and her flouncy fairyness could
have wanted a sniff of the rug, really) or 4) they were laughing at me. This was the most likely. Maybe my blouse had become dishevelled or maybe I had a red pepper in my teeth, or maybe in my drunken, lolling state I had haphazardly drawn on my face. I went to the toilet, careful not to knock anything out of place, careful to leave my hair as it was, careful to leave my blouse as it was so I could view myself in the mirror as they had seen me. There was nothing untoward as I gazed at my reflection. My blouse remained closed, my hair was still as in place as it ever gets, and when I smiled that crooked smile, displaying 23 teeth at once, there was no stray veggies. So what the hell were they looking at? I also discounted the possiblity completely of being checked out by the boy because I didn't look good that evening. The rain had played havoc with my hair, I had the biggest embryo on my face and my eyes were baggy beneath my squint glasses. I don't care actually. No that's a lie. For some reason I care far too much about what other people think about me. But I was just glad they didn't come over and say something which would have definitley embarrassed me 10 times more than her just glaring at me in that rude fashion, like I didn't have feelings, like it was prefecty acceptable for her to make me feel as comfortable as a tough turd. Or maybe I do wish they the cow had come over so I could have shown her the wrath of my extra spicy meal. Good lord, I prayed the wind would not come over dinner, as we were served our coffee. I had images of my questions being punctuated by leathal farts but luckily for my parents I saved it all up for when I got home. Spicy food does give you personal space, it's great. I mean, no way will those stale old people stand too close to me in the bus queue today and no one will be asking me to bend down and retrieve their fallen glove for fear of bif skiddage. Wind is wonderful. I'm sure there is a song in there. I apologise for sharing possibly too much information but just be glad you are not sat next to me and my hot ass today. I don't think you'd get out alive.
And I'm late for work. It's 10.25 am and I start at 10 am. I have yet to make the call that says 'daddy, i have ring sting, I will be late' because right now all I can think about is how upset The Queen will be if I really have lost the spool containing pictures of her beloved whore Jordan. She was so small you wouldn't have seen her in the photos anyway.
Tis time that I must go and attend to this out of control hair which hasn't been cut since january and is spilt end central and also I go to see if I qualify for the title of Miss Flatulance 2002. Quite probably.