If I was a cretin I’d be typing FML right about now

It’s been a bad day.

If I tell you that watching the Rugby was one of the high points it’ll give you an idea of how bad it’s been (if you don’t know what rugby is, it’s a sport, probably the best loved sport in Wales and today we lost a world cup semi final against a mediocre French side through a combination of poor refereeing, bad luck and general Welshness).

At least the game had been entertaining despite the agonising finish.

The rest of the day passed in a parade of irritations and t***s.

A few days ago I broke a drawer on our freezer. At the time I hadn’t realised it had broken and when Llyw bought it up a few days later I was more surprised than apologetic, but thought that that was that.

So when he mentioned it again today it caught me by surprise. A fee for a replacement drawer was mentioned and I said I’d pay for it, being the guilty party, after all.

It turned out that this wasn’t the issue, L wanted an apology for the drawer S be felt my attitude in the whole thing had been disrespectful and that I didn’t seem to give a s**t.

Which I can kind of see, the freezer drawer appeared to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Various character flaws were rattled off, central to this being my apparent apathy.

(I must admit that at the time of the conversation it probably didn’t help that I seemed more intent on cooking my bacon, but you can’t keep a fat man from pork products, I think it might actually be Newton’s fourth law of motion)

Llyw reeled off an embarrassingly long list of character flaws and the usual root of strife in the house, my slobishness, testing enough for a norm but for a (and I hope he doesn’t take offence at this) neat freak like L must be nightmarish. It may be well and good in the Odd Couple, but in real life Jack Lemmon would have got well pissed off with Walter Mathau.

It was an annoying argument as I was too tired to engage really, and that Llyw was right on about 80% of the things. I hate arguing when I know I’m wrong, it just makes it harder.

Also as we’re moving out next month part of me is worried that I’m about to get ditched, and that the time we’ve lived together has just proved to Llyw that he’s outgrown me and my slacker ways. I fear I’m going to end up like Jesse.

I was slightly proud of myself as I did see an opportunity to try and play a guilt trip about Llyw being the one who decided to move out, but it would have been a low blow, and to be fair I couldn’t really resent Llyw’s decision- move out to live with your girlfriend who has sex with you or stay with your slob of a housemate who breaks your white goods. Its a no brainer.

But I did see it as I scrolled through my arsenal like something from Doom or something, but I’m glad that I left it on the rack.

I decided to go out this evening, it would give us both some space and I can take the hint that Llyw wanted to spend a quiet night in with Zoe. The hint being when Llyw told me this is what he wanted and that it was annoying that I was always around the place like a third, freezer destroying wheel.

So I caught a bus into Swansea, my plan being to go to the cinema. I almost missed the bus as I was fiddling with my new iPod Touch, which is becoming something of an obsession now, and on the bus the machine mangled my ticket. I should have seen this as an omen.

Checking my balance bought further bad news, I’d overspent a bit and while not in dire straits I may wind up lightly Knopflered come month’s end.

I crossed Castle square and I think my pinkish shirt caused some amusement among the teenage masses that congregate outside McDonalds. I heard one recently broken voice say “k—— him” but couldn’t catch the first word- kill, kiss, ceg? It wasn’t going to be good whatever it was, and I became aware that a small Emo was following me (I couldn’t determine gender, seriously, earthworms are easier to sex than Emos. I mean, sex as in determine sex, not in a Color Me Badd way)

If he/she/it was going to ceg me, he/she/it looked small enough that I was confident if I caught them I could take them down in a suitably dramatic fashion, perhaps even attempting a chokeslam.

It probably wouldn't have looked this cool.

Same goes for the kill theory. The kiss theory was the most inviting prospect, although if this was the case I had clearly been chosed due to my remarkable ugliness, which was a bit mean. I’m no looker, but as Swansea centre resembles that f***ed up bar in Star Wars (I can not tell a lie, I know its called the Mos Eisley Cantina, okay, I’m a geek, get over it), I’m far from the ugliest person who would’ve passed by.

Anyway, I got to the cinema and decided I’d check out The Three Musketeers, as my cinematic oracle Laura, had assured me that while daft it was quite good fun. Also, Real Steel seemed to be full of small children which ruled that out.

Could go two ways- bad or so bad its good

I queued and bought a ticket.

£9.50!

I know its a Saturday night but surely that was a bit steep. Ah, the dolt behind the counter had sold me a ticket for the wrong showing, he’d thought I’d wanted to see it in 3D (I didn’t. I loathe 3D films).

I requeued and explained the problem to another member of staff, who scurried off and returned with a form I had to sign. Seemed a bit needless, but I got the correct ticket and 2 quid back.

£7.50! Tch, in my day etc.

I had 45 minutes to kill so wandered over to McDs for some unhealthy comfort food, but the dietting gods smiled down upon me and there was a massive queue so I thought I’d just grab something at the cinema. As I queued I dug in my pocket for my ticket. It wasn’t there. I checked my other pocket. Nada. My wallet. Nyet. My back pockets. Non. My lower leg pockets. Nein.

I’d lost the cowing ticket. A black cloud settled over my head. It had been a long day. Wales had lost in the rugby, I’d argued with one of my best friends, I’d been laughed at and marked out for gang initiation/humiliation, I’d been forced to queue twice to get one cinema ticket, I’d forgone a Chicken legend and now I’d lost the cowing ticket.

I checked my pockets again, frantically patting myself down like a mime trying to put out a flaming pair of shorts.

It wasn’t there.

I left the cinema, and there on the floor outside was my receipt. Not the ticket. Just the receipt.

I took off grumbling and decided to make myself feel better by having a Subway tea. It kind of worked.

I caught a bus home where I viewed a pissed up skinhead harrass pretty much everyone and swear at a small child. Stay classy, Swansea.

I decided to get a pint in the pub where I amused myself by writing most of this on my iPod over a pint of Bow and then returned home.

Here’s hoping tomorrow’s better.

LLAP

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