The Germans make me feel poor - more booth-strife.
I don't really know exactly what it is I do that makes people go mad.
My first four boyfriends decided to flee the country (America, Spain, and Skåne respectively). My first two roommates thought that I would be better off living somewhere else. (Hudiksvall, Hell.) My last hamster continuously tried to escape under the cracks under doors, until the day it got cancer of the gonads and found Jesus. Hopefully literally.
But it doesn't really end there. The tourists are next. Because my reign of terror has now reached the hems of my booth. Albeit I've gotten used to the regular weirdos, who were weird before they knew me, those who tape shut my both door and those who confide in me about conspiracies to whack them in their sleep, but today I met The German Tourist.
The German Tourist walks up to me with a perfectly fine one way ticket to oen of our pricier destinations.
"Skavsta?"
Yes, I smiled back at him, glancing at his ticket.
"It's gate 24, next one leaving in 15 minutes."
"How much?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"No. No. I GO Skavsta. How much?"
I pointed at his ticket, the front of which displayed the price. he starts thumbing a wad of twenties he fished out from his coatpocket.
"But you have a ticket?"
"I WANT TO GO SKAVSTA."
"But...the ticket? you have one already...ich bein Gut!"
"how much? Ticket!"
I informed him of the price again. The man wanted a ticket, and by golly, he was going to get one. Perhaps I'd been mistaken. Perhaps I'd dozed off while he was explaining his need for a second ticket and awoken confused and with yellow crud in the corners of my eye. A stupifying brain diease. A rare smarts-stealing dwarf dancing on my head. I don't know. I accepted the man's money and printed a new ticket for him. Upon which he quickly tore up his old unused ticket, in preference of the fresh ink that I presented, and quickly made his way from the booth, casting glances over his shoulder, possibly to makes sure that I was not in pursuit.
If neither he nor I was mad, I had to ask myself - why was this man tearing up money? Where do these people come from, that they can tear up money ? I'd like to live there. I would roll in their scraps, and feel just a shade more complete.
My first four boyfriends decided to flee the country (America, Spain, and Skåne respectively). My first two roommates thought that I would be better off living somewhere else. (Hudiksvall, Hell.) My last hamster continuously tried to escape under the cracks under doors, until the day it got cancer of the gonads and found Jesus. Hopefully literally.
But it doesn't really end there. The tourists are next. Because my reign of terror has now reached the hems of my booth. Albeit I've gotten used to the regular weirdos, who were weird before they knew me, those who tape shut my both door and those who confide in me about conspiracies to whack them in their sleep, but today I met The German Tourist.
The German Tourist walks up to me with a perfectly fine one way ticket to oen of our pricier destinations.
"Skavsta?"
Yes, I smiled back at him, glancing at his ticket.
"It's gate 24, next one leaving in 15 minutes."
"How much?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"No. No. I GO Skavsta. How much?"
I pointed at his ticket, the front of which displayed the price. he starts thumbing a wad of twenties he fished out from his coatpocket.
"But you have a ticket?"
"I WANT TO GO SKAVSTA."
"But...the ticket? you have one already...ich bein Gut!"
"how much? Ticket!"
I informed him of the price again. The man wanted a ticket, and by golly, he was going to get one. Perhaps I'd been mistaken. Perhaps I'd dozed off while he was explaining his need for a second ticket and awoken confused and with yellow crud in the corners of my eye. A stupifying brain diease. A rare smarts-stealing dwarf dancing on my head. I don't know. I accepted the man's money and printed a new ticket for him. Upon which he quickly tore up his old unused ticket, in preference of the fresh ink that I presented, and quickly made his way from the booth, casting glances over his shoulder, possibly to makes sure that I was not in pursuit.
If neither he nor I was mad, I had to ask myself - why was this man tearing up money? Where do these people come from, that they can tear up money ? I'd like to live there. I would roll in their scraps, and feel just a shade more complete.
