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15 November 2021
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What a Fucking Day

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Now, I’m not sure if you’ve ever experienced any form of car troubles in your life but, if you grew up in a house, and with a family like mine, then car problems would have been at the top of your list, together with MAQ detergent, disposable razors, cigarettes and Red Door by Elizabeth Arden. I remember our Charade had Pratley putty doorknobs, and how my mom and Ivan, when she picked him up on her way to work, had to climb out of the boot because the door latches only worked on Tuesdays and on every second Sunday. 

We all remember this 

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My mom inherited her car troubles from grandma Mimi. She is 74 years old today and has been experiencing car troubles for 74 long years. She had a VW Beetle that had a backfire that took you back to 1945. I was always very embarrassed when she dropped me off at Aunty Rita’s Peacock’s Plume kindergarten. I called her Aunty Nayney when she picked me up from kindergarten, because I didn’t want my friends to know that she was family. She also had an Audi, it was just-just bigger than the RMS Titanic and was rusted in some parts on the inside all the way through to the tarmac. I remember how she once lost a lipstick through the rusted floor of the car on the way to Abby-Gail’s christening - that thing is still laying somewhere next to the N3 as we speak. And, if you know me well you would recall that somewhere along our journey in life together, I’ve told you about the fucking VW Jetta. There wasn’t a thing on this planet I hated, no, loathed more than that thing. Its left front wheel once came off as grandma Mimi took a turn at an uncomfortable speed, and went straight through aunty Baby’s living room window, over her brand new lounge set. Her poodle apparently shat himself but nail-bitingly survived the incident.

Only when she dropped me off at school, did Grandma Mimi realise that she’d been driving without a left front wheel for the last four kilometers. There are still signs of this day in my hometown. Poplar Street has a hell of a ditch just around the corner as you pass Mike’s café and up until this day Aunty Baby starts breathing fast when she hears a car, apparently she blasphemes now and breaks up short, but persistent, farts for 10 minutes long.

Anyways, I initially thought that I dodged the curse of car troubles. I mean at least I finished grade 12 and I have a university degree. These two achievements were big milestones in my family, everyone was at my graduation, and when I say everyone, I mean EVERYONE. I was under the impression that this would ensure a future without any car troubles, but boy was I wrong. I decided to get myself a car in Taiwan, its a very cute little thing if you ask me. It had all kinds of different buttons that didn’t work, a missing door latch, a radio, and a long scratch that stretches from the right indicator to the rear tail light. I was happy and content because at least it got me from point A to point B. I was very impressed the day I bought the car, I was definitely in an entirely different class now than 80% of the foreigners living on this island, and this was an idea that I could live with. I received a 12-month warranty, a picnic basket, and a baby with the car, and after a very long and uncomfortable talk with the dealer, I managed to convince him to give the baby to his next clients. I left the dealership that day with the Lord’s song in my heart.

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My cute little car

I am quite impressed with my car because you unlock its doors with a remote. I was the first person in our family who had the honour of driving a car like this. I had to send pictures to everyone. It was kind of a big deal and everyone in the family had all kinds of questions. My mom sometimes had to use a piece of wire, which she hooked through the window to unlock the Charade’s door, and I vaguely remember how grandma Mimi once threw a red brick through her Fiat’s window, otherwise she would have been late for work. I have to admit, it was a treat to have simply been able to press a button to gain access to your vehicle. Gone were the days of going through such extreme measures. My car had electric windows too, but this was too advanced for my family to understand, and that’s a story for another day.

Everything went really well except for the one time my car decided to overheat on the highway. I simply refused to stop and kept on driving until I reached a gas station. The assistant opened the bonnet and that was the last time I ever saw him. When he opened it, the water tank exploded and hurled him over two buildings. I later heard they found him four blocks away and that he now resides in Boston, Massachusetts. Another man then came to my assistance. Luckily, he couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t speak Chinese and we both just stood there staring deep into each others’ souls. It became uncomfortable and then I said; “It’s a piece of shit, never buy a Ford, do you know Simon and Garfunkel?”. He said something back in Chinese and we both laughed and then I bought a fuse or a spark plug or a thing, and off I went. I’ll be honest and say that this was the first- and the last time that I’ve had trouble with my car up until three years later on the afternoon of November 9, 2021.

It was a normal Wednesday morning, slightly overcast, the air was cool and I heard how the neighbour had struck his wife again. Don’t worry about it though, I did report this to our building supervisor and she told me that I shouldn’t be too concerned about this, because apparently the neighbour’s wife is a bit unhinged and she doesn’t leave her man in peace, so on occasion he’ll resort to violence. They are, however, very much in love and happily married.

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I decided to dress up this day, you know, one of those days that you look at yourself in the mirror just for that five seconds longer and then think that some day, somewhere, you’ll meet someone that will make your house a home. Anyhow, I looked fucking great, smelled like wealth, and I walked to my car. The neighbour’s wife was on the balcony, she lifted up her blouse and yelled in very broken English “Fuck you” and just then her husband threw an ashtray at her and she went back inside.

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Li used to work here

some reason, I’m struggling with my car’s remote. The thing doesn’t want to work properly and I’m starting to get a bit nervous and anxious because   if it  carries  on  like this I’m

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going to be late for work. I pressed my thumb’s nail blue and whispered something ugly under my breath and thank God it worked and my door was unlocked.

The Whore's tea eggs

The lesbians were busy sowing seed for the parakeets and waved at me when I drove past them. I got my two eggs from the whore, and so my journey to work started. When I got there, Janice Morrison took up my usual parking space, I honestly hate the bitch. I once caught her stealing French rolls from the school cafeteria and our relationship has been one of devious deceit and sabotage (the kind you see in an episode of Real Housewives of Mississippi), ever since.

I live in an exceptionally interesting road. On the corner lives a very nice whore who has been in the industry for the last 15 years. She always blesses me with gifts, ranging from small packets of overly salted peanuts to eggs that she had boiled in a broth of green tea. Three houses further down the road live two lesbians, Li and Vivian, who breed parakeets. Their English is very good, and usually when I experience some sort of trouble or problems, I’d call them to translate for me. It’s also a bonus that one of them used to be a policeman, “It’s always important to have contacts in the force”  my  mom  would say.  Today,  for 

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My Street
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I found a parking spot in a very flashy neighbourhood and Judith an immensely nice but nervous member of staff, bumped into me and told me that I looked very nice that day and that she liked my shoes and that she’s picked up knitting again. “Thank you, they were expensive” I responded, “I’m glad to hear that you’ve started knitting again, it keeps your hands out of trouble”. She’s been in five relationships in the past seven months and you can literally smell the sorrow and sadness in the yarn. I decided to rather not lock my car because I didn’t want to struggle like earlier with the remote not working properly. Don’t be alarmed, Taiwan is a very safe country.

Anxious Judith

By three PM that afternoon Rochelle Davidson asked me whether I remembered to bring her Tupperware back. Last week she baked another abominable thing or tart and decided to bring me a piece of whatever the fuck it was. It occurred to me that I did indeed remember to bring back her Tupperware, and that it was on the backseat of my car. “Yes, I have class now so I won’t be able to fetch it for you, but it is in my car. You can take my keys from my desk in the office, you’ll see it on the back seat” I said.

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Rochelle Davidson

The day flew by and it was finally time to go home. I still looked like earlier that morning, but a bit weathered and tired, after I caught Tracey-Leigh-Anne and Lady Gaga, two of my grade 12 students, for plagiarism and for sharing a cigarette in the girls bathroom. I was quite relieved to have had the day behind me. Rochelle Davidson missed the pedestrian crossing when she awkwardly gestured goodbye to me, and a yellow Toyota missed her by two centimeters. Books, pens, an earring, and a hairpiece went flying in all directions. As I got to my car I turned around and saw her picking up her belongings, there was a bald spot where the hairpiece was glued on earlier. “God, that poor woman” I thought, she’s never had a boyfriend and I consistently feel uncomfortable in her company. When I finally got to my car I opened the door and lo and behold, it was locked.

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success  because  since then we haven’t stopped throwing    things    when

they didn’t work. I took my keys and threw them, pretty hard, onto the road, pressed the button, but it was in vain. All of a sudden, I remembered that I didn’t need the remote but that I could simply, like before the year 2000, use the keys to unlock the car. Relieved, I inserted the keys and unlocked the door and that’s when it happened.

The alarm went off and it was the loudest, ugliest sound you’ve ever heard. The blast cuts through to the deepest part of your soul, a sound so unattractive it makes your eyes deaf. If poverty had a song it would have sounded like that. I pressed the remote like never before, the sweat beaded on my forehead, but nothing worked and here I stood, my car was screaming and everyone was looking at me. 

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Discouraged

was tremendously irritated, like the day when Stacey McDonald was thrown against the head with a piece of homemade soap, by a student from the Daphne Lee school for the disabled. “Stay calm, there are parents and students who can see you,” I said to myself, because I had a feeling that I, just like that morning, am going to struggle a lot. I pressed the remote but nothing happened. Ten minutes passed but my doors were still locked. It was then that I decided to use force, this I learned from my mother. Things were regularly thrown against our walls or on the floor in our house. It started in the winter of 1991 when she threw me against the wall after I  didn’t  want  to  stop  crying   and  puking,  and  apparently it was a

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Finished

Tracey-Leigh-Anne and Lady Gaga, in the park opposite me, gave me the finger and carried on smoking. I was in an absolute state, what must I do? No one speaks English and it didn’t really appear to me that anyone was interested in lending a hand. I decided to phone the two lesbians, who breed parakeets, and after 15, exceptionally long, minutes they finally arrived. In the meantime a homeowner came out and threatened me with a gun and a court case. 

The lesbians parked, immensely nervous, and handed me two tea eggs that the kind whore gave to them on their way here. Li, one of the lesbians, had a fuller figure and she reminded me of Calvin Adams’ mom who used to volunteer teaching sex education at Blessed Immelda, school for the deaf. She wore her Jodie Foster t-shirt and tightened her Velcro sandals, readjusted her penis and then proceeded to get her toolbox from the trunk of her Opel.

Pop the hood” she said as she rushed past me, I could smell that she didn’t wear deodorant that day. The other lesbian, Vivian, got out of the car, put her headlamp on, did a forward roll, a handstand, and a cartwheel until she landed on both of her feet right next to Li. Before I had the chance to say or do anything, Li already cut three wires, removed the bumper as well as 30% of my car’s engine. “God, Li” I thought, “Just stop, you feed parakeets for a living and now you’re sitting with my sump in your hands. “Can we call the police?” I yelled a bit hysterically and irritated. In the mean time the car alarm has not stopped wailing but it didn’t bother Li in the least. Back in the day, when she was a policeman, she lost 70% of her hearing in her left ear after a freak accident on a shooting range.

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When Li finally gave up, she wiped the sweat from her moustache, and told me that the only thing left to do is to disconnect the battery in order for the alarm to stop. I wanted to ask why she couldn’t think of this before she removed my entire engine, but Vivian, who handed her a number 14 plier or a spanner or something, interrupted me and Li disconnected the battery. Finally, after almost an hour of unthinkable humiliation the alarm was silent. Li ran her hand through her hair, spat on the sidewalk and told me to drive home with them and to leave my car next to the road. I could come back for it in the morning after I got my remote fixed she said, and readjusted her penis, picked up her toolbox and we got into the Opel. We listened to Avril Lavigne the whole way back, and my window was rolled down slightly because Li smelled like meagerness and destitution.

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To all intents and purposes the whore seemed worried because when we stopped at home, I found an entire battery of tea eggs in front of my door. The neighbour’s wife was sitting on her balcony on the second floor, leisurely puffing on her cigarette, resting her legs over the railing - she’s not wearing panties again I see. That night I ran myself a bath so warm you boil yourself into a blister. Somewhere in a kitchen cupboard behind a box of expired oats, I found Epsom salt and poured five cups and, half a glass of whiskey into the water. I laid back and tried to relax, the salt ate holes into my skin. Next door, it sounded as if the neighbour and his wife made peace, and in the distance I heard Li and Vivian’s parakeets.

Li lent me her monkey wrench and showed me how to reconnect my car’s battery before we left it there for the night. The next day, after work, I tried using the monkey drill but the last time I tried using tools I forgot to tighten a nut underneath the dining room table, and two weeks later we buried our Cocker Spaniel. I don’t know how those things work so I used tape and blue tack to try and reconnect my battery. Thank God it held together until I reached the mechanic. My remote’s battery was changed and it was now working like a homosexual in a sausage factory.

As I drove back home that afternoon I reminisced about grandma Mimi’s Fiat, Aunty Baby’s post traumatic fart episodes, the Pratley putty on our Charade’s doorknobs, and about Li’s Velcro sandals. Where is Stacey McDonald today? Everything was over now and life was back to normal. I drove over a parakeet. 

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What a fucking day.

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