Blog #3- F*** Off
Thank god the police had come just a few days earlier. Their questions would be a lot harder to answer now.
When they came by the cutlery museum I put up with their questioning for a bit, but soon enough they were beginning to get on my already fraying nerves and I basically told them to fuck off. I actually did tell them "fuck off". Luckily, right as the bigger officer's face was contorting into what was sure to be a mighty scolding, the other officer caught a hint of the weed and they took off towards the back. Their pursuit of the kids left them in no mood to deal with my "bullshit" as they called it.
Today, on the other hand, started out much better. My mom and I actually had a nice conversation this morning over our mutual hate of Councilman Randall and and feta cheese. Then I had an amazing conversation with my boss, Bret. Not amazing really, but any interaction with him leaves me hot and flustered.
I don't know what it is about him. He's not a handsome man. Not sexy or even cute really. But something about his slight sulkiness, his mannerisms, his unattainability...
Anyways, we had our short interaction and everything was well. Until I was returning from taking out the trash and saw one of the forks out of place in the "history of the three-tined fork" exhibit. I decided to fix it. Why was this the one time I decided to be motivated?
The knife was well hidden. I found it mostly by luck...luck isn't the right word. The light glinted off it from a dark corner of the case, hiding under the folds of the curtains. As I moved the curtain and uncovered the blood-spattered knife, my CSI instincts instantly kicked in. I'd spent enough of my procrastination watching police procedurals to know not to touch the evidence. I ran to the cafe, grabbed a couple napkins, and returned to the exhibit to collect the evidence.
Where was the Frankie that would just forget it? If I had seen myself just a day earlier I would have been astounded that I didn't ignore it and leave the knife behind. But that wasn't the same Frankie somehow.
I grabbed the knife and realized this was as far as I knew what to do. I walked aimlessly to the break room, careful not to touch the knife with my bare hands and found myself face to face with my two coworkers, Bret included, clutching knives of their own.
"Frankie where the hell did you find that knife?!"
Bret snapped me out of my stupor.
"I--"
When they came by the cutlery museum I put up with their questioning for a bit, but soon enough they were beginning to get on my already fraying nerves and I basically told them to fuck off. I actually did tell them "fuck off". Luckily, right as the bigger officer's face was contorting into what was sure to be a mighty scolding, the other officer caught a hint of the weed and they took off towards the back. Their pursuit of the kids left them in no mood to deal with my "bullshit" as they called it.
Today, on the other hand, started out much better. My mom and I actually had a nice conversation this morning over our mutual hate of Councilman Randall and and feta cheese. Then I had an amazing conversation with my boss, Bret. Not amazing really, but any interaction with him leaves me hot and flustered.
I don't know what it is about him. He's not a handsome man. Not sexy or even cute really. But something about his slight sulkiness, his mannerisms, his unattainability...
Anyways, we had our short interaction and everything was well. Until I was returning from taking out the trash and saw one of the forks out of place in the "history of the three-tined fork" exhibit. I decided to fix it. Why was this the one time I decided to be motivated?
The knife was well hidden. I found it mostly by luck...luck isn't the right word. The light glinted off it from a dark corner of the case, hiding under the folds of the curtains. As I moved the curtain and uncovered the blood-spattered knife, my CSI instincts instantly kicked in. I'd spent enough of my procrastination watching police procedurals to know not to touch the evidence. I ran to the cafe, grabbed a couple napkins, and returned to the exhibit to collect the evidence.
Where was the Frankie that would just forget it? If I had seen myself just a day earlier I would have been astounded that I didn't ignore it and leave the knife behind. But that wasn't the same Frankie somehow.
I grabbed the knife and realized this was as far as I knew what to do. I walked aimlessly to the break room, careful not to touch the knife with my bare hands and found myself face to face with my two coworkers, Bret included, clutching knives of their own.
"Frankie where the hell did you find that knife?!"
Bret snapped me out of my stupor.
"I--"
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