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Tuesday, 19 March 2013

The Extremely Agitated State of the Short Distance Driver



I’m rather...

Annoyed that I told you to put out the cigarette, but you had to have the last drag in the cab, inhaling deeply like it was your last breath and blow it in my face, you’re smiling at the rebel in you that’s saying “Hey dude! I just dumped my shit on you! Ha!” Cunt

Angry that you think that even when you are politely told to please not eat in the cab, you think it’s “The thing” to carry on eating and deny you are even doing it. Permeating my clothes with the smell of your deep fried and reheated meat, my workspace stinks, my twelve hour imprisonment in this three square yards of tin and plastic. Fuck you and your wet greasy mouth and fingers that you have just wiped on my seats.

Disgusted that pumping your girlfriends pussy with your fingers is ok for me to watch, smell and hear. You feel the smug master of your moment over a female and me, the fateful me that is meant to be grateful. Bastard. I don’t want to touch your gonorrhea’d shilling.

Incredulous that your cursing and wildly gesticulating diatribe and droplets of spit hitting my face, my open mouthed face, my trying to reason with you face, all the while drinking in your projectile spit. Why? It’s costing you fifty pence too much. Your £400K house is nice with great kerb appeal as I sit outside it, grateful for any money at all for my work, my £5.70, my time, my fear. You strut away like a gladiator, walk away you imbecilic fool, I am less of a man now, another bit of me chipped away, humanity draining job of mine. I dream. Daydream in the dead of night with rain and fog as ever-constant companions. The indicator ticking away my soul. I dream of killing you. For fifty pence, yes, killing you, thinking no more of it and having a cup of tea as my prize. Fuck you for making me feel this way. Fuck you to hell.

You make me feel dishonest, my betrayal of mind, my betrayal as my phallus reacts to your grinding in your seat and fumbling at my crotch. Your breasts ample and willing to give, you’re playing the game, I don’t want to play the game and feel your anger of being rejected. My own being has betrayed me. My mind thought about it, even willing me on. My life could have been in tears. Your wetness can fuck off, I hate you for making me betray my path of love for my beloved, guilt ridden still for casting away your willing temptation. My bastard erect betrayed me. Fuck off whore, wife of another, teacher of children. Fuck off.

I won’t thank you for making me tearful. Your wife soon to depart with ovarian cancer eating away, with itself not caring that its own cancerous demise is coming soon. I won’t thank you whilst you pour your tear sodden grief into my soul. I sit with you and hold your hand. My mind is blessing you and your children. You should not have gone out to be cheered up. 

You shouldn’t have gone out at all.