The Lugy

I won the other lottery last week. I got a job.

“Congratulations,” my new boss told me over the phone, “your hours are 8:30 am to 6 pm. Sometimes you’ll do overtime – no extra pay.”

“Thank you!” I gushed. See, I was OK with a low paying, long hours job, because it was a job! I put in as much effort into my job hunt as some do getting laid. And in this economic sh*t-time, I was OK with f*cking the fat kid.

Today was my first day. I was so pumped I woke up at 5 am in a sweaty panic (“Did I oversleep??”), and then again at 7 am, dead tired, of course.

Everything was going great: Great shower, great breakfast, great music playing as I put on my great outfit. I was ready for the day. Or so I thought.

I passed the homeless shelter on my way to the subway. I always pass it, no big deal. However, I was thrown off guard when the crazy woman spit on me.

“Noooo,” in slow motion, is what I would have sounded like if this had been a movie. But instead all I got out was, “Nuh-!” because everything happened in real time, which was way too fast. I looked down at my silk shirt: the brown and yellow lugy did not go with my outfit at all.

I turned back to the woman, who for some unknown reason was ready for a fight. “You think you’re better than me?” She screamed.

“You’re obviously better than I am at spitting, you bitch!!” I shrieked back at her, and stormed off.

The bottle of water I bought got rid of most of the mucus, but not the slimy feeling that had invaded my insides. Luckily I was still on time for work, but I couldn’t share my outrageous story with any of my colleagues. The first day of work was not the right time to tell a story that involved screaming and cursing in its retelling.

So thanks readers, for letting me share my story with you. And never let anyone tell you that winning the lottery doesn’t come at a price. Tomorrow, I’m walking on the other side of the street.