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A little Myra story time.
My bank consultant: "So, at which interest rate are we? 7.51?
Me: "Sounds familiar.. But I'm not that good with numbers."
Him: "Yeah, to be honest: Neither am I."
My face: O_o
----
So, a few weeks ago my colleague and me were sitting in front of the tattoo shop to smoke a cigarette. The shop is located in one of the most gentrificated parts of town, which once was a dear home to junkies, punks, gay bikers and other social outcasts, but sadly has become a line-up of vegan coffee shops and hip clothing parlors. And with the coffee shops, of course, come the mothers and their their offspring. And a perfect example of said offspring, about five years old, approached me and just stood there, plain looking at my face. The mother was nowhere to be seen, of course. So that kid stood there... and spat on my foot.
I just snapped.
Jumped on my feet and hollered at top of my lungs at that non-educated piece of crap about, you know,you just don't spit on people's feet, for fuck's sake!
It started bawling and took of to its mum, which seemed to sit outside the coffee shop two shops next to ours. I stayed where I was, waiting for infuriated mum to come over (she had heard me very clearly, I mean, the whole street had) and yell at me. It took her about a minute to approach me with her still sobbing litter, but instead of making a ruckus she looked at it and asked: "So, what do you say?"
And the kid replied: " 'm sorry."
Maybe there is hope.
----
Another day, I was sitting there with another colleague, a tattoo artist. He was debating on whether or not to get his hands tattooed.
" Sheesh, why not? You're a tattoo artist. Tattooed hands come more or less with the job description."
" Yeah, maybe... But I mean, they're my hands! That's a huge step, getting your hands tattooed."
At that point, I just started looking at him in that "Please let this...
My bank consultant: "So, at which interest rate are we? 7.51?
Me: "Sounds familiar.. But I'm not that good with numbers."
Him: "Yeah, to be honest: Neither am I."
My face: O_o
----
So, a few weeks ago my colleague and me were sitting in front of the tattoo shop to smoke a cigarette. The shop is located in one of the most gentrificated parts of town, which once was a dear home to junkies, punks, gay bikers and other social outcasts, but sadly has become a line-up of vegan coffee shops and hip clothing parlors. And with the coffee shops, of course, come the mothers and their their offspring. And a perfect example of said offspring, about five years old, approached me and just stood there, plain looking at my face. The mother was nowhere to be seen, of course. So that kid stood there... and spat on my foot.
I just snapped.
Jumped on my feet and hollered at top of my lungs at that non-educated piece of crap about, you know,you just don't spit on people's feet, for fuck's sake!
It started bawling and took of to its mum, which seemed to sit outside the coffee shop two shops next to ours. I stayed where I was, waiting for infuriated mum to come over (she had heard me very clearly, I mean, the whole street had) and yell at me. It took her about a minute to approach me with her still sobbing litter, but instead of making a ruckus she looked at it and asked: "So, what do you say?"
And the kid replied: " 'm sorry."
Maybe there is hope.
----
Another day, I was sitting there with another colleague, a tattoo artist. He was debating on whether or not to get his hands tattooed.
" Sheesh, why not? You're a tattoo artist. Tattooed hands come more or less with the job description."
" Yeah, maybe... But I mean, they're my hands! That's a huge step, getting your hands tattooed."
At that point, I just started looking at him in that "Please let this...
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