Note: I was originally going to post this entry two days ago, but due to getting tied up with work and a series of evening plans, that didn’t end up happening. Fortunately, today is another day. So read this as if it happened … Well … Two days ago. Also, I should really be out of my apartment right now and doing things with my life instead of sitting myself down in front of my computer and writing again, but dude. That day was fucking crazy — this needs to be recorded before my aging brain forgets it. Enjoy.
I’m usually inclined to believe that my life is a series of ridiculous events that I am absolutely positive do not happen to “normal” people. After this morning-to-afternoon, My Twitter following can easily confirm the tragic comedy that is my existence, as I spent most of my day tweeting out the incidents as they happened.
To provide further insight on the chaotic mess of it all, I’ve decided to recount today’s clusterfuck in one convenient blog post here on heycheri.com. You’re welcome.
After stepping off the metro from picking up coffee at Starbucks, I pat down my pockets, only to realize I’ve left my wallet on the goddamn bus. Fan-fucking-tastic, right? I literally just lost my shit a few weeks ago, and for this to happen again was like, sigh. After a brief moment of panic, the first thing I do is laugh. Of course this sort of thing would happen to me, right? Of fucking course. So instead of freaking, I casually report it to the muni station, cancel my CC’s with my bank, and settle into my apartment for work. I’ve got priorities, okay?
Just before I get started on an article about a cool new social tool I’d discovered, I hear a banging on my apartment door. Okay, I think to myself. I should probably go answer that. What if it’s some good samaritan returning my cards? What if it’s some really hot good samaritan?! At this point, I’m pretty excited.
So I tell my editorial team I’ll be right back, quickly throw on a bathrobe, and run to the door in my fuzzy slippers. When I tug it open, I am less than pleased when some homeless-looking old dude wearing board shorts and carrying around a sleeping bag (who also smells like he hasn’t showered in a pretty long time, by the way) greets me with a rambling hello.
He quickly explains that he has my wallet and was coming to my apartment to return it to me.
Ahhhh, thank God! You stink, but you rule! I thank him profusely and tell him how stressed out I was just a few minutes earlier, and ask him if I can have my cards back.
… But then he tells me that he’s actually locked them inside of his car along with his keys, and there’s no way for him to get them to me.
So I’m like, well, how are you going to get in there to get my stuff? Why are you even here? And he’s like, “Well, I could pay for a locksmith to open up my car, but I don’t have the money. Soo … I was hoping you would pay for it.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
At first I’m like, okay, how much can a locksmith possibly cost? But when he quotes the price at $150 USD, I’m like, there is no fucking way this is happening. Just to confirm the price quote, I give the locksmith a call, and the dude on the phone tells me that he only accepts cash or credit cards, so writing him a check just won’t do.
So here’s the problem, guys.
I don’t have my ID (it’s locked in the guy’s car), I also don’t have any credit cards anymore (because I cancelled them just before this dude showed up at my door), and I don’t have any cash on me. Not to mention, what the fuck?! $150?! It’s not even my car! How does this kinda shit happen to me?! And how am I supposed to pay the locksmith if I have no money? Why is this guy even at my fucking door?
This would happen to me.
No one else.
I’ve already had a ridiculously horrible weekend at this point (for reasons I decline to mention here), so to start my Monday like this is just the icing on top of the shit-flavored cake. I can’t catch a break, dude. I seriously can’t. Crazy shit just keeps happening to me no matter how much I try to avoid it. My life is, like I said, a fucking tragic comedy (pardon my cursing — it’s going to happen a lot in this entry).
I excuse myself from work and let my team know I’ll be back as soon as I handle this bullshit, then take off to the bank. This guy refuses to let me go alone (creepy) and says he’ll come with me there. I mean, I guess it would have been fine if he was super hot or something, but the dude is like … I mean. This sounds bad and everything, but he was seriously a crackhead. And I can’t tell you how many times he kept saying he needed to stop smoking weed and doing drugs — I get it, dude. You’re a broke idiot loser whose mind has been destroyed by substance abuse. No need to fucking ramble on about your failed autobiography.
Of course, he gets on the bus without paying (surprise!), sits next to me, and continues to ramble to me about all of this fucking shit that really doesn’t even matter and is honestly serving no other purpose than to stress me out even more because he’s calling all of this goddamn attention to us in the middle of the fucking muni and I know this is the longest sentence ever but seriously it was that fucking annoying and crazy and it never fucking ENDED OHMYGODSHUTUP.
We arrive at the bank, and while there, I’m speaking politely with the teller about the situation and she’s literally about to cash out a check for me (after I provided several forms of identification), but then here comes stoner-crackhead-homeless-idiot-guy, and he starts this huge fucking ruckus about what’s happening and it’s like, DUDE. SHUT UP. GET OUT OF HERE. I literally held up my forefinger to him in one of those “one moment please” motions, which silenced him for like, thirty seconds before his short attention span broke and forced him into ramble-mode again.
Oh. My. God.
At this point, the teller gets suspicious and thinks that I’m stealing someone’s identity. The bank manager comes over along with two other tellers and turns the situation into even more of a clusterfuck than it already is. The dumbass who has my cards continues to make a mess of things and I’m just like, “Oh god, please make my fucking day end. Please. PLEASE.”
The tellers send me home after telling me that the several forms of identification I’ve provided aren’t sufficient for the transaction, and instruct me to leave.
Great fuckin’ work, bro.
So I’m like, “What do I need to do? I have no idea who this guy is, he found my cards and ID, but he’s locked them in his car and to pay for a locksmith I need cash because the locksmith doesn’t take CC’s, but I canceled my CC’s this morning and I don’t have an ID to show you who I am because–!”
… How do you explain that situation to bank tellers? Seriously? How do you even begin to calmly tell that story in a way that doesn’t sound like bullshit or like you’re trying to steal someone else’s identity? I can feel my face turning red. I can’t handle this sort of embarrassing situation. I find myself wishing that I had stayed home, because all of this trouble isn’t worth it just to get back a bus-pass, a California ID and two cancelled credit cards.
I tell them I’ll be back with more identification items, then proceed to take off with the homeless guy back towards my apartment.
While walking back to catch the bus to my place, I ring up Rich (as he’s the first person I think to call, naturally) and immediately start venting. I find myself crying in the middle of talking because, seriously, this is just what I need after the bullshit prior week and weekend I’ve just had. He calms me down, tell me things are going to be okay, and all the while this homeless guy is trying to talk over my phone call and tell me more about who he is and where he’s from — like, fuck off, dude! Seriously?! What makes you think I care?! Get out of my fucking face, man! Groooan.
After I’m finally off the phone, I ask him what his name is and he’s like, “Dave. Man, that is so embarrassing to tell you. I feel so bad. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
… I feel no sympathy for you, Dave.
You’re a fucking idiot.
You should feel bad and embarrassed, because I’m going to immortalize this story in cached Internet history for-fucking-ever.
Also, realizing this entry is getting really long and also understanding that it’s Friday and I shouldn’t be home recounting a very stressful moment in my life, I’ve decided to instead take a shower and continue this story at another time. My fucking life, you guys. It’s a roller coaster, seriously.
To be continued,
XOXO Cheri XOXO