Crazy Cunt...

I show my teacher the lumps behind my ears and explain to her that they are hot and itchy.

They aren't...

But it's Melbourne Cup Day and I want to watch the race on television so I'm trying to get her permission to go home. This is the only ruse of I could think of an the spot.

I'm not a very convincing liar, but I am adamant that my ear-lumps hurt enough to brave the wild Spring weather that has sprung out of nowhere. Amazingly, she lets me leave. It must be because I am usually so trustworthy.

I remember walking home through the rain, using my brown school port as a sort of umbrella, wondering which one of the horses running today is enough of a mud lark to win the race. Then again, it might not have even been raining in Melbourne, but I probably didn't stop to consider that at the time...

I have to cross the road, but the storm water drain has overflowed and flooded the part where I would normally cross over. But I have to get across, so I wade through the freezing water, which creeps up past my thighs so I am hitching my tunic around my waist; when I notice a little old lady safely crossing the road only a little bit further up the street, without even splashing her stockings or shoes. I see that she's noticed me too, and I suppose that she is laughing at me. It makes me feel stupid for being seen.

I have a hot shower when I get home and then relaxed long enough to watch Black Knight win the race. I'm going to have to look up the name of the winner to verify it for certain. I can't be sure that it's not At Talaq, Empire Rose, Kiwi, Just A Dash or Gurner's Lane. I remember seeing them all win.

It's my tradition Nowadays to watch the televised event and get drunk and eat platefuls of cheese and biscuits. It's my religious holiday; I even give the kids the day off school because I fear being stuck in traffic and missing the big moment- like I was the year that Doriemus won. Except for the past few years I have always held a party at my house or celebrated in some other drunken way. My Sisters and my friends would come over and we'd sit around a picnic table that I'd drag into the lounge room; and we'd place imaginary bets with Monopoly money because we are always poor on Tuesdays- the day before pay-day. We'd pull out the old Phar Lap video as well- because watching the Greatest Ever is a big part of the tradition...

My friend's have all moved away and don't come over for my Cup Day celebrations anymore. And my eldest Son chooses to use his day off school in other ways now that he's a bit older. So this year it'll just be me and my little Son. I've already decided against going out to the pub like I did last year. Not even if I really want to.

My Hubby had taken the day off work so he could watch the race at the pub and have a few bets. Because that's what happens every year. It's just like ANZAC Day. Or St Patrick's Day. It's like Every Other Day, actually. I suppose he must have felt a bit sorry for me for being alone all day this year because he knows how much I enjoy my Melbourne Cup Party, but since all of my friends were either working, have moved away or I've put them on the outer, my Hubby knew that no one would be coming over and that I'd be getting drunk all by myself again.

He comes home early for a pleasant change- I have already cooked the rissoles and mashed potatoes and the gravy's on the boil- and he tells me I can go down to the pub if I like; because all of his friends are still there, so at least I'll have Somebody to sit with. I like it very much, thank you, so I leave him at home, having dinner with the two kids.

I don't plan on staying very long; just for two beers. Alright. Three. When I arrive I join the all-boy table. Even though they are my Hubby's drinking 'mates' there is only one of them in this particular group who hasn't hit on me at one time or another. I've never spent much time with that one, though, give him time. For the record, none of the others have ever got as much as a kiss off me, either, though you probably wouldn't see that as a big achievement if you ever met them. It's no wonder these ones are all still mostly single.

One of the bigger Boofheads jokes about my Hubby letting me off my chain for the afternoon, but I'm still in a reasonable mood, and am just enjoying being out of the house, so I decide to let his comments slide for the moment. I've never liked this bloke- the first night that I met him he grabbed me by the throat and pushed me up against Hicksey's Colourbond fence and called me a slut because I wasn't interested in his sleazy attentions towards me...

I can't remember what the party was for anymore, but I was wearing my slinky black dress and Fuck-Me-Boots, and I guess he might have thought this was his own personal invitation. I was only about seventeen then, I suppose, and in my Stalker-Girl hey-day. I know what I used to wear sometimes gave people the wrong impression about me- that I was easy and slutty- but the truth is I wasn't. Not at all. I was just young in the head, that's what, and not used to being around and receiving attention off men; slimy or otherwise.

The point that needs to be made is that morons like him need to learn that just because a girl dresses up in a tight dress does not mean she is necessarily trying to get Your particular attention. The chances are very high that she's not out to impress You at all. She might not have even noticed You. Then again, she probably did notice you, and had already decided not to associate herself with you, because she can tell that you are an aresehole. All misogynists are.

I'm still at the pub...

I told my Hubby that I'd be home over an hour ago but his friends keep buying me drinks. That's my excuse anyway. They like provoking me into arguments when I get drunk; it amuses them for some reason. Sometimes they hit the Jackpot and I'll also be paranoid and manic as well-which unbeknownst them all that day, was my actual state of being.

I didn't know a conversation could turn so quickly- one moment we were discussing the horse-racing and the next He is slagging my Hubby off; saying that he always 'cuts his grass' with the women they meet at the pub- when I'm not around to ruin their chances, that is. Like I said before, no-one has ever had to 'cut' anyone's 'grass' where this bloke is concerned. All the women he 'hits' on run towards normalcy of their own accord.

Something snaps in me and the next thing I know I am yelling at the Misogynist from across the table that Nobody at the table even likes him- that's he's a fuckwit that just won't go away- and rub in the fact that what could have been a Foursome one night quickly turned into a Threesome because no one was interested in fucking him. Don't worry. I don't know why I brought that one up at the time either- but I promise I'll explain to you all another time...

Right now I know he's angry that a girl would speak to him in such a disrespectful manner- and he starts bringing out the usual insults; saying that my Hubby must be a fucking saint for putting up with Me when I am obviously just a 'crazy cunt'. There's that awful word again.

Crazy.

It's ironic, really, that I should take such offence to being called crazy when it's exactly what I am trying to prove to You All that I am, but it's not up to that Meathead to judge my mental state. The second part of the name he called me doesn't faze me all that much either- it's only ever been said to Me by inferior people.

I'm not overly worried that he'll hit me either; he knows only too well that my Hubby wouldn't be impressed if he lays a hand on me. Anyway, the pub is still full of happy punters, many of whom are now staring at me as I let loose with another barrage of insults directed his way. I'm shaking by this stage, mostly from adrenalin- but also because I felt like bursting into tears in front of everybody; because he made me have this idiotic little outburst in front of all these Normal People. The Butcher sees me. So does the Chick from the Servo. And so do all of the Bar Staff and that group of people I recognised from school. They were in the Cool Group, too; which only makes it worse...

Everyone at the table is telling him to leave me alone but he's too drunk to listen to anyone and keeps making disparaging comments about my mental health and my Hubby's choices in women. Me. And how could he stand to live with someone like Me? I don't know if it's me anymore- or just women in general- that he hates so much. I felt like throwing my half-empty Vodka Cruiser bottle in his face. I don't. I'm not violent-crazy.

But this is just one of the many reasons why my Hubby is starting to get embarrassed by my little emotional displays; and why he would probably prefer me to stay at home if he even thought for one minute that a panic attack might be looming on My blurry horizon- because even though This outburst only started because I was trying to defend him, these little outbursts are happeneing more frequently, and more apparently, whenever or so it seems- that I dare to venture out in public.

My Hubby wasn't even there that day, but he still would have heard every detail concerning the incident regardless of whether I had been the one to tell him or not. That time I had to.

Before everybody else did.