Old Gas Station Bitches are Always Cramping My Style

September 19th, 2007.

Ok, so I’ve been really fucking sick lately. But I’ve always been kind of a soldier when it comes to dealing with illness. I am not one of those namby pamby types who lie in bed and ring a bell every time they need a pillow fluffed. Instead, I do the shit I’ve got to do and then I put myself to bed. I’m warrior like that.

However, I do have a tendency to get a little crankier than usual.

For example, I had a few errands to run today that couldn’t be put off any longer, so I clad myself haphazardly and set about my business. About an hour into my day, I was almost deliriously unwell. Still, I needed gas in order to make it home, so I made one last stop.

I meant to toss $15 into my tank, but I overshot a little and ended up pumping $15.03. Sighing heavily to myself, I grabbed a nickel out of my center counsel and moped my way into the gas station to pay.

Unfortunately, there was an extremely long line. To pass the time, I rubbed my temples vigorously and tried my best to focus on not dying. However, by the time I made it to the front of the line, I had forgotten my pump number.

Considering that I had pumped exactly $15.03, I assumed this wouldn’t be a big deal. After all, how many other people pumped that same amount? I’m not a gas station attendant God or anything, but I was pretty sure they could help me out.

I assumed wrong.

I got to the front of the line and mumbled, “I’m…ah…not sure which pump, but it was $15.03.”

The bitter old hag who still worked at a gas station even though she was old enough to be my Mother snapped, “I need the pump number!”

Had she been the least bit polite about it, I would have turned around, walked outside, and gotten the number for her. But nay, she was not the least bit polite. She had the audacity to speak to me like I was a stupid, insolent child who purposely forgot my number just to ruin her day.

I’m none to quick witted when I’m sick, so for a second, I just stared at her dumbly. Then, she flicked her bony liver spotted fingers in my face and said, “PUMP. NUMBER!”

“Figure it out yourself,” I replied as I slammed my money down on the counter and proceeded to walk away from her.

Do you believe this bitch started yelling at me?

“YOU NEED TO GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW AND GIVE ME YOUR PUMP NUMBER!”

I thought she was going to have a hernia, but I kept walking like I didn’t hear her.

Then, all of the sudden, I heard a crackle as psycho bitch got on the motherfucking loudspeaker and yelled sarcastically to the entire parking lot full of people, “THANKS SO MUCH FOR GIVING ME THE PUMP NUMBER, MA’AM!”

I about-faced and walked back towards the door. But instead of entering, I made eye contact with old gas station attendant lady. When I was absolutely sure I had her attention, I gave her the bird. Double finger style.

Die, bitch,” I mouthed.

She pressed a little claw-like hand to her chest like she was the epitome of offended. Honestly though, she got off fucking easy. If not for my pounding headache, I would have pushed over the antifreeze display just for good measure.

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