Homage to the Pointlessness of Shipping Goods

Fucking customs.  After four thousand emails, two thousand calls (cause I don’t like talking to people and besides can’t we all just communicate electronically anyway due to the fact that I have precious little time on this earth and really why should I waste it talking to IDIOTS in customs) it has been decided that the ninety five pages I filled out in red tape, so red it dripped in BLOOD, plus the various bank statements confirming my address were all in vain because they have now decided to charge me VAT and excise duty on my ”goods” because, and I am guessing here, as the typing skills of the complete TWAT I am dealing with in the shipping company are second to NIL, as I spent less than a year in Australia this somehow makes me eligible for these charges.  I mean, I am seriously questioning whether to give customs a present of my work shoes, my vast collection of black trousers (worn by all women in offices with little or no intentions of ever being more than a serf in an airless cocoon filled with idiots and tears), a blanket I bought in Dublin, then shipped to Australia, then shipped back after Ex-Himself dumped me, plus a collection of what can only be termed as ”guilty pleasure” cds.  Should I REALLY be paying VAT and excise on my Smash Hits partyrific hits of the 80’s???  Does anyone REALLY want a copy of my Los Lobos crowd pleasing accoustic efforts?  And does anyone even KNOW who T’Pau are, and that yes, they did produce a greatest hits????

The answer is a resounding NO.  So fuck off customs.  I don’t need this shit, I want my blankie, I want my slipper shoes because my new job doesn’t pay me enough to buy new ones, and I’m tired of wearing my boots with the little heels in them, with my grey trousers because it makes my new job think that I am some sort of professional executive with a fully made up eye on the corporate prize, and I hate to give false impressions.  Invariably people expect you to live up to them, and I am just too tired to do ambition anymore.

And DAMMIT, I want my cds.  How am I supposed to make mix tapes of my various mood swings WITHOUT my Tori Amos collection (an entire catalogue from kooky to downright weird to suburban, and therefore boring, bliss, and back to semi-kookiness quite recently).

Fuck you customs.  Our country is in the middle of an economic depression not seen since the last Great One of the thirties, and people are queuing for food parcels in Dublin.  I am in a job that barely provides a wage higher than the state welfare payment, and I have PMT.  Give me back my cd’s and please, go fuck yourself afterwards.

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