Wednesday, Sept. 17, 2003
Dear Diary:

Am I the only person on the planet who suffers from bank machine rage?

I'm always a little mystified by stories of road rage. It seems crazy to me that people would hop out of their car and bust out the windows of the car in front of them because, oh, maybe said car didn't pull out instantly when the light turned green.

That said, if you ever read about a middle-aged woman pummelling some poor hapless stranger who took just an eensy bit too long to wrap up their transactions at the bank machine, well, that would be me.

Today was a red letter day for me at the gym, the day I finally benched 85 pounds. I realize that is an insanely puny number by guy standards, but I've been working on this for weeks and weeks and actually getting that weight up for 12 continuous reps left me giddy with happiness.

Oh be quiet. That is NOT a freakish way to find happiness.

I left the gym just aglow, a sweet mix of exercise endorphins and the buzz that comes from finally breaking through a physical plateau. I arrived at my bank a happy, happy woman.

And then I Saw Him. At the bank machine. And beside him was a stack of about 4,321 transaction receipts. It looked as if not only had he been paying his own bills, but he'd been paying the bills for all his immediate family and everyone who lived on his block.

Mentally I rejoiced in the fact that I had not lined up behind this man when he began his run on the bank machine. I told myself that surely he was about to wrap up his transactions and within moments he would be gone so I would withdraw the $60 I needed and hit the grocery store.

No. Such. Luck.

He began to play a symphony on the little touch pad of the bank machine. Beep beep boop bip beep bap boop. Another transaction receipt joined the mountain on the shelf in front of him.

I rummaged in my purse for my wallet, certain it was time to pull my bank machine card out. Nope. He began composing yet another Bank Machine Cantata. I could feel myself leaving my happy little endorphin soaked place as I began to fume at the unfairness of this.

There Should Be A Rule. The rule should be that whenever I show up at the bank machine there should either be

a) no one else at the machine or

b) if someone has the effrontery to actually be using the machine when I enter they have exactly 15.5 seconds to wrap up their transaction and get the heck out of my way.

Clearly the Beethoven of the bank machine was oblivious to the way the bank machine universe should unfold when I am around because he continued composing Variations on a Bank Machine in B Major.

I began to hate his guts. I studied him closely. He was a tall, skinny guy about my age with thinning hair wearing a striped tee and kind of baggy khaki shorts. I rejoiced in the fact that the shorts made his butt look big.

Oh, but I can be petty.

He was wearing black sneakers and black socks with his shorts. I sneered at what was, even to my fashion-challenged eyes, clearly a fashion faux pas.

He had little stick legs. Hairy little stick legs. Gorilla hairy little stick legs.

This would be the part where I reveal how truly depraved I can be.

The moment my eyes alighted on those hairy little stick legs I immediately began to fantasize about The Perfect Torture, the way that would make him truly, deeply regret ignoring The Marn Rule of Bank Machines.

Oh yes, I fantasized about a Gang of Outlaw Beauticians, beauticians gone bad, descending upon him and waxing his legs. I imagined the sound of wax-soaked cloth being ripped from his limbs, his agonized screams.

I know. I've made you peer into the heart of darkness and you are reeling.

I will give you a moment to compose yourself.

Feeling better?

Shortly after I decided on the perfect torture, the banking Beethoven ran out of transactions. He turned to me, smiled, and I smiled sweetly back. He wandered off, oblivious to the black cloud of fury that had been hanging over my head the whole time I'd been standing behind him, the dark torture I had imagined for him.

Ah, the mysteries of thought, eh? Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of a woman?

Well, now, you do.

--Marn

There's no new inductee into the Bazonga Boosters Hall o' Fame, today no one decided to spend some of their hard-earned buckazoids supporting me as I run the Jog for the Jugs Oct. 5 in Montreal. Some folks have been donating but I don't recognize their names and they haven't e-mailed me to let me know who they are. To you mystery people, I want to say thank you.

No one new can proudly sport the shoddily Photoshopped yet justly coveted red rectangle below. *Siiiiiggggghhhh*

Boob oop de doop eh

P.P.S.- That iron woman, Karen is doing an unbelievable 60 MILE WALK FOR BREAST CANCER! If you don't want to sponsor me, perhaps you'd want to sponsor her. Yowza, that makes that 5K Jog for the Jugs seem embarrassingly short.

Mileage on the Marnometer: 430.68 miles (693 kilometers)
Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Half way smoochTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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