I honestly envisaged floating through a tunnel, gliding to the warm embrace of the light. For years I would arrogantly bang on about being an atheist and belief in God was dumb but secretly I hoped, when death found me, I would get a hug and high-five from Jesus. I ooze hypocrisy but let’s be honest, we all want to bury our heads in the giant cake of life and eat it. And I had definitely filled my fat face with life’s artery clogging buttercream.
There is the slither of comfort my life didn’t flash before my eyes and experience the thirty years of my existence like a rerun of a shitty Mills and Boon melodrama, just without the all the sex. Reliving my failed attempt at adulthood would have been a final kick in the nuts before kicking the bucket. My legacy of chat roulette, masturbation and graphic novels, (“They’re comics and you’re not 12,” my mum would point out) was not something I was proud of, after all.
It had all started because I’d kicked off at a pretentious dick earlier in the day for spelling my name wrong in Starbucks. He was one of those uni students who exuded bored arrogance. Working in a café was beneath him but he needed to subsidise his coke habit. I’m guessing it was a coke habit as he was sniffing like Donald Trump in a presidential debate.
His name badge read ‘Jacob’ and he spoke like he’d ingested an Etonian. Casually brushing his hair back from his forehead like he was in a L’oreal advert he asked me for my order. See, this is what pissed me off, he never once looked me in the eye. He took my order whilst languidly looking around the room like he was an aristocrat trying to figure out why he was in the presence of so many plebs.
Well this pleb was getting annoyed.
“Tall skinny latté for Bev.”
“No, this is for Bev.”
“You got my name wrong, that’s for me and I’m called Ben. Do I look like a girl?”
Jacob looked me up and down, pausing a bit too long at my man boobs and shrugged his shoulders. It’s a bit of a blur as to how the events played out afterwards. I do know I was immensely witty by referring to Coke Boy as Jerk-off Jacob and asking how he managed to get into university when he couldn’t even spell a name as simple as mine. He said he was sorry for spelling my name wrong and would remember it’s spelled F-A-T next time.
I’m embarrassed that I threw a muffin at him and not because it was a muffin but because I have the throwing ability of a toddler. I’m also embarrassed to admit I pulled the luscious, blonde locks of Jacob like a six year old girl. Suffice to say, this social quagmire wasn’t exactly the scenario I wanted to remember as my grotesquely twisted body spasmed in the middle of my local High Street.
In spite of the kerfuffle I had still managed to leave Starbucks with my latté held high. And in triumphant smugness, as I walked away, I turned to face Jizz-Monkey Jacob and gave him the finger. Unfortunately this is the moment my latté killed me. Because I was walking backwards I failed to see the taxi rank pole and walked straight into it. The latté exploded over my head, dowsing my face in hot coffee. In agony I stumbled from the pavement into the road. My triumphant drink was searing my eyeballs causing me to blindly stagger into the path of an oncoming bus which flipped me like a stodgy pancake.
And here I am snorting blood and confused how a tall, skinny latté could be the cause of my death (even Jacob got that part wrong, why the hell would I buy a skinny latté?). My mum always told me my fat, lazy arse would kill me. She was half right I guess; I only went into Starbucks because the queue was too long at McDonald’s.