Kick me when I'm down

They ate my Oreos, the cunting fucking cunts!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don't have words to express my outrage. It was bad enough deciding to race a boat that they knew I couldn't participate in, and in doing so effectively kicked me out of the boat club and cut me off from racing in what would have been my last competitive season. That was bad enough. That was heart-breaking.

I left training camp early and came back to Bristol, but I left behind in Reading the cooking equipment that I'd brought along. We were staying in University of Reading dorms, which are self-catered (ie you cook your own food rather than eat in caffeterias), but we had to bring our own pots and pans. I brought the biggest pots and pans. I brought the only pot that was big enough to cook pasta for 8 people, and the only pan that was wide enough to saute enough ground beef for spaghetti sauce for pasta for 8 people. So as a favor, as a fucking favor to the fucking cunts who kicked me off the team, I left my giant pots, pans, strainers, mixing bowls and wooden utensils behind for them to use for the remainder of the week. I also left behind some food that I'd bought but wouldn't be eating and couldn't be arsed to carry back to Bristol.

And then there were the Oreos.

I love Oreos, and they're one of the foods that (as you know) I've whinged that I can't get in the UK. At least not in any of the stores around here.

While in Reading we shopped at a gigantic 24-hour Tesco, and while walking down the cookie isle looking for caramel digestives and jaffa cakes, I saw them. Their gleaming blue, black and white packaging containing the promise of bitter, crumbly, fake-chocolate cookies sandwiching tasteless filling of lard and sugar within. Heaven. The kind of heaven that soaks up cold milk like Jeebus-krispie soaks up gay-hate rhetoric from the foaming mouth of Pat Robertson and turns into a slimy, mushy, fake-cocoa and fatty, sugary pile of slop on your tongue and leaves little black crumbs in the bottom of the milk. That kind of heaven. I bought a bag. (Obv.)

I made a big deal out of how I happy I was that I had found Oreos. Everyone knew of my Oreo obsession. When I left I made it extremely clear to everyone exactly which food I was leaving behind that was to be designated "communal." I even wrote down exactly what was mine and what they were entitled to. That was in one area of the kitchen. In another area, in a different cupboard, I forgot my beloved Oreos. It was a frantic, emotional morning, out of sight out of mind and all that. And I'm notorious for forgetting shit, just ask my 10th grade art teacher.

Before I'd left, but after it was too late to go back for the Oreos, I smacked my forehead and realized my error. I was really pissed off at myself, both for general stupidity and because I was looking forward to getting home, having a serious cry, and tucking in to a bag of the least nutritious, best-tasting comfort food that Ceiling Cat ever put on the face of the Earth, and now through my own idiocy I was depriving myself of one of the only comforts I had to look forward to.

I made a big wail over the whole thing and begged my Captain L and Coach O to bring my Oreos back to Bristol on the weekend with the rest of my cookware. This was not a case of accidental misunderstanding. They promised.

AND THEN THE FUCKING CUNTS ATE MY OREOS AND THEY CAN ALL DIE AND ROT IN HELL THE GODDAMN FUCKING ASSHOLES.

I know it's just a bag of cookies, but talk about adding insult to injury. First they gave me the broken heart of a lifetime when they told me they were racing a boat that I couldn't row and were thereby depriving me of the triumphal comeback that had been my sole motivation to keep training since I wrecked my back,
and then, in my moment of despair, they took away my one stupid comfort, a taste of home that I hadn't had in years. A simple, simple joy; a taste of home. The cunts ate my Oreos.



How could they?