Crows. Attempt. Murder.

I haven’t decided which one I like more:

“May the bridges I burn, light my way...” or “If I had a soul, I’d never accomplish anything” – they’re both fine. Girl with hair-braids fine.

https://pixabay.com/en/hair-braid-flowers-summer-red-741769/

The hair braid thing, I’ve mentioned before. So excuse the fixation. Perchance it’s a Pedo thing? Or a Florentine thing? It’s definitely something – is my hypothesis, ’cause it occurred twice now.

The sun was setting gloriously, orange and rose, baking the streets with its spring roast. The maverick, graffiti-ridden streets of Florentine dimpled their window-stores at me. I trutted tipsily, mildly – happily tired – strolling back home from a day of drunken Shabbating and goodhearted vice.

A patron’s pub required a sampler to sample some samples. I obliged to sample those samples, hence sample we did. With Gold Star on my breath, the liquors glistened and sloshed inside my belly brain. I could have perished right there; buoyant and merry with what was my day. Better yet, wistful solitude was coming, and I would soon be asleep.

#duvetburrito

Regrettably this was not to be.

In the distance, a figure approached. A stick-man centaur of hazel and gold, a dude on a bicycle. Drew closer. Scanning. Smiling. Gold Star haze inside my belly brain probes: “Anna baby – you know this centaur?” “Why no darling Gold Star, let us observe and see.” He obviously knew me. Dude gets off the bike. Proceeds undisturbed. Then – for whatever reason – takes my face in his palms. And mumbles some curves.

I stand there paralyzed.

He chortles in Hebrew. Clearly at ease.

“Englishhh?” – I say

“Oh, yes! You me coffee, now – ” Folds me my hands and pulls them to walk.

Whoa now. Hold there sweet buster. I just finished drowning those puppies for good fun and fur. In barrels of oil. Organic and rare. So gimme a break now, how about that now?

https://pixabay.com/en/sunset-dusk-silhouette-shadow-926723/

Enter SIA ‘Reaper’ Soundtrack.

Now this would be fine, were it to be a one time affair. Probability wise – to be expected, and mathematically agreeable given life’s infinite scope for possibility. Centaur men will sometimes pat your face. Get over it. I’m over it. But Nay! Something alike happened once more. Only this time, I was actually busy. Busy on my way to a bureau. A bureau I may sometimes frequent. Frequent to to fool. That I am busy. Busy adulting.

And apparently, the Zebras that day were on strike or something, because they neglected their duties. I didn’t get the memo. Do you see where this is heading? Not yet. OK – patience please.

Helmet-man rams his motorbike waaaaaay too close to the pedestrian turf.

My. Pedestrian. Turf.

Mind you, the lil-green-man was devotedly green. Plus, there’s the whole ZEBRA crossing *ring-ring* ZE-Bra thing. Thankfully, I’m ultra well insured; so it’s a non-issue, consider it water under the bridge. Hit away pal – and I’ll financially wreck you. I guess he saw the ‘frightened-gazzele’ glint in my eye since the next thing I hear:

“Heyyy –eyyy!! HEYYY You! YOU! I’m sorry I scared you -“

It’s fine you can leave.…Chill Gold Star Chill.

“You’re kinda cute Ehh?”

Kinda?

“And look at your bookbag! Hah! Where are you going now? – Give me your number.”

As if. (I did in the end – but that’s besides the point.) 😀

https://pixabay.com/en/animal-zebra-from-the-rear-rear-1106358/

Thus, I sit here wondering, pondering, if It was me or the braids. A combo of the two? Probably. How-oh-how were they to be so sure I’d react favorably? In, say, a non murderous way. I could have been anybody: any ole scoundrel, your typical narcissist overlord; crushing baby skulls for bath salts, using eye yolks to moisturize them toes…Could have been a Hindu a cow merchant… or like – a child porn enthusiast, hell, I could have been a closet Trump-supporter! #NotCoolNewHampshereNotCool

No easy answers, such is the maze of life. Yet, in both cases my hair was in hair braids. In both cases, a drifter grappled my face. Then again, the world is a big, odd piece of pie. Hakuna Matata. So, if you excuse me, I shall do me; and as for you, you too, go and do, whatever it is you do. (Proceeds to exit) Solid.

So, I chickened out. Obviously. And did what I do best:

“No No – I have to go.” I take his centenarian hands off my head, hand them back to him. “You go though! Coffee is good!”

Then ran. Because I’m crisp like that.

https://pixabay.com/en/sky-night-falling-star-dream-1077861/

Which brings us neatly into the ‘burning-bridges’ bit. Because, if I ever become one of those government clerks, in one of those government desks, who deals with immigrants, face-to-face,

will

kill

myself.

I’ll find a way. I shall top myself – top myself so fast – Zzzziiinggg. Hands down. This fast. I so solemnly swear, I hereby pledge, Alas I vow before yee—but if I forget, please do remind me.

(Lights cigar)

Nothing comes close to explaining how my recent trip to the Ministry of Interior panned out on that dreary morning of January 14. If the taxi man was a nut, then the ministry was a full blown sack of M&Ms. And not in a good way. More like the ‘my-kid-has-a-nut-allergy’ type of way. Nothing got done. The whole ordeal lasted no more than 5 hours, but my little day out aroused feelings divinely celestial suicide. Which, truth be told, I entertain on the reg, and yet – Oh how so eye-opening, how telling of an experience it truly was.

(Chokes on cigar)

https://pixabay.com/en/orange-cigar-nature-monster-green-746037/

If you’ve ever been there; you know. The Israeli Ministry of Interior is like a home cooked dinner. Nana Betty’s dumpling recipe. Gone wrong. Terribly, utterly wrong. A chocolate-chip pudding. Only – it ain’t coco, and those chunks- well, (discards cigar) they’re not made of biscuit.

(Takes your arm)

Let’s continue with the metaphors. I quite like them.

My trip to said ministry was like awaiting on a bus, a bus that not only never comes, but swarms around inciting all the other bussies to boycott bussing. Hey – why not? Not like Anna needs a Visa.

No Visas here madam; but here, have this ticket, take a seat.

…

Bussy will come.

Bussy must come.

…

https://pixabay.com/en/bus-old-in-to-the-wild-abandoned-865293/

Bussy never came.

It is at this point that I should recall the more humble nuggets of my nature. Nothing inspires life more than gratitude. Golden, wholegrain gratitude. So let us credit Big G for my good good patience. My soft composure, and utter lack of a firearm.

Fun Fact! They did ask: am I bringing ‘objects of self-defense‘ into building.

“Oh yea – totes – wanna pat my missile?”

https://pixabay.com/en/boy-gun-pointing-smiling-trash-709911/

I see why ask the question. Never before had Jihadism hold so much appeal, so much relevance. I totally empathize now. Sometimes, blustering self with ministry into a trillion little pieces is like the best blah idea in town. So efficient and pious. No fire-orders needed. And who’ll suspect the hair-braid chick.

Thanks hair braids.

Sigh. I still hold no visa. But apparently, it’s whatever.

This self-induced shit-pie must end. Do note (Anna’s modus operandi), If I ever do switch sides, rest assured, it will be death to the infidel visa clerks who, peace be upon them, are just doing their job.

https://pixabay.com/en/boy-person-afghanistan-people-60659/

Please note: The article is made for comedic purposes only. Nothing above is true. Nothing. It is a mere rambling of a woman who seeks to make her ineptitude of getting a visa seem like someone else’s fault. It is not. It is her fault.