Gypsy italian lady

It’s a sunny day, the light bounces from roofs of the cars below, into the second story asda that’s turned to an oven because from the heat. I’m stood aimlessly at the bread glancing over an constantly empty rack where the buns should be. My ears pitch up, the shuffling and booming voice of the crazy Italian gypsy women is heading my way. No doubt it’s her, I duck behind some printed cakes.

Her pestering began a few years back, in a Clinton cards in the town centre she stopped me to tell me how I was cursed by what my family had done and shuffles off again, wheeled bag behind her. What my family have done? I have no idea, my father’s a professional entertainer and my mother a nurse for the aging, no one helped create the cure for anything but no need for a curse I’d say.

Less then a year later, I’m going through what I’d class as my “cuddly phase “. My doctor would have mostly likely of classed it as my overweight phase, more on that later. I’m now 18 and dating a girl, once again she toddler over, crazy hair and loud mouthed and screams from her lungs this girl could do better and I am cursed for what I have done! At this point a student filmmaker and the birth of my outspokenness, I inform her that her sanitary is lost and she should move on in harsher words. She does so.

I still see this italian gypsy women who must now be in her trillions of years old. Still lost what me or my family have done.

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