Pressure

Two days ago, on a rainy Monday, I was soaked to and beyond my bone. I
had to wade through a flood, something I avoid because of an incident
in my childhood. That day, it could not be helped. I enjoy walking in
the rain and I initially thought that was all I had to do to get home,
but what greeted me at the next bend was a wet blanket of swirling
water. I had to suck it up and wade in, trying my hardest to direct my
attention elsewhere, however I failed. My shoes and my pants were
submerged and I was getting more miserable by the minute.

By the time I got home, I no longer thought myself cool for walking in
the rain. An unkempt and pitiable face greeted me in the mirror. My
clothes were soiled and my shoes were a mess. As I took a bath, I
realized the truth beyond the idioms. No other rain I was ever in
could compare to that Monday rain. The entire walk home, I was caught
up in my present tragedies and every little reminder that littered my
room wounded like no other. I could not even bring myself to
romanticize my experience. Six months after my big mistake, I am still
reeling from the repercussions of choices made in poor taste.

I was in a black sulk yesterday and never left the house. When I woke
up this morning, I told myself I wouldn't report to the office, yet
here I am writing this. These days I hate my clothes, my miserable
pair of shoes, my being out of school, my den, all the distractions
that keep me from creative pursuits and it all shows in the dark
circles under my eyes, and my binge eating, which I also hate. There
is just too much negativity assaulting me from all fronts that I can
barely keep myself from ripping at the seams. I keep feeling that my
time is being stolen from me and I keep scrambling to do everything I
can while I can to not lose my edge.

On my way to the office today, a recollection randomly jumped at me
and I found myself smiling, laughing to myself without a care in the
world. That I could still do these two little things remind me that I
am not so broken as I think I am. That I am strong. That I am saved.

Or maybe I'm losing my sanity.

FU: A Letter to the Wind

Insufferable Upstart,

May you fester in the shallow cesspool of your ignorance while I
ferment in my selfish bitterness. You have not wronged me, per se. I
am merely being the jealous friend, for I have few. Your idiotic
conquest for undeserved attention has struck a nerve.

Do not grieve. I have issues of my own and you have most kindly
provided an outlet.

This is me being creative. This is you being a victim of chance. I do
not know you. You will never know this letter exists.

Insincerely yours,
Spiral Bitch

Dilemma

Daily I am assaulted by the cloying smell of my second-degree nephew's
deodorant.
It is clearly his adolescent ignorance for the new-fangled behind this
brouhaha, for surely, beyond the excuse of being subjected to
merciless perspiration precipitated by faulty biological
processes(which he is no victim of), there is no sensible reason that
will absolve him of his sin of excess beyond excess such that every
half-hour is marked by sudden disappearances barely making the
two-minute mark, before he emerges once more the depths of his room to
plague me anew with the renewed vigour of the thick miasma upon his
person. His fumigant has amalgamated with his own effluvia to create a
potent affront to my nasal faculties and personal sensibilities, for
his perceived solution to a non-existent problem has become a problem
in itself, and one of even greater magnitude. I try to distance
myself, however, his deprivation of a male figure other than his
grandfather(my uncle), manifests in his constant conquests for
interaction. He is quite oblivious to all of this, quite content with
the novelty of his addiction. I wonder sometimes: does he feel a
strange satisfaction each time he smudges his ________ on the pits of
his arms? Don't even get me started on his Eau de Saster fancy which
is just as bad.

These things I suffer in silence, for the rest of the household condones them.