I had to pay a visit to my dress maker today, since she said my projects should be ready by Monday.
Yet again, I woke up earlier than I should have, but I used the spare time to do a little housework, so that there wouldn't be any discussions about " I get to do all the slave work and you scratch your butt". I'm sure that I took care of pointless argues.
So, after I came back ( on foot, 'cause I spent my last money on cigarettes - but, hey, I gotta respect myself a little here, for I cannot, ever, touch with my lips again that nasty crap my folks are smoking ! ) all heated up from the awful sun outside, the music in my earphones, and some retarded 'wise-guy' driver, I thought to myself that it would make a good idea if I recorded more of my day-logs here, instead of bottlling it up.
Mum came rushing and snorring, blowing rage more than those dragons from my cildhood fairy-tales... She was nervous because of another pacient...Yeah, and I guess I must be really mentally challenged, if I fail to see where's my fault in that. Me and my cousin always end up yelled at for this logical reason :
___(insert imaginary fault here)___
Not to mention that I've been extra careful not to blow up my cover - everybody in my family believes that I obeyed them in forgetting all about I think we need a better codename for this.
Like I said it before, I want to live my own life, not let others do that for me.
Sweet Mother of Jesus! I just remembered something worth mentioning! But in a minute, because I gotta go get some more destruction for my lungs...:)
Just great! Marvellous! Magnificent! Rocambolesque! I just had to pick up the phone! I look like Sylvester right now...Grrr!
Hold that thought, because I'll finish as soon as I get back.
I hurried on the street to be on time at mum's workplace, and, as I expected, she had called me to come help her pack-up and carry a whole lot of raspberry sorbet made by the cooking staff from the hospital, about 20 fresh eggs, coffee, chocolate and some bottles of Jack.
I think there's a little need for an explanation here, seeing that some people actually read this. So, where I live, it's considered an obligation to bring presents, goods, money (yes, I know it's against the law; it's called corruption).
As soon as we arrive home, she tells me what's been bothering her, whilst I think to myself that I'm so lucky to have inherited my father's genes of nonchalance and solitarism. I told her not to blow a fuse, because words are mere words. It's no reason why one should gather so much negative energy regarding some words coming from some co-worker. It's worthless. As if words could bite your ass...Please! Putting so much feeling and focusing on such a small thing does not bring oneself anything. Nope. Nada. No, sir. Not even the other's appologies. Conversely, it could add up to the daily stress level, resulting - God Forbid!- AMI or a cerebral aneuyrism.
Whatever. You can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Returning to my previous ideas, which I earlier left behind, I must embed here, inside of this time, my idea of union between two people.
Yeah, that's right. It's just how it should be. No piece of paper could represent the proof of love between two human beings, unless it's a love letter. No official label is needed to state that 2 people belong together. They don't need that crap. It's insipid, cold and repulsive. It's like someone comes with a bumper-sticker to label you, like the price tags in a supermarket...It's inhuman. It drenches the love out, leaving just an empty shell.
And the saddest part is that more and more people tie these bonds between them without any reason or feeling. Like checking out items on a shopping list.
But that's reality, and as once Ovid said : " Ars est celare artem ".
◊ It's half past eleven now. I just hung up the phone. You were at the other end of the line. Of all the things I wanted to tell, I couldn't manage to come up with a decent conversation. Like some magic - super - mega - power detergent washed away all the thoughts.
No more synapses firing.
Simultaneously, I found myself in an eclectic state of listening to your low bass voice. I just wanted you to keep talking. What you were saying was of no matter to me, as long as you kept on, it made perfect sense.
The state when one enjoys a magnificent piece of music, with the notes transcending through the flesh and bones.
It was like this, only better.
I only admired the great performance of your voice, doing magic tricks with the rabbits of my cerebral sulci.
Words were of no use.
Holding the phone, knowing you were at the other end of the line, sufficed more than enough.
after submitting I'll call and confess.