Written By A Very Angry Girl

Warning: B*tching session in progress.

“Love. I believed in it once, now I don’t anymore.” That line, it made my blood boil. I closed that blasted tab, a profile page on Facebook, the profile of a friend I once knew. I tried to calm down. I browsed through some YouTube clips and trimmed my nails, but I could still feel  the throbbing at my temples.

Deliberately I opened my Facebook profile and updated my status. When I was done, it read: ‘Where were you when I needed you? And now you make it seem like you were the only one wronged. Grow up la…! Ggrrr..!!’

Totally immature but that done I felt better. You see, it had been going on for months. A mutual friend was the unasked source of updates on my ex’s life and apparently two years down the road, he still is all torn up over me and it sure as hell beats me as to why. Not like I am irreplaceable. Not like he ever took much initiative when we were together. Not like he lacks the maturity to let go and move on. Wait. I take the last one back.  The consistency in his emotional outbursts used to worry me. I thought perhaps he was unstable. Now it’s more of a wallowing in self pity and it has me raging mad. Gggrrrr…!!!

Allow me to explain my sudden lack of maturity. I am usually a calm person, but my ex and I share mutual friends. And on Facebook, it isn’t too hard to piece together who one person is talking about in his/her status updates… and since my ex has never been in a real relationship either before or after me, it would take a deaf and dumb blonde with no worldly exposures to not guess who he has been implying in his heart broken shoutouts.

I am not evil. At least I don’t think I am. But I AM human. And when you stalked me to my front door and involved my family I told you to back off and be decent. Then you assured another mutual friend that you would let go. 6 months plus after that ‘assurance’, and you’re still playing The Wronged in a relationship that lasted less than a year. A relationship where we tried to make it right so many times?  Remember the one where you lacked the commitment and balls to pick up the phone and call me when I needed a friend? The one where you didn’t bother finding out what day I was leaving to 7000 miles away and didn’t call me for a week after that till I called and said it was over? And then you said OK time to call it quits?

And then you decided that you had lost the one thing that made you 'cared for'? Did it ever occur to you that you ever only looked for me when you were going through great change – like getting a posting?

Now, 2.5 years down the road I am sick and bloody tired of hearing that you haven’t ‘gotten over the one person you cared for’ because when we were together you had the emotional capacity of a marshmallow. So stop telling the world that ‘no matter what you do, you can’t erase memories of her’  because you don’t deserve the pathetic sympathy people give you for having ‘loved and lost’. And stop being a jack*ss.  Please.

Then I thought of this quote:

“FB war is like Paralympics. No matter who wins, if you’re a part of it, you’re still a retard.”

But being retarded is so much cooler than being slandered.

Doing the Needful

I twisted the ponytail into a bun and looked at my reflection in the mirror. “You can do this,” I told myself, noting cynically that my eyes seemed a bit apprehensive. I snapped on the rubber gloves and felt the familiar lurch in my tummy. Nerves.

I managed a smile at my colleague and together we strode into the well-lighted room. She stood at one end, and I positioned myself opposite her.

We wiped the area clean first, meticulously and saw no sign of the disease. Then we made the opening carefully and that was when we smelt it, the subtle smell of decay, and we saw the little dots that patterned the inside lining, tell tale signs that we had the right diagnosis.

“Are you ready to rumble?” she asked me with that quirky sense of humour of hers and I gave her the thumbs up. I was as ready as I would ever be.

Then we set to work.

We held ourselves in awkward positions, standing, bending over, squatting and squinting. Perspiration ran down our faces in rivulets. We gently moved the insides, sometimes removing whole complexes and just letting the cleaning solution run through. We made sure the amount of cleaning fluid was just right and dabbed up the excess quickly.

Then we found the focus of infection.

I am not sure how she felt, but I wanted to get the hell out of there. But to do so would have been a waste of our efforts and I hunched up my shoulders, reached for the roll of toilet tissue and started squashing the six-legged vermin.

They were small and fast but we were faster and meaner.

Squish-squish-stomp-stomp-stompity-squeal-squishity-shudder-stomp!

Both of us brought out our A-game and we murdered a good twenty roaches in under thirty minutes.

Then came the gross part. We had to collect their mutilated carcasses and scrub out their eggs and droppings. Our jaws set, we moved our hands mechanically, gripping the soap riddled sponges as though our very lives depended on it.

Satisfied, we dried the area with a clean towel, replaced the planks and arranged back the containers we had removed earlier.

She made one last survey and gave me a grim nod. “Good work,” she said and her voice sounded as disgusted as I felt.

I shut the door on the food cupboard.

We removed the gloves and scrubbed out, weary to the bone.

We had managed to contain the infection for another month, but there would have to be a follow up procedure soon for those buggers multiply damn fast.

* twenty or so roaches were brutally murdered to inspire this story, and every bit of the story’s true. Almost ;)