she spends her hours, half-hours, and quarter-hours in a similar fashion to that of a middle-aged pastry chef at some ritzy-ass restaurant inside of a gaudy hotel; hurried, regretting every touch, whisk, flurry of garnishes, looking forward to her smoke break and being offensively anal about the placement and(more) usage of *her* measuring spoons. every cluster of five minutes more precious than a fistful of diamonds, and it seems im not worth any of them.
shaving off my teeth one sliver at a time, the little curls of scrap tooth collecting on my desk alongside dust and eraser shavings and the bits of graphite that break off of pencils when theyre too sharp for anyones good.
typing quickly but not quickly enough, the words dam up behind my fingers and cause the pain and ache and needle sensations when its raining or even if its just a little humid outside. the creaking of bones in the cold, making suffocating crunch sounds like cotton balls do.
sometimes the futility of this shit life on shit earth with the average human being with his/her shit racism/sexism just emanating out of his/her body is just fucking unbearable; why go on? who would want to raise another generation in the conditions set and perpetuated by our trash species? fuck it.
im amazed at how many napkins are in the waste basket. napkins to scoop crumbs off the table; others to carry the crumbs over to the trash. napkins to soak the bits of moisture on the corners of the mouth after a nice swig of cold and calming beverage. napkins to clean up nosebleeds. napkins to serve as coasters. napkins that just get crumpled up in your hand unconsciously while a conversation is being had. napkins that came with the utensils you carry. (less)
"You only have one spoon," Carson hollered from the kitchen.
Frick. Olivia pressed her fingers on the bridge of her nose in despair. This whole evening was supposed to be over already, but of course, that hadn't happened--the toilet stopped working, she had forgotten to buy pasta sauce(more) for the dinner, and now there weren't enough spoons to eat the ice cream (the last-minute desert choice).
"We'll have to share," Carson yelled again.
"No way in hell," Olivia shot back. "Just forget the ice cream. I think I have some vodka in the cabinet."
"Geez, *sister,*" Carson muttered with a nasty inflection. "It's not my fault you hate me."
"I don't hate you," Olivia said reflexively, but both she and Carson knew that wasn't true. Ever since her dad had remarried and become Carson's dad, she had been filled with simmering rage.
Carson came in with two mugs of vodka. "I couldn't find any glasses, so we had to use these trashy things."
Olivia tried to focus on her kneecaps instead of Carson's face. "I'm only doing this for dad," she told him.
Carson grinned crookedly and lifted up his mug in a mock toast. "I'm doing this for mom. You know, appease the annoying first child."
She wanted to rip his head off. "You know what? If your skank mom hadn't come in and ruined everything, I'd still be the first child. I'd be the only child. I wouldn't have to deal with dad suddenly fawning over you."
"God, sorry," Carson muttered. "And don't talk about mom like that. She actually does love dad, you know."
Olivia knew that was true, but she still took a huge gulp of vodka and prayed that she would forget this all in the morning. She just wanted things the way they were.(less)
"Don't you trust me?"
"No I don't."
"Because last time I left you alone you broke all the plastic spoons in the house."
(more) "So, if I can't trust you with plastic spoons, how can I trust you with anything?"
"Good question. Want to find out?"(less)