To Vent Is A Sin
Apparently so. But you know me-- What do I care about sin? So here's my vent...
I'm really, very tired of living here. I love Sioux Falls; Everyone knows that. Right now, there's no place I'd rather be. But this house... It wreaks of old sunflower seeds, dog, cat, ferret, and whatever other animals, mold, dishwater... It's so terribly nauseating that I can't stand it. I'm sure no one else likes it either, but I'm the only one who tries to do anything about it, even if sometimes it's half-heartedly. Can you blame me? I get wise halfway through cleaning and realize it's utterly pointless.
I scrubbed the bathroom floor the other day. I think the linoleum has shrunk over the years, because there are big gaps between it and all the walls, including the base of the tub, toilet, and sink. Ground into these gaps are otherworldly Dustbunnies. They grow with a lifeforce, I swear. I took a course brush and scrubbed the Apocalypse out of them. The plasti-tile is still stained yellow with the tar from the smoke that Normajean "doesn't smoke"-- But you can see the flower design now. I cleaned the tub before and got myself sickeningly high off of chemicals, but boy did the porceline shine if it wasn't for a week. I won't be doing that again for awhile.
I dare not enter the kitchen past the refrigerator. To do so without proper foot and hand protection could result in an outbreak of plague. The dishes need to be washed, but it's so futile an effort. The fruitflies are almost unbearable. Thankfully after Brandon got a ferret cage that's a bit easier to clean, the number docked to maybe half of the original 3.5837 million. Speaking of: it was the most disgusting thing in the world, and just as sad, to look in on poor Skid before he got his new cage, and see the carpet laden with urine stains and piles of feces-- Both of which I've scrubbed before. But even then I refused as I saw the scores of maggots wriggling through the masses.
Thankfully Z (our faithful one-eyed poochy) is doing much better with his accidents. If not let out, which he often isn't, he'll still leave a few piles in just the right places for those who aren't wide-eyed and aware... However he now actually barks and whines to be let out for number ones.
All of the horrific atrocities are enough to churn the stomach, yes. But they aren't what truly bothers me. I know, I know-- I'm weird.
Nearly every day, I make an attempt to clean Chris' old bedroom-- This particular room is now dubbed either "Brandon's second room", "the computer room," or lovingly, "the pet room". It houses just the ferret and my iguana, as well as three computers and a junkyard of useless garbage. I got is so that all of our clean clothes were put neatly in the closet, but for our undergarments in a basket wherever there was room. Our dirty clothes had a home in a larger basket. All of my own personal things were store on or under my computer desk, as well as Chris' to his, and Brandon to his. I gathered three industrial-sized trash bags full of trash, and still it's a bit dishevelled, but MUCH better.
I get the room tidy to a point where a health inspector wouldn't have to boot us out, and time and again, Brandon comes in and trashes it. He never uses his printer, as I noticed every time I unburied it in the room, and so I put it in the back of the closer underneath two huge beanbag chairs. Lo and behold he needs it now and decides to throw everything out of the closet in search for it-- Instead of just emailing whatever needed printing to himself and opening it on the other computer, complete with its' own printer. All of the open space I used for sleeping (yes, I still sleep on the floor v-v), is now buried beneath junk once more. At the moment, I can't even access my own computer, because my chair doesn't fit between said junk and said computer.
Now that I'm through venting about the house and its' occupants...
Rick had a birthday party this last Friday at a hotel. Being that Chris got his ass kicked by a merry-go-round just days prior, and his stitches left him uncapable of swimming, he still went, but just played video games the whole time with $20 worth of quarters that his mom gave him so he wouldn't be bored. It was definately some party!... I hear.
That's right, Yours Truly wasn't invited. Even sitting in the backseat when Chris asked Rick if I was invited, he responded with a pained look as if someone asked him to French-kiss a donkey for $200. I took that as a hint and told him not to worry about it. I wasn't in the mood to care, really... Until I found out that even a girl he VERY dislikes and is VERY uncomfortable around got invited... And I thought we were friends. *le sigh*
No worries though. Of course not, because if I had worries, then people would be mad at me. I really REALLY **SINCERELY** wish that people would stop asking me what's the matter. When I tell them what's wrong, they get mad at me for feeling the way I do. Then when they make that mistake again and I tell them 'nothing', they get even more mad because they know I'm lying. Well what the Hell?!? What do you want from me???
Do you want to know what I want? Pure and simple. I want a decent life. I want to be on my own. I want a decent-paying job.. Maybe $8-9 an hour. I'd go to college if I had the money. I want to have my own place to live, I'm sick of other peoples' rules and other peoples' ways. I want to start a family. Maybe I'm too young now, who knows... But I'll start one in a couple years if I have the house, the money, and the job. I'm not afraid anymore.
Is that too terribly hard to muster? I want to live like any other happy adult. I feel like I don't smile anymore, and when I do, it's forced. Live long, love much, laugh often... I used to live by that. Now I live long because I'm not cruel enough to die, I love much because it's the only hobby I have left, and I barely laugh at all, because it almost hurts.
My mom has offered me many times the opportunity to move back-- But I don't want to. I'd much rather live in that house than this one, even if it is in Rochester. But I don't want to live with parents. I don't want to just give up and say "Oh I suppose... Alright fine," and let the chips fall. Sure, I'm living with Chris' parents, and it's no better, I know. But jeez...
Alright, I'm done. Make my life a book, or better yet, a movie-- Then the lazy people will know about me, too. Nah, no one watches biographies.
I'm really, very tired of living here. I love Sioux Falls; Everyone knows that. Right now, there's no place I'd rather be. But this house... It wreaks of old sunflower seeds, dog, cat, ferret, and whatever other animals, mold, dishwater... It's so terribly nauseating that I can't stand it. I'm sure no one else likes it either, but I'm the only one who tries to do anything about it, even if sometimes it's half-heartedly. Can you blame me? I get wise halfway through cleaning and realize it's utterly pointless.
I scrubbed the bathroom floor the other day. I think the linoleum has shrunk over the years, because there are big gaps between it and all the walls, including the base of the tub, toilet, and sink. Ground into these gaps are otherworldly Dustbunnies. They grow with a lifeforce, I swear. I took a course brush and scrubbed the Apocalypse out of them. The plasti-tile is still stained yellow with the tar from the smoke that Normajean "doesn't smoke"-- But you can see the flower design now. I cleaned the tub before and got myself sickeningly high off of chemicals, but boy did the porceline shine if it wasn't for a week. I won't be doing that again for awhile.
I dare not enter the kitchen past the refrigerator. To do so without proper foot and hand protection could result in an outbreak of plague. The dishes need to be washed, but it's so futile an effort. The fruitflies are almost unbearable. Thankfully after Brandon got a ferret cage that's a bit easier to clean, the number docked to maybe half of the original 3.5837 million. Speaking of: it was the most disgusting thing in the world, and just as sad, to look in on poor Skid before he got his new cage, and see the carpet laden with urine stains and piles of feces-- Both of which I've scrubbed before. But even then I refused as I saw the scores of maggots wriggling through the masses.
Thankfully Z (our faithful one-eyed poochy) is doing much better with his accidents. If not let out, which he often isn't, he'll still leave a few piles in just the right places for those who aren't wide-eyed and aware... However he now actually barks and whines to be let out for number ones.
All of the horrific atrocities are enough to churn the stomach, yes. But they aren't what truly bothers me. I know, I know-- I'm weird.
Nearly every day, I make an attempt to clean Chris' old bedroom-- This particular room is now dubbed either "Brandon's second room", "the computer room," or lovingly, "the pet room". It houses just the ferret and my iguana, as well as three computers and a junkyard of useless garbage. I got is so that all of our clean clothes were put neatly in the closet, but for our undergarments in a basket wherever there was room. Our dirty clothes had a home in a larger basket. All of my own personal things were store on or under my computer desk, as well as Chris' to his, and Brandon to his. I gathered three industrial-sized trash bags full of trash, and still it's a bit dishevelled, but MUCH better.
I get the room tidy to a point where a health inspector wouldn't have to boot us out, and time and again, Brandon comes in and trashes it. He never uses his printer, as I noticed every time I unburied it in the room, and so I put it in the back of the closer underneath two huge beanbag chairs. Lo and behold he needs it now and decides to throw everything out of the closet in search for it-- Instead of just emailing whatever needed printing to himself and opening it on the other computer, complete with its' own printer. All of the open space I used for sleeping (yes, I still sleep on the floor v-v), is now buried beneath junk once more. At the moment, I can't even access my own computer, because my chair doesn't fit between said junk and said computer.
Now that I'm through venting about the house and its' occupants...
Rick had a birthday party this last Friday at a hotel. Being that Chris got his ass kicked by a merry-go-round just days prior, and his stitches left him uncapable of swimming, he still went, but just played video games the whole time with $20 worth of quarters that his mom gave him so he wouldn't be bored. It was definately some party!... I hear.
That's right, Yours Truly wasn't invited. Even sitting in the backseat when Chris asked Rick if I was invited, he responded with a pained look as if someone asked him to French-kiss a donkey for $200. I took that as a hint and told him not to worry about it. I wasn't in the mood to care, really... Until I found out that even a girl he VERY dislikes and is VERY uncomfortable around got invited... And I thought we were friends. *le sigh*
No worries though. Of course not, because if I had worries, then people would be mad at me. I really REALLY **SINCERELY** wish that people would stop asking me what's the matter. When I tell them what's wrong, they get mad at me for feeling the way I do. Then when they make that mistake again and I tell them 'nothing', they get even more mad because they know I'm lying. Well what the Hell?!? What do you want from me???
Do you want to know what I want? Pure and simple. I want a decent life. I want to be on my own. I want a decent-paying job.. Maybe $8-9 an hour. I'd go to college if I had the money. I want to have my own place to live, I'm sick of other peoples' rules and other peoples' ways. I want to start a family. Maybe I'm too young now, who knows... But I'll start one in a couple years if I have the house, the money, and the job. I'm not afraid anymore.
Is that too terribly hard to muster? I want to live like any other happy adult. I feel like I don't smile anymore, and when I do, it's forced. Live long, love much, laugh often... I used to live by that. Now I live long because I'm not cruel enough to die, I love much because it's the only hobby I have left, and I barely laugh at all, because it almost hurts.
My mom has offered me many times the opportunity to move back-- But I don't want to. I'd much rather live in that house than this one, even if it is in Rochester. But I don't want to live with parents. I don't want to just give up and say "Oh I suppose... Alright fine," and let the chips fall. Sure, I'm living with Chris' parents, and it's no better, I know. But jeez...
Alright, I'm done. Make my life a book, or better yet, a movie-- Then the lazy people will know about me, too. Nah, no one watches biographies.