S or M?
I hate washing dishes. I loath it. I abhor it. I despise it with all my soul. But it's my week.
My sister is the bane of my existence. She purposely sets out to piss me off. So, whenever possible, I do my best to get back her. Childish? Maybe.
My favorite way to do this is to use as many dishes as I can until there's a mountain of unwashed dirtiness in the sink threatening to topple over and shatter on the black and white tiles.
When she reaches the deadline for procrastinating, she slinks into the kitchen to survey the damage. She doesn't even glance at the mountain. It's been a steadily growing nuisance all day. She knew it'd be there. She knew I created it. She shoots me a dirty look but doesn't spit out the words she's thinking. Our war is silent. Most of the time.
I don't even glance her way.
This is the way of things. Sadistic? Maybe.
So, I'm up to my usual trick. I'm waiting for her to come slinking in. She doesn't. I don't care. Her funeral, I figure.
But time passes. Gran comes shuffling in on fluffy cream colored slippers. She takes one look at her uncleaned kitchen and she starts bellowing insults and orders. She turns her death stare on me.
"It's not my week."
She stares at me.
"It's not"
She stares harder.
"Re-" And then I remember.
It's not her week.
It's my week.
Realization lights my eyes. That horrible greasy, grimy, disgusting mess is all mine. My sister is peeking from the doorway. Smirking. That Bitch. A threat and an order later I'm standing in the kitchen. Willing to trade my soul to be somewhere else. Doing anything else. But Lucifer don't want any.
So I'm stuck.
I sigh. I shuffle towards the mountain. A smart person would take care of the dishes first and then move on to the rest of the kitchen. But not me. Masochistic? Maybe.
And so I scrub down the counter tops, the table, the stove. I sweep. I dust. Anything to avoid that monstrosity just a little bit longer. But everything else was done. It was the only thing left. And so I set to it. Wincing. Grimacing. All but balling my eyes out like I wanted to.
Finally, it was done. She was not going to get away with this, though. She was gonna pay. Next week.
My sister is the bane of my existence. She purposely sets out to piss me off. So, whenever possible, I do my best to get back her. Childish? Maybe.
My favorite way to do this is to use as many dishes as I can until there's a mountain of unwashed dirtiness in the sink threatening to topple over and shatter on the black and white tiles.
When she reaches the deadline for procrastinating, she slinks into the kitchen to survey the damage. She doesn't even glance at the mountain. It's been a steadily growing nuisance all day. She knew it'd be there. She knew I created it. She shoots me a dirty look but doesn't spit out the words she's thinking. Our war is silent. Most of the time.
I don't even glance her way.
This is the way of things. Sadistic? Maybe.
So, I'm up to my usual trick. I'm waiting for her to come slinking in. She doesn't. I don't care. Her funeral, I figure.
But time passes. Gran comes shuffling in on fluffy cream colored slippers. She takes one look at her uncleaned kitchen and she starts bellowing insults and orders. She turns her death stare on me.
"It's not my week."
She stares at me.
"It's not"
She stares harder.
"Re-" And then I remember.
It's not her week.
It's my week.
Realization lights my eyes. That horrible greasy, grimy, disgusting mess is all mine. My sister is peeking from the doorway. Smirking. That Bitch. A threat and an order later I'm standing in the kitchen. Willing to trade my soul to be somewhere else. Doing anything else. But Lucifer don't want any.
So I'm stuck.
I sigh. I shuffle towards the mountain. A smart person would take care of the dishes first and then move on to the rest of the kitchen. But not me. Masochistic? Maybe.
And so I scrub down the counter tops, the table, the stove. I sweep. I dust. Anything to avoid that monstrosity just a little bit longer. But everything else was done. It was the only thing left. And so I set to it. Wincing. Grimacing. All but balling my eyes out like I wanted to.
Finally, it was done. She was not going to get away with this, though. She was gonna pay. Next week.