Wrote some of this yesterday. It was raining, so didn’t post it. Am just tidying the flat for the viewing, thought I’d read it again.
\
Yesterday:
Mortgage is due. I’m all out of luck.
Would’ve been fine if work gave a fuck.
Would’ve been fine if I’d passed that interview.
Would’ve been fine without all the roo, roo, roo.
There’s one thing to blame for all this mess,
A tiny little thing called fucking Princess.
Cause and effect. Bark and ruin. She wormed into my head and chewed through the wires.
Wore tights on my head last night. Saw an X post saying it blocks out noise. Laid there at 3 am, dressed like the Hamburglar, listening to screeching through the walls.
My job. My health. My prospects. All lost because of her campaign.
Have tried everything. Earplugs. Music. Booze. Tights. Writing.
Just want silence.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Today:
Am in a mood. Found a cactus under the bed. Dead now.
So many memories in this flat. Laughter in the kitchen. Tears in the bedroom. Screams in the kitchen. Blood in the bedroom.
Maybe Princess will shut her yap for twenty fucking minutes today.
If the viewing goes well, I can sell. Disappear before they come for me. But she won’t let it. She wants everyone to know what I did.
Bark. Bark. Bark. The moment they step through the door, she’ll make sure they don’t want to live here.
Should’ve strangled her the day I failed the interview. Hours of planning. Pointless.
next: 50. Haunting My Own Flat
previous: 48. Be More Like Sir Nolan