Things started turning up a little more in the household these days.

And it pisses me no end when my mum called this morning, since she knew I would be back from KL last night.

And then she mentioned about something, something.

Then I replied.

She asked something, something.

I replied.

Wrong move. Stupid move.

“Please lah you…… blarblarblarblar,” let me see, the sarcasm, which perhaps, hmm, loosely translate into “You are such a slut.”

Yeah, it is my bloody fault I cannot control people turning up at my place, despite my resentment and insistence.

It is my bloody fault that I am not happy, yet there is nothing I can do about it.

It is my bloody fault that no one wants to listen to what I gotta say and how much inconveniences everything brings me, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

And it is my bloody fault that my blood runs cold and I turn emotionless whenever the nice gesture and the would-have-been utterly brilliant “element of surprise” sprung up right in my face.

Most of the time, at the same time.

It became a competition of some sort, like a spot check, to see if he or he is there.

Of course, no one will admit it.

First, it spilled into my work.

Then now, it gathered enough attention from the ultimate busybody  to give her 2 cents.

Of course, as usual, to her, it is my fault.  

Just because I gave up the exasperating task of convincing people I don’t need certain things in my life, and I don’t want certain things in my life. I only have that much energy. And I gave up. Hurhur. Seems like there is never quite a right move.

And at the end, whoever takes turn turning up, he will take turns giving me attitudes or emotional stress as well.

Like seriously, joy oh joy. And they wonder why I was never happy in their presence.

My fault, I know..

You got flowers. You a slut.

You got flowers again! You a slut.

That’s a nice necklace. You a slut.

You got this. You a slut.

You got a camera. You a slut.

You got this. You a slut.

What is he doing here? You a slut.

Why is he meeting you? You a slut.

Why is he picking you up? You a slut.

Why you going out? You a slut.

Why you didn’t come home for dinner? You a slut.

You got medication? You a slut.

You bringing baby to meet his family? You a slut.

Baby has a gift? You a slut.

Even my own puchase? Doesn’t matter. I am a slut.

Now perhaps you know why I never do entertain your questions.

Seriously. Fuck you.

And all of you.

I am giving up.