She shut her door against me like I didn’t matter. I was burnt to say the least but this was the farthest I was going. I have been underrated and insulted in this house.
“Open your door if you have the guts!” I yelled from the basement. I thought I heard her hiss but that was all to it. I couldn’t hit her for all the possible reasons and that hurt me the more. My life in this house is pretty much a tug-of-war; there’s always too much to worry about, much more to struggle for. I picked up the detergent and clothes. It was hard not to cry.
“Stupid boy!” I thought to myself. Everyday it’s easy for him to fling his dirty clothes at me for laundry. Not even smart enough to tell me what clothes to bleach or not. You may like to think he has preferences as to what he throws at me, but no… From his dirty football socks to his smelly boxers, his sweaty vests to his armpit-juice-soaked shirts. I’ve seen it all.
He just dumps them on me.
What I don’t understand is this Ménage à trois. How can he make us live together in the same house? Every time I yell at her, he doesn’t seem bothered. I have no idea what he says to her in that kitchen but I feel very much like a puppet. Washing a man’s clothes has to be the worst of the…
Don’t people worry about being overweight? Makes me wonder why this idiot of man even pays her any attention. Every minute of the day, she’s complaining
“Oh! His boxers smell! Oh I can’t touch these!”
I can almost smell the basement from the kitchen; quite sickening to deal with – if you ask me. She hasn’t thought of the fact that I practically cook his meals. I use the term “practically” because half the time, he’s shoving frozen edibles at me. The only meals he trusts me to prepare him are noodles and oats. It’s depressing to accept I’m good for nothing but, it is what it is.
Once I revolted.
I asked him why I could only make him oats and noodles. He didn’t say a word. All he had to do was slap the living sh*t out of me and when he realized I wasn’t giving up, he called a big man (he was very dirty and black) to torture me. Talk about love and pain? All I can tell you is… I do not understand the meaning of the word “revolt” anymore.
I know he always needs me; he shows it at the slightest opportunity. I’m also sure we would be happy as long as I don’t conceive thoughts of revolting. Still, one thing is certain – I have to deal with this Ménage à trois. I have no idea what he was thinking when he brought the three of us together. Every time I yell at her and he doesn’t seem bothered. I have no idea what he says to her in that smelly basement but I feel very much like the queen. Attending to a man’s stomach has to be the…
Clark, our very man, walked into the kitchen. I heard him move about and was sure what the routine was going to be. As usual, he was going to drop a plate of frozen food in her arms. I heard his feet drag lazily but this time, towards the basement. He stood in front of me and undressed – dropping his sweatshirt and pants on me.
This is how we live – The Man, The Microwave and me… The Washing Machine.