I don't know, I just hate dirty floors

I - I don't know, I just hate dirty floors

I plugged in the computer.

The bright white page of the blank document was staring at me while waiting for me to do something more than staring at it.

I've decided that I wouldn't sleep, I simply couldn't do it after seeing that tiny grey asshole walking through my beautiful black sheets. It took me by surprise, and it scared me enough to make me scream. And even though the solution was as easy as looking for it and killing the motherfucker, no matter how annoyed I was, I simply didn't have the heart to do it, so I've decided that I wouldn't sleep instead and I would spend the whole night trying to write something that would make sense at least in the first couple of paragraphs.

Apparently, I didn't succeed.

After two lines my brain shut down, so I unplugged the machine and walked away from the desk in which I've created an organized fantasy to make me think that I was actually being productive and in the middle of something bigger than my usual mess.

Living alone was tiring sometimes, that came to my head because I turned my head around and didn't find anyone with whom I could share the fact that I've failed miserably in trying to write again, and this was, sometimes, discouraging, and made me feel homesick, but I was sure of one thing: I'd rather feel that once in a while instead of being under the rules that came with the roof every single day.

And it was not that I didn't love my family, but what I didn't love was the number of strict statements that were almost written in stone, it had been like that since the day I was born, and it makes sense that, after twenty years of living the same way, one gets as tired as it could be.

So I went right to the coffee maker my father had given me for Christmas, and in the middle of the process I remembered the fact that I didn't even like coffee and, that even worse, that drink made my anxiety rise above the top, but it was already made and I didn't find myself able to waste such amount of water, so I tried to drink it, but finally, gave up before I even reached up the half of the cup, the black liquid then found its destiny in the sink, where I would watch it slipper through the iron surface and disappear forever.

Drinking coffee, as well as smoking, were one of those kinds of things I wish I'd enjoy, but the harder I tried it the harder I'll hate them.

When I finished my little waste ritual, I headed to the bed, but before I was able to sit, I stared at the sheets.

Lately, the dirtiness was something that bothered me, and my sheets were full of it.

They were white (as white as the constant amount of washing days would allow them to be) until they weren't. Every time and every day that passed something new will appear on them: a hair, a pubic hair, a red-ish stain that would make me question my whole existence (because it wasn't blood-like), and some food crumbs that will lay in there until I dared to strip the bed to shake the covers.

But I wasn't feeling like doing so. Most of the time, I wasn't feeling like doing anything at all.

It was this hell-like dirty force that would not let me go that grabbed me by both arms, not allowing me to do any of the basic things needed to survive. I would cry and scream and struggle, but the more I did those things the more that force would pull me back.

There have been people who tried to fix it, who tried to clean me up, but the more they tried, the more I'll hate them, and the longer they seemed to be able to stay, the sooner I would push them away. And that was like my thing: disappearing into the void when something good promised to happen to me, like a race against time and happiness that I didn't seem like willing to win. "So good to be true" became my motto, I was in constant denial of whatever I deserved.

When you have the need to think what the hell are you going to be able to eat with little to no money left, every time you dig yourself into a destructive alcohol-full night, all the times you've been at the edge of the seat bawling your eyes out until you finally fall asleep, life only knows one thing: how to get harder.

Nobody teaches you the valuable lessons, but everyone thinks they know what's best for you, and you get tired, angry, you don't want to listen to them ever again, because everything that comes out of their mouths just buries you deeper and deeper and deeper, then you just get to turn to dust, a lesson not learned, and everything fades away.

Just for you to know: I am the worst-case scenario.