Some time ago, probably about a month or two ago, I was having a conversation with my father about my insomnia. This is already a subject that's touchy enough between the two of us, as on several occasions he's quite candidly told me he doesn't empathize with my condition at all and that he's never had trouble sleeping a single night in his life. A statement I'm sure is full of shit, although sadly I do believe he has an utter lack of empathy in my plight as an insomniac. Regardless this conversation wasn’t aided by the fact that my dumbass slut sister and her bastard child were buzzing around the kitchen, in close proximity to our conversation. The aforementioned dumb slutty sibling, Colleen, wasted little time in interrupting our conversation to inform my dad and I that she too, had insomnia. I immediately chimed in that she didn’t, however if she did, the last thing people with insomnia are supposed to do is drink caffeine. Given she’s a daily coffee drinker, I figured this would shut her up enough so that she’d back off and mind her own business. Of course it wasn’t and only added fuel to the fire, as she was now claiming that not only did she have insomnia but that I did not; and then went on to tell my dad how all I do is sleep all day. Needless to say what little patience I possess was now desolate.
“Bullshit,” I screamed out. “The only reason you say that is because when I finally crash and am able to sleep it’s usually in the day-time hours. That’s beside the fact that the primary reason you ever come downstairs in the first place is to pawn off your kid on me because you’re a terrible parent who ignores her the majority of the time.” “Don’t use that kind of language in front of Kadence,” my dad sternly warned me. “Well then tell this ignorant idiot to shut the hell up. She has no idea what real insomnia entails. And if she did, she’d know she’s doing the exact opposite of what any doctor would suggest, sitting a room all day doing nothing, drinking caffeinated beverages and not exercising. Since this point forward she’s continued to insist she has insomnia, whilst her habits have remained stagnant, unlike her weight.
Jumping forward to a time closer to our present, about a week ago I was looking for a large glass pitcher, which I use to refill the dogs’ water bowls. I scoured the kitchen but couldn’t find it. My dad and I agree on few things however one exception has been our intense displeasure with the way Colleen “re-organizes” the kitchen. Her methods of sorting make little sense and genuinely just annoy my dad and me. Out of my frustration it was at this moment I decided to take some vindictive action. I hid her coffee pot, displaced all her types of coffee and coffee related condiments in various locations. For the last week or so, she either hasn’t noticed or has made her degenerate baby’s daddy who had been hanging around the house buy her pre-made coffee elsewhere. This week however, he along with their kid is back in South Carolina, which means as a broke jobless bitch without a car or a license, she could no longer outsource for coffee and was finally forced to look for her missing coffee pot. Last night I heard her questioning my father about the location of the coffee pot and I was impressed with his Clinton-esque manner of speech. I had previously told him I intended on hiding various things from Colleen to deliberately annoy her, so he knew full well that the coffee pot was deliberately hidden, along with the identity of the perpetrator. Yet he was totally forthright and honest with her that he didn’t know where the coffee pot was and tactful in his responses, none of which even hinted toward incriminating me.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011: I run out on an errand at the request of my youngest sister to pick up a prescription from a doctor’s office roughly 5 minutes away when I’m approached by Colleen, inquiring about the location of her coffee pot. And the game begins. “Have you seen my coffee pot?” she asks me, in a neutral non-accusatory manner. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve seen it.” “Oh, do you know where it is?” She eagerly asked. “Nope,” I immediately responded. “But I thought you said you’ve seen it?” She questioned. “It’s in our kitchen on a daily basis of course I’ve seen it… just not recently,” I said as I subsequently slammed the front door in her face before she could inquire any further.
I returned roughly 10 minutes later and laid the prescription I had been asked to pick up on the kitchen counter. As I opened my door to head downstairs I notice Colleen is in the kitchen, frantically looking for her coffee pot. So far so good, I think to myself. “So… you really don’t know where my coffee pot is?” she asks me in a suspicious tone. “No,” I reply. “And if I did, I wouldn’t admit it.” “So then you hid it!” she exclaimed. “I never said that, I simply said if I knew where it was, I wouldn’t tell you. Don’t waste your time, you’ll never find it.” I closed my door and walked downstairs, knowing exactly what was about to happen.
Our kitchen is only one room and although it has significant storage space in it’s amplitude of kitchen cabinets. I knew it was only a matter of time before she found the coffee pot, given that I had hidden it along with all of her coffee related crap in there. I also knew after finding said coffee pot, that I claimed she’d never find, she’d feel a sense of victory, of indomitability. It was inevitable, predictable and of course only a ruse to cover up its true genius. I’d hidden all her coffee condiments in places I knew she wouldn’t have bothered looking; especially after she had found her “holy grail” that was her coffee pot. The only condiment she had left was a bowl of sugar, which I replaced with salt, which lay innocently the entire time right next to the coffee maker. Thus, she’d victoriously make her first batch of coffee, pour salt in it and ruin it herself.
A short time later I ventured upstairs to get a vitamin supplement from my upstairs cabinet when I notice my top step is soaking wet. Immediately I look toward Yago, whose been locked down the basement with me since one of our bitches is in heat. Whenever he does something wrong, he immediately bows his head and avoids eye contact with me. Then I notice this liquid is browner looking and partially splattered on both sides of the wall. Given how narrow my basement stairwell is, this would’ve been a very impressive urination display, if it were in fact urine, which of course it wasn’t. I come upstairs and my sister is beaming with victory. “You think you’re so smart. You said I’d never find it. I found it in less than 5 minutes,” she proudly stated. “Then you poured a bunch of salt in your coffee and ruined it, just like I had planned all along, dumb bitch.” And just like that her face turned from victor to victim. No doubt aided by the smile spread across my face and my pleasant demeanor despite just having coffee poured all over my top basement step. Having already cleaned up the mess which was obviously the bad coffee she had made, I trotted down the stairs whistling along the way. Despite the fact that she was no-doubt left in an angry state, the fact that she had the last word by soaking my top step, I’m sure was enough for her to feel that we were even. Perhaps if she had read the motto of some of the Morton’s salt I replaced her sugar with she’d have seen the foreshadowing: When it rains, it pours.
Still in a fairly good mood about what had just transpired I contemplated my next plan of action. I initially thought of dumping a large pitcher of water all over her bed. But the ramifications of such would just be her monopolizing the laundry machine – as she often does anyway – and really that’d be more of an inconvenience to my dad. As I brainstormed about various things I could perhaps dump on her possessions and which of those would be most fitting I realized I glanced over a much easier and more effective solution. The answer lied in the source: where the problem had started: the kitchen. Of course this answer lied in my kitchen. And it had been lying there, covered in black mold, filled with green-yellow opaque water which had been sitting stagnant and smelling foul for months. It was a medium-sized Tupperware bowl with once-unfinished food lining its sides, which had long since been overtaken by mold, bacteria and fungus. So I nonchalantly walked upstairs and grabbed a pair of latex rubber gloves and put them on. I poured a slight amount of the putrid water out so I wouldn’t spill it on my trip upstairs and subsequently to Colleen’s room. I also took the liberty of cleaning all the most disgusting parts of the bacterial growths, located on the bowls outer rims and placed them inside the tepid repulsive liquid, where they’d serve my purpose perfectly. Once I had finished the task at hand I wasted no time. I slowly, carefully and deliberately walked up the stairs, right past Colleen who was in the kitchen and shouted “Hey what are you doing!?” and poured the entire bowl of filth in the middle of her carpet. The putrescence splashed anything in the vicinity and foul odor engulfed her tiny room. “Oh okay!” she shouted. “Well now I’m just going to do something to something of yours again,” she said. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” I ask in amusement. “When you’re not here I’ll just go downstairs, she says.” “I have a lock on my door, thanks for the warning.” “Fine then your car,” she says. I briefly laugh for a moment then reply, “I’ll just lock that too.” “Just face it,” I say. “You can’t win.” “Yes I can!” she immediately exclaims. “I’m smarter than you, faster than you, stronger than you and most importantly better than you,” I calmly state. “You’re a piece of shit, you have nothing on me, and you can’t win.” She walks away her head still held high, the typical response of denial for a victim of yet another:
Reality Check
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