“Sabrina you never follow the fucking rules, what’d ‘you expect?”
We’re standing ankle deep in stagnant cold water and it’s still rising. It’s less and less yellow.
“Are you gonna help me or not? Shit, can you fix it?”
She’s getting shrill which means I only have about five minutes to gloat but every minute is worth it, she’s an ongoing nuisance in my very existence – ever since our families blended.
“Why d’you think your ass is any more special or freaking delicate than anyone else’s? We’re talking about one ply not freaking sandpaper or some shit.” I can’t help myself. I’m sounding like my mom, harping on long after the points been made.
“Brennaaa!!” She’s in full on panic now on the verge of an episode- which I will be at fault for even though we’re told constantly that we have to take responsibility for what happens to us because we made the choices that lead to that outcome yadda yadda.
“Brenna! Where’s the damn shutoff valve?!?”
I take half a beat, give a small shrug and turn away. I am choosing a broken sceptic system over Sabrina’s tyranny.
8 min on April 9, 2014 @ Brooklyn Roasting Company
Prompted from sign in restroom
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