I love its flavorful succulence, but I am allergic to shrimp. Very much so. Only shrimp on the dinner table. Fingers trembling famishedly. Too lazy to open a can of tuna. So I sat down, got a golden orange curl, popped the head off. This is where the good stuff is, yes. Ditch the cutlery. This is eaten with one's bare hands. Satisfaction. Tender. Tangy. Oh sweet Jesus.
*5 TV ads later*
Pouty lips. Swollen digits. Hives. Stinging. Everyeffingwhere. I was downing massive portions of sugar, good thing we have muscovado. Another shower gave me only 8 minutes of relief. I've always love the Tomb Raider lips and the orgasm cheeks, but this isn't making me feel sexy at all. It's painful. Thinking that it might give me a valid reason to miss work tomorrow made me smile for 7 seconds. But the stinging came back. I shouldn't have trimmed my nails. Oh sweet Jesus.
***
I have this little quirk that nobody can take. I told him about it just lately, and he told me that had he known it the first week we were dating, we'd be strangers now. The quirk is this - I have to nip sachets at the upper right hand corner. Then I take the little excess of a triangle, make sure that it's flicked into the waste bin. I appreciate that sachet manufacturers put that little "Tear Here" nick, but it just won't do for me. So there has to be a pair of scissors in the shower room - All. The. Time. I have a pair, sharp ones. And I know that they work good not just for plastic, but also for unwanted hair in the Southern region. I don't really care if non-Joie residents of our home use it for that purpose, as long as my snippies are right where I want them to be every morning when I take a shower. If they're not, my neat little 5 a.m. universe becomes scrambled like a breakfast egg.
After more than half a year and hundreds of sachets, my scissors just vanished. Last time I saw it, my mom's husband was using it to trim nosehair. Pure abomination. Now he's the-devil-knows-where-down-to-the-GPS-coordinates, my scissors, with him (My mom's husband, I meant. The devil has no use for my scissors. But then, Beelzebub taking my scissors is a much funkier story, right?). So I buy a new one. Blue handles. On our way out of National Book Store (My heaven second only to Watsons. The smell of office supplies makes me high.)...
Him: "How To Find True Love" - let's buy Kat this book.
Me: Yes. But I should it read it first, noh?
Him: *gibberish that I forgot, a survival mechanism (his survival, yes)*
***
Why, why do I love delicious things that I know will make me sting?
***
Concerned Citizen: Here is the question - does he love you?
Joie: He's good to me.
CC: And...
Joie: He knows that I don't eat rice. He knows that I divide it into half. Then into quarters. Then into eighths. I take a spoon, two at most. Then I just play my fork with it.
CC: You're not answering my question.
Joie: At this point, it doesn't matter.
CC: It's too easy to answer my question - does he love you?
Joie: I think he's the type who'd say it when he feels the impetus. He doesn't say the L word, so I don't think he loves me.
CC: And you're ok with that?
Joie: Maybe.
CC: You're not ok.
Joie: I prefer this lack of passion, of tenderness, than having someone who takes insecticides because of me.
CC: It won't last.
Joie: More than three months. It has exceeded my expectations in terms of time.
CC: It has not exceeded your expectations in terms of intensity. I know you. You live for passion.
Joie: Steady is good.
***
Mom,
We'll make it. It's just us, this is not new. It has been this way for more than a decade now. We should be used to this. While it is more, way more convenient for me, for us sisters,to just jump ship and live our own lives, we cannot give up this house. This home. This is where you raised us. This is where I had the best memories with the three playmates you made for me. I love you, and I will not let you down.
And yes, happy birthday, mudra.
With love filling this house to the brim,
Djoanna
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