There are days I wish I could be good at some other things besides writing. It’s not that I’m superb at writing, but I’m only good at it and terrible at pretty much anything else. Once in a while I wanted to do something else to earn some money. I tried, I tried real hard but no matter how much I did, I failed. In the end, writing was like a bitchy wife waiting for me at home and laughed at my miserable distorted face when she saw me dragging my legs back home, no money, no nothing.
“Told you,” she said. “You no good without me.”
And I would yelled back from my lung.
Saying nothing, she went to the kitchen to make me a sandwich. That sandwich sucked – it was all dry and tasteless and pathetic – but that was the only thing I ate in 3 days. And I just cried and cried. And she caressed my hair, whispered to me in her sing-songy voice, “Hush, hush! You did your best. It’s just that you no good without me.”
“But…” – I tried to raise my weak voice which, despite of its volume, still sounds even smaller than her whisper – “Don’t you see our relationship has been miserable? You always want more and more. You are a whore. And I am… well… I am definitely miserable being with you. I fucking resent you.”
“But I don’t. And I won’t ever.” – she said and I know I am forever condemned – “And that’s the only thing matters.”