I can imagine the hurt, but I haven’t lived it. The pain of betrayal, the punch of it. The heartbreak. Knowing that your love was not enough, knowing that they slid out from inside of you, your own heart melting out from between your ribs.
i can’t help feeling like i’ve been cheated by cruel fate. all i can do is sit here and wait until things get better. fuck, people my age are usually so accomplished. what am i doing? just sitting here waiting, i guess.
stranger
I have never cheated, simply because I know it is wrong. Or maybe I just never wanted to. Would you want to cheat if you wanted to be legitimatelly smart?
I see cleaners wherever I go. They are meant to be unobtrusive, part of the background, despite their bright yellow cleaning carts, the glossy black trashbags piled high in trolleys. I used to be a cleaner, now I don;t make my living that way. But I still remember the shifts of service elevators and being a shadow in a scrub uniform, seen but not-seen. I recall stocking the cart, imagining the rag count I would need, pink for scrubbing and blue for polishing. I remember the inevitably stuffy little rooms where supplies were stored, I remember the hot soapy water with squeezes of industrial cleanser scented like Rain Forest or Morning Rain, the way it steamed up into my face as I filled the 5-gallon buckets and I remember smiling because it was as close to a spa facial as I would get. I remember how that water would turn grey and gritty in no time at all, after the mop moved over even the most inoffensive-looking floor because wherever humans go, they bring grime. They leave a floating legacy of skin flakes, strands of hair, body odour, rumpled receipts and loose threads, tracked grit, bloodstains, snot, spit, cigarette ash. I remember sweat building on my lip and in my armpits as I hurried against the clock. I remember the feeling of setting things right but that it was only temporary; cleaning goes on and on and is never noticed unless it is not done or done poorly.
I remember still that people people hate seeing evidence of other people, even though this world is half worn out with people walking all over it.
I don’t clean for a living these days but in any building I am largely aware of what needs to be cleaned. No matter how lush, sterile and effortless the building wants to appear (or how chilled and facility-like) I still remember the 11pm to 7am shifts, the burned taste of coffee drunk in the wee hours, the Windex cloth squeaking against the glass when I extended my arm as far as possible, polishing glass for a clearer view of the city where everyone normal was asleep except the people who kept the show running.
I once cheated on an exam. It was a bio exam and I had not idea what I was doing. The teacher kind of new that we were cheating and he just let us. Meh. I never did it again. I was soooo desperate.
I can imagine the hurt, but I haven’t lived it. The pain of betrayal, the punch of it. The heartbreak. Knowing that your love was not enough, knowing that they slid out from inside of you, your own heart melting out from between your ribs.
i can’t help feeling like i’ve been cheated by cruel fate. all i can do is sit here and wait until things get better. fuck, people my age are usually so accomplished. what am i doing? just sitting here waiting, i guess.
I have never cheated, simply because I know it is wrong. Or maybe I just never wanted to. Would you want to cheat if you wanted to be legitimatelly smart?
I see cleaners wherever I go. They are meant to be unobtrusive, part of the background, despite their bright yellow cleaning carts, the glossy black trashbags piled high in trolleys. I used to be a cleaner, now I don;t make my living that way. But I still remember the shifts of service elevators and being a shadow in a scrub uniform, seen but not-seen. I recall stocking the cart, imagining the rag count I would need, pink for scrubbing and blue for polishing. I remember the inevitably stuffy little rooms where supplies were stored, I remember the hot soapy water with squeezes of industrial cleanser scented like Rain Forest or Morning Rain, the way it steamed up into my face as I filled the 5-gallon buckets and I remember smiling because it was as close to a spa facial as I would get. I remember how that water would turn grey and gritty in no time at all, after the mop moved over even the most inoffensive-looking floor because wherever humans go, they bring grime. They leave a floating legacy of skin flakes, strands of hair, body odour, rumpled receipts and loose threads, tracked grit, bloodstains, snot, spit, cigarette ash. I remember sweat building on my lip and in my armpits as I hurried against the clock. I remember the feeling of setting things right but that it was only temporary; cleaning goes on and on and is never noticed unless it is not done or done poorly.
I remember still that people people hate seeing evidence of other people, even though this world is half worn out with people walking all over it.
I don’t clean for a living these days but in any building I am largely aware of what needs to be cleaned. No matter how lush, sterile and effortless the building wants to appear (or how chilled and facility-like) I still remember the 11pm to 7am shifts, the burned taste of coffee drunk in the wee hours, the Windex cloth squeaking against the glass when I extended my arm as far as possible, polishing glass for a clearer view of the city where everyone normal was asleep except the people who kept the show running.
I once cheated on an exam. It was a bio exam and I had not idea what I was doing. The teacher kind of new that we were cheating and he just let us. Meh. I never did it again. I was soooo desperate.