amimee
It really wasn't a good system, in fact it was quite unhealthy. But, it was her choice to bottle it all in and hope that time would allow her to forget and perhaps even move on.
As she sat in the sagging armchair that she'd had all her married life, Vanessa glanced out the window to see the magnolia tree start to blossom. she didn't think she'd be around for it again, and yet her she was.
We all need to roll up our sleeves, she called out. the water was coming in from so many directions - the floor, the ceiling, through the cracks in the window. The whole thing was quite hopeless, but while she thought she could save them, roll up their sleeves they did. Until they drew their last breath.
She likes to prepare her outfit the night before. It kept her feeling in control. the same way she kept her room, neat, orderly, and in control. Her outfit was laid out carefully on her chair, her shoes under it so as not to appear messy.
Trying hard to stay positive, to transform myself from the cranky angry teeth-clenching hag I've become, to the normal person I think I once was. Maybe this is the new me, post-transformation that I didn't even ask for.
Sometimes I find it difficult to navigate my way through this life. There's chaos and mayhem around every corner. But what would the alternative be - boredom, sameness and nothing. What's that old saying - life wasn't meant to be easy..
I didn't know where to start. The whole place was a mess. She hadn't cleaned in..forever? She saw it as beneath her. The "domestic help" would sort that out. They sorted her out. By walking out and letting her fend for herself. And now she was under all the rubbish. Dead.
The little girl didn't even see it coming. In fact, the scooter rider didn't see her coming wither. With the swish of red and the metal clang of blue, they both ended in a heap of crumpled mess.
That was the new habit - eating lunch with the chopsticks her niece had brought back from Japan. she reasoned that by using them, she'd slow down her eating and perhaps even appreciate the food that was going into her mouth. At the moment though, they were causing her grief.
Reading between the lines of the most recent email, her tone was like the sickly sweet syrup you pour over store-bought pancakes - trying too hard to get what she wanted.
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