“Squeak”

“Squeak”, said the cupboard door, as I opened it to put glasses away from the drying rack.

How did those glasses get into the drying rack? I cleaned the kitchen before bed last night. There was nothing in the drying rack then. And for that matter, why are there crumbs on the island’s cutting board top?

Not that the cupboard door cares, even if I had asked out loud. Its sole purpose this morning is to yell at me.

“You need to get the WD40, wench. Do it, or I’m gonna squeak and squack and wake up your kids. I don’t CARE that you only had four hours of sleep last night. And woah there, missy! Backspace and correct that spelling error. It’s SQUAWK, not ‘squack’. Idiot.”

Eyeballs plugged into a head full of pain glare out from this thing called Christine and say, “Screw you,” not just to the cupboard, who MIGHT get its wish commanded if I remember to write it on the to-do notebook’s latest page, but to everything in and out of sight.

I turn on the kettle and don’t bother grinding coffee. Earl Grey is my friend, though he has little to say. I’m cool with that today, for I don’t want to talk anyway.

Advertisements