Say Nothing…Say It Often

It’s so hard to shut-up…to refrain from comment, silence your tongue, hold that verbal fire.

They should teach it as an alternate language, same as Spanish, or French.

When the woman rubbernecking me at the market, her cart, scraping my heels making me squeal, without even looking at me said, “Excuse me,” as if she were merely passing me on the 18th hole, I took it on the heel, so to speak.

My floor mate, still convinced I’m a leper, inched her way against the wall before running down the stairs, so rather then asking for some of Patrick the cat’s poop to leave in front of her door, said a prayer for her since, she may very well end up in the psych ward, minus her Prada belt.

Speaking of Patrick, whose dad sometimes forgets to feed out of his own pandemic panic, is smart enough to come over to my house for his Chicken of the Sea. When dad said, I’m coaxing him over and could I please stop, once again, refrained from putting a head through a wall. Patrick, who has the patience of a cat, just shook his head and said…pay no attention…I’ll be over later. And yes, I also didn’t say…WHO THE FUCK LETS HIM OUT!

Nope, I was as quiet as a mouse who I’m told, is lurking under 8B’s fridge like a Natzi Spy. This woman, who feels we’re friends since, I’m the only one in the building who speaks to her, keeps leaving me notes warning me about Mighty Mouse. I did smell a rat, finding out she has a little drinking problem. Having one of my own I’ve managed to quell, I would never throw stones, so when her last note, as if she wrote it with a pencil in her mouth, said…

YOU BITCH…I THINK YOU SENT HIM UPSTAIRS!!!

I simply slipped it into the shredder, gave her the finger two floors down, and got out the tuna fish since, Patrick was due any minute.   

SB