I fucking hate her. 

Bitch, bitch, bitch.  Every word out of her mouth is either a complaint or about her.  You’d think eventually she’d want to know something about me, but no.  Six months in the same apartment, she ought to at least express an interest in my life, right?  I’m the one paying the rent.  She doesn’t have a job or a boyfriend or even any family to speak of.  Most people would have made some effort to reach out to me or bond by now.  Or even say thank you for taking care of things.  Not her.  When I come home, she doesn’t even have the courtesy to ask me how my day was.  Nope, just the same endless litany about how she feels, and how her wrists hurt, and when am I going to fix her something to eat.

If this keeps up, I’m not untying her for at least another month.

Copyright 2004-2006 Amy Frushour Kelly