When the fucking bathroom took over...

That feeling of utter helplessness, downward spiralling joy
How much ever you try, you can't shake off or ignore the ever present ghost of the woman
It is not about you
It is always about what she could and what you cannot, ever
Do I care? I don't but does it matter? Yes
But not to me. Complicated it is.

Am expected to be obsessed over bathroom stains while all I want is to fly away, into the oblivion, spread my wings, with no worries of financial security or rapists on the loose ready to plug the hole...

Rules, rules, and more rules.
Don't do this, don't do that.
Wear a nightie but as soon as you get up in the morning, wear your bra and a pyjama under your nightie. Or better still, get up early in the morning and ensure you dress up like a fucking doll and serve the god. The fucking god who can sleep late because he is tired. The hypocrisy of it all is so fucking maddening that a normal person can just lose it. Is it worth it? Many well-meaning friends asked me. I don't know. I have no answers. I feel, somewhere I probably have sinned so much that it is retribution time. To grin and bear till the life gets fucking sucked out of my body. Maybe, there is a hell after all. It is here, in this world. You live through fucking hell. Each day. Your pride and self esteem gets trodden below super egos and anatomical differences. Have heard this rant about not being more diligent many times, today it rankled a lot. Because it started with the dead mother. I used to feel bad earlier. Now, when I look at her (there are many pictures in the house now) picture, I feel safe. No more new interruptions. Thank god for small mercies.

Are bathrooms more important than people?
Is a piece of furniture more critical than people and their emotions?
My mother should have taught me how to cook, clean, and supervise. These are skills that are much in demand. Who cares if you can make the pivot table dance to your tunes, who fucking cares if you are a wordsmith. End of the day, are your skills making you any  money? Money, here is the most important thing, you see. Can you make money as well as be superman and fly around doing everything that momma dearest did and more? 

I have been through this before. It rankles. A lot. These are days when I feel that urge to escape. To fly away. Then, reality kicks in, I swallow my pride and stay mum. Isn't the world outside just so difficult to survive in? Men out there ready to lay you when you are just trying to understand how to fucking file IT returns. End of the day, misery is part and parcel of a woman's life. Then they ask, 'Oh are you not happy with me?' Yes, fucking yes, I am so thrilled, I could just jump with joy at the mere mention of your fucking name. Is it love that binds people in such suffocating relations? It is just bloody old fashioned compromise, nothing more nothing less. 

Yes, today, I am pissed off. Mighty pissed off. 
It started with the bathroom. It always does. Stains are to be obsessed over. But, other things that make a home are to be overlooked because the dead mother has not 'taught' the old boy all these. Or rather she was not visibly harassed about such things. She obsessed about bathrooms and other places and it remained that way. No other rooms are important in people's lives. Bathrooms are sacrosanct. I need coffee.