It's funny how people react towards the way I write. I mean, really. I think it's trash, you think it's good. I think it's being what I really am, and you think its sole hatred to the world. Well, no offense to the hardcore emo's out there, but seriously, this is no emo blog.
If you come to think of it, there's nothing good in life to blog about anyway. It's a common misconception that the fact you are living is a very very good thing on itself. Why? If you're life is bombarded with bazillion problems, that isn't very good. You might as well die than to suffer along the way. But then again, problems come and go in a weird way. Ugh. I'm not suicidal or anything.
I'm just being repulsive. Because..well.. I am repulsive.
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Do you know what else is disgusting aside from me? Cockroaches.
As a child, I never grew fond of cockroaches. Who the hell would? Cockroaches are far more disgusting than any other pests around the block. I mean, rats are perfectly fine for me if you just set the fact that their shits stink and their piss could kill people aside, they're actually nice. At least they don't fly, and they don't lay freakishly small eggs around our vicinity.
I probably inherited dad's mannerism of jumping when there's a cockroach around. The only difference is that he gets something (like a rolled newspaper or just something approximately 5 times the size of the pest) and use it to hit the damn insect, obviously to kill it to pieces. That being said, I don't like it too when my dad would smear the dead body of the cockroach to my shirt. I freak out and cuss in a weird and abhorring way, then throw my clothes out of me in an instant. I don't do that anymore, evidently. Aside from the fact that I'm already on the last phase of my puberty, my beer belly would scare people off. Instead, I would just shriek and run off to hide.
I remember this one time when my sister and I were the only products of my parents' young and sappy love, and we lived in my father's room that's smaller than my present bedroom in his parents' house. There are several holes in the bottom part of every wall, like that holes you see in Tom and Jerry. But those holes look like they've been punched by a serial killer, unlike Jerry's holes which he probably spent thousands on for perfect ledges. Of course we knew that those holes house mice and cockroaches and termites and Al Pacino and any other dirty pests, so it's no surprise when my dad would just suddenly stomp his feet on the floor while finishing some report on his laptop.
There was this double bed in the room; my mom and dad took the bottom part, and the upper part was ours. That was when the days where still good and we were the complete opposite of obesity. It was night time, and my mom finally turned the switch off to put us to sleep, because there's school the next day. As we were drifting off to sleep, something crawled up towards my forehead and stayed there for a moment. I lifted my hand and touched it and..
Oh hell no. It's a fucking cockroach. Surprise, Surprise.
I screamed loudly in my head. Fuck! It's a damn pest! It's gonna eat me!, I thought. I didn't want to wake my parents up, or to let them find out what a big and pesky irony their daughter is. For someone who lives in a cockroach-infested room, I was dead scared of cockroaches. That, ladies and gentlemen, is not a good thing.
I climbed down the bed quickly and opened the light. As I was doing this, I felt that the cockroach left my forehead off and flew somewhere. It also left this stupid burning sensation, like a mark. As I turned the lights off, I saw the cockroach resting on the wall. Well, that's the part when I screamed.
"MAY IPIIIIIIIISSSSSS! (There's a cockroaaaaach!)"
My father muttered some words to shut me up and threw me his big pillow, and then he went back to sleep. I was so helpless, I shook their sleeping bodies just to wake them up and kill the damn cockroach for me. They ignored me, of course. The cockroach started to fly around the room. I screamed again and again and again. God, I hate it when that happens. I grabbed a blanket to cover my whole body and rested on the floor.
I woke up with swollen eyes and lips.
The wrath of these flying things is still not over, evidently.
Thank God, my journal's cockroach-proof.
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