WASHING MACHINES AND FIVE FAT FROGS IN A ROW

I want to spit on the wall right in front of me.

It’s white and makes me feel confused.

I shouldn’t have come to do my laundry. I shouldn’t sit here.

I was at home, an hour ago, my hand typing virtuously, but then my roommate asked me to lend him my favorite shirt and I know: He wants it because of that girl he met the other day. He asked me after eating 5 eggs.

I hate eggs sometimes. I hate eggs when they are eaten by my roommate, when he is just about to ask me for my favorite shirt. I said yes and left. I think it’s because of the girl with the thick lips, thick like two fat fishes. I can see them snuggling on the sticky chairs of his uncles car. She will put her two fat fish to his mouth and feel very sick, because of all the eggs he ate.

My chair is uncomfortable. It sits in front of a white wall that makes we want to spit.

My spit shouldn’t be a vulgar rejection. It should mean something very precise to someone very specific. It’s an undefined feeling. It feels like a prison of cotton and rosebuds. All these sweet excuses, hiding a terrible, scratching disease, which beats faster and faster and barks like a furious dog in the rain.

I remember the smell of dogs in the rain.

I think of Dante: the tree beasts protecting the access to paradise.

For me it’s the other way. It’s a little plastic paradise hiding the glory of a real barking beast, standing on his little frog leg, one heavier then the other.

Now I know it’s a beast that barks in me today; makes me want to spit.

Something about this is not me or what I see as me.

I have, stuck in my throat, five fat frogs in row. I don’t want to stare into the white.

I look at a young girl sitting in front of me while the washing machines are chewing my dirty clothes. She is browsing the pages of a gossip magazine, waiting patiently. Soon her laundry will be done, and she will probably separate the sport socks from the ones she wears to go out and leave smiling kindly, looking at the ugly man, who sits behind the cash desk and smokes, feeling sorry for his health. She should know that I smoke too. But she doesn’t feel sorry for me.