Drama Queen, Dominatrix, Dead Rat; What is it with me and D words?

A dead rat rotting away under a heavy cabinet spreading its ordure throughout the house. It invades my nostrils, my stomach rushes to my throat, I run back and forth from the airwell (I thought it was in the washing machine) towel pressed against my nose and the stench invades, my mouth, my throat, my skin.

Dadda falls back against the smell. We empty the cabinet of champagne flutes and jars of tea and sugar and cinammon and cloves. We press our bodies to the unyielding wood, hold our breaths, and push. Julie, who is red-eyed and weak from the flu comes to help push and the cabinet creaks, inches forward to reveal the poisoned rat, curled under heavy shadows, being consumed by maggots but not fast enough. It's been four days.

Dadda gags, I run, and Julie looks at it and shrugs in resignation. "I have the strongest stomach. I'll clean it up." She removes the rat. Dadda boils water to attack the maggots. I take refuge in the hall, answering Dadda's mobile which has decided to go off just then. It's Ivan. He's e-filing Dadda's taxes. Julie goes back to her soup. Like she said, a strong stomach. I couldn't choke down food now if you paid me. (I think having a rat under your heavy kitchen cabinet is a good dieting mechanism if you're into those kinda things)

And then there's the tiredness. It's like my body perishing from exhaustion. My eyes, still unspectacled or contact lensed despite my advanced years, feel like they're giving out. Pain in the head, weariness of the body. My limbs ache, long to crawl between blankets and expire. A little Wilkie Collins cos I need something suitably mindless, but no, it's not mindless, I take note of the hypnotic devices he employs in his text, the silent commands that compel you to go on reading, sending thrills...I am writing a website, I need to do it hypnotically - for the first time I have to wonder about converting browsers to buyers...selling, with every breath, with every breath...

And I start to wonder if I am becoming a saleswoman, a fake, are my relationships defined by what I have to sell...I'm tired, I pull away, leave me the fuck alone, I want to crawl under a kitchen cabinet and expire for a while, leave me alone.

And the boss tells me he's going to fire me after the probation period expires and I can't help but to feel that he's being sensible. I retort saucily because when pride's involved I have to be "I don't give a fuck" about anything. But I do care. And I don't. And I do. And I don't.

And I watch the guys in the company falling into line. When one of the bosses comes by and yells or claps them on the back encouragingly, they cover their crotches in the accepted "I'm in the presence of a superior male" attitude.

Right.

Whatever.

Ambivalent.

For the moment.