I remember a time when my life summarized in staring at the floor hunting for fleas so I could squeeze them. I felt their presence around the room. I felt whenever they were there, ready to suck you, the bloodsuckers. I’d crouch near my bed and catch them seconds before their jump. Oh, I was good. I bet I was the best flea squeezer out there. I felt great pleasure in eliminating them. Surely, it was an endless process. They were infinite. I’d pity myself to the action of squeezing fleas with a flat card, sometimes my college ID card, other times transport passes. It was an achievement when I’d kill more than 30 fleas a day. The room as you can imagine was a dump. The neighborhood. The people. I shared the house with two other beings; Caroline, a girl with a prominent tendency towards prostitution and an old man who talked to himself more than he talked to anybody else. The old man spent loads of time cooking, gotta admit he was a good cooker. I’d often try some of his leftovers. He’d cook for Carol a lot, because they shared rooms ( and most likely had a deal, if you know what i mean.) Carol, however, spent very less time in the house and strangely, when I’d happen to see her she’d always be eating an apple. And, I, I spent most of the time in the room with the fleas. There was also a guy named Ed, he would steal all the beers from the freezer and sometimes Carol’s food too. No wonder, Carol was always eating an apple. Time passed, and, it seems that I am always the last to leave. Eventually, the old guy moved out. Carol spent more time in a near by pizzeria, sleeping with the pizza guy in return of some pizza. One day, she must have been in a good mood. She knocked on my room door with a box of pizza and some wine. We sat on the floor appreciating the moment. Ed entered the room and sat with us drinking most of the wine. I stared at him gulping all that red wine, straight from the bottle. Oh Ed, how you belong here..you bloodsucker.
I have been quite sensitive to smells lately which is pretty weird once I am not and, usually never smell things before they have burnt or something like that. I step out in the street and each step I take I can smell something different. Sadly, no matter how much of perfume I wear I can never smell it on me. Perhaps, it wears off easily.But, I sit on the bus and inevitably think.. Whenever there is a bad smell in the air; it simply ruins everything. The way you see people… Can’t respect anyone, no matter how smart, how beautiful. A bad smell will definitely ruin any bit of romanticism. It reminds you that we can’t take ourselves seriously. Ever. I picture Dostoevsky frowning to the odor and, idealism dying right there in front of the beautiful and elevated…couple,whose ‘i love you’ was garroted by a fart stench.