Disinfectant, mothballs, cafeteria food, and the overall smell of decay that’s been covered up with cheap perfume fills the air, and stings my nostrils. The carpet seems to have been cleaned within an inch of its life, and almost has a utilitarian fell to it. Well this whole place feels that way. There are these awful plastic plants in “quaint” little pots on the wall that are perfectly spaced between the “apartment” doors.
This whole place gives me the hee-bee jee-bees. I grudgingly follow my mom down the narrow hall, pictures of kittens, and embroidered doilies staring menacingly down at me. My grandfather is the one leading the way with my mother and his new ditzy, slightly demented wife tottering along behind him. Grandpa is talking gaily, reminiscing about one dinner party or another in Morocco. My mom obligingly nods her cute blonde head, having not only heard the story many times, but was present during the party.
My step mother on the other hand is paying no attention what so ever, for we have reached the dinning room, and she is completely absorbed with commenting on how many fat people that are there. “My word, I’ve never seen so many fat people before”, she gasps. “Good heavens just look at that woman. What a fat women”. She continues with her mantra of fat, fat, fat until we reach the perfectly set, and spaced table. These people are really O.C.D., I mean even the knife blades are turned in. I know we all have to end up somewhere. But if i have a choice and I hope I do. I'll spend my last days in a wicked dry heat, with the smell of creosote soothing my senses.
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