2025.118
When the cleaners are at the gallery, I am cranky. The sound of the bulky & clogged vacuum cleaner, the splutter of water in the bucket when disturbed by the mop, & one of the cleaners' way-past-humming-volume a cappella bother me in ways that make me grit my teeth. & this particular cleaner, B, had called me baby, sweetie, & beautiful in the past, but since being told by my boss to stop harassing me, has been giving me side-glances & bitter mumbling because I'm a tattle-tale & no longer pretty. I think I want the vacuum to explode & for him to die from the explosion, but I haven't wished something like this on people who were worse to me. The tackiness of catcalling & its workplace aftermath infuriates me– I'd take some quality hurting over this kind of stuff any day.