harassed

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A great deal of comfort eating lately. I have bought far too much in the way of groceries. And I catch myself surfing the web for even more! Stop, Bunny, stop! I am nowadays eating inside my room again. With the door closed. I want to shut out the incessant assault on my senses, my mental peace and my physical space. The positive thing about cooking and eating, recently, has been the fun of using fresh herbs from my little garden. Finely chopped basil, mint and lemon grass add zing to the cucumber-tomato salad, flavoured with Thai fish sauce and lime juice. Miam!

The Extreme Neurotypical continues to harass. Intrude. Subtly. Surely. Friendly Aggression. Cheerful Bombardment.

Do these people actually understand what they are doing? I cannot believe that they (or anyone) could be so lacking in self awareness. Yet, they confuse me, in their intent and purpose. Yes, I do understand that their actions are innate survival tactics, that their neurological make up is reflected in the way they perceive and operate in the social realm. However, amidst the bulldozing and superficial incognizance, there occasionally peeps out from under the dense, thick, heavy and reeking drapery, a cheeky, leery wink – an incontrovertible defiant impudence. Can their behaviour really be so unintentional, then?

Yesterday, I packed up all my work material, ready for moving into my tiny little studio space. It will be a tight squeeze, but I have no other place to work peacefully in. I’d much rather be able to work from home, of course. Home, right now, is a battlefield of neurological discord, friction and confrontation. Sadly, not a place I can be at peace in, let alone engage in focused and detailed work.

Anyhow, the boxes and crates were sitting in the lounge area, awaiting their eventual fate. The Extreme Neurotypical Amiable Bulldozer person walks by, and casually picks things up from my boxes. “What’s this?” I begin to groan inside. I wonder why people cannot walk by someone else’s property without rifling through other people’s things? I answer briefly. The creature chuckles, “Oh, ok, I’d better stop looking through your things!” and walks off. I am nonplussed. Irritated. Exhausted.

Here is another conversation from two days ago.

I was looking for something in the kitchen cupboard. Everything inside is mine. Paid for by and belonging to me. I saw two cockroaches scuttling on the inside of the old rotting cupboard.

Me: Oh no! Cockroaches! Ugh!

Mr. Amiable: Haha, there’re lots of them in there.

Me: What? How’d you know?

Mr. Amiable: <stutters, then regains speech> Errm… oh… I used the blender.

Me: What blender? The blender is there! <pointing to the blender on kitchen trolley>

Mr. Amiable: <brief pause> Oh, the small handheld one.

Me: No, please don’t use that one, it is mine. Use the one outside.

We’d been through this before. Over and over. I’ve told him that I do not like people going through my things and helping themselves without permission.

Mr. Amiable: <grins widely, beaming from ear to ear>

Me: Anyway, so, you knew there were cockroaches in the cupboard but you didn’t bother to tell me? You didn’t bother to clean them out either?

Mr. Amiable: Hahaha, well… Welcome to life in the city!

What did he mean by that exactly? Whatever he meant, it was not good intention. Not according to my perception and social morality anyway.

I cannot wait to be rid of him. Insufferable.

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