Emotions are like strangers in your house
They knock at the door or press the doorbell, once, twice, three times, and you hesitate to answer because you’re not expecting anyone. Eventually when you open the door, they face you in their very own emotional way. All red and bloated with anger, absolutely soaked in tears, laughing hysterically or they don’t even look straight in your eyes while twisting their fingers with guilt. Nevertheless, the type of emotion has little importance, as they all block the door with their foot – how rude is that – and enter the room without being invited to. The angry one screams to your face and puts the table on fire. The happy one jumps on your shoulders and tickles you until you want to go for a wee. The sad one is bringing a half empty bottle of white wine – gross – then curls up on your bed and crumples the sheets with the shoes that he doesn’t remove. The guilty one is following you everywhere like your shadow with his little sneaky face and whispers to your left ear what have you done? and to your right one I told you so. Those tossers are ruining your beautiful and neutral house. You don’t know them, they turned out uninvited and you don’t feel comfortable around them, even a bit cringe. He hasn’t texted you today and the loony ecstatic one meets the lonely drunk rag doll in your bedroom to catch your phone to send him five messages on Whatsapp followed by a sixth embarrassing one that you’ll have to explain later. The table is on fire, and so is the wooden floor, as hot as lava, so you have to bounce from furniture to furniture to avoid burning in hell. The guilty one shows you the screen of your phone and points with the nail of his index finger the two blue ticks. For three fucking days he’s pointing the two blue ticks and whispers to both your ear that that was a mistake and that you screwed up. The loony one tries to apologise to the guilty bastard who’s not listening anyway, but something else caught her attention and she’s currently typing Hey There Delilah but it’s played in an empty Toys R Us at 2:37pm with moderate traffic outside on Youtube to soothe the rag doll’s soul. This is a nut house. You might have to call the police if they carry on, but the angry pyro threw your phone away by the opened window. He got fed up with the guilty bastard rehashing the two blue ticks story like a broken record. On top of that stupid act – you need your phone – he writes on the wall in big red letters that NOTHING MATTERS. Where did he find this acrylic paint? Did he come with it?