My gripes with you

1. You do not rinse the dishes before you put them in the dishwasher.

2. Forks go in with the fork end up, knives with the cutting end up. You do it randomly.

3. I have a system for the plates you do not follow: the big plates go on the right, the smaller ones and soup plates on the left.

4. You teach the children how to put things in the dishwasher the wrong way.

5. You move things around the way it suits you or do not put them back in the right place.

6. This includes books on the shelves, CDs and framed photographs.

7. Your cynical remarks imply that you have a liberal view of things.

8. This includes remarks that imply that the current president is not a good choice for the country.

9. You once said that you hoped for my sake that my son would end up marrying a black or Asian girl. Later you said it had been a joke.

10. But I know it was not a joke, even though it’s true that you may have had too much to drink as you said.

– Leonard Blumfeld (© 2026)

Note

Written for Friday Writings #243: By the Numbers.

Disclaimer

All similarities of the people mentioned or described here with real characters living or passed away are entirely coincidental.

A not so uncommon perspective

I can't stop staring at him from across the classroom. Such a dear face – good jawline, honey brown eyes with a warmth that mark my universe, and the way his dark curls fall just so over his forehead. He's laughing at something the guy next to him said, and that smile – it’s like a halo. My stomach flips every time I get so see it. Why does he have to be so ridiculously handsome? It's unfair.

And the guitar. Yesterday after school I hung around the music room, pretending to look for a lost something, just so I could hear him practice. Those fingers caressing the strings like they were born for it. The soft acoustic notes filled the room, and I stood frozen, heart pounding so loud I thought he'd hear it. He plays with effortless passion, eyes half-closed, completely lost in the music. I imagine him playing for me someday, but most likely that will never happen.

He doesn't even pretend to know me. Whenever he happens to look at me, which has happened a few times, I feel I’m just another face in school. While I'm composing entire futures in my head – us walking home together, him teaching me a few chords, maybe even kissing down by the lake during a bonfire – he's probably thinking about next week's soccer practice or whatever popular girl is currently orbiting him. I saw Ginevra lean in close today, whispering something that made him grin. My chest tightened so I could barely breathe.

I try to focus on the teacher's voice, on the scribbledegook on the board, but my mind drifts right back. What would it feel like if he looked at me the way I look at him? Long enough to notice I catch my breath whenever he walks by. Long enough to notice that I exist. I stay quiet, keep my head down and let the crush eat away at me in silence. It's stupid. It's painful. And still, every morning, I hope this day might be different.

– Invisible Paula

Written for Friday Writings #242: Perspective.