By Carla Gadula (Ottawa, ON)

We were seven girls in a pink house - industrious, smart, sassy.   The prestigious University sat two streets down.  Dilapidated residences sat alongside Old money. I lived on Cream of Broccoli and everyone sat around the table analyzing disorders, war and Party of Five repeats.  

We were busy being young and impressive.  I was socially conscious, so I wore wool socks with Birkenstocks, treeplanted summers.  Lecture halls were peppered with our baseball-capped ponytails.  We dove into books with fervor.  Some of us even slept overnight at the library, creepily in the stacks.  We had luxurious, contemplative time: drank pitchers like Varsity athletes - twenty-one and going places, just not yet.

The Bad Behaviour erupted because we didn't apply our fluorescence to our poor pink house.  It was fragile real estate, with low ceilings and perforating flooring.  We lived there, but it was someone else's problem.  Sifting through flyers, dismantling lint from the dryer, waxing floors - we were too busy attending Take Back the Night and rowing ferociously at the gym.        

We did place mugs in the dishwasher, but no one moved much beyond that enterprise.  Impeccable Society housemates lived in a dwelling coming apart at the seams.   We weren't slovenly, just wickedly self-important.  We smiled such cute smiles. 

The situation unhinged one day, when a line of angry, brown ants marched along our kitchen floor.  Hundreds then appeared out of nowhere.  Tolstoy we understood, not ant traps and Raid.   We screamed, the walls curdled - we were just spoiled rotten.

Comments are closed.