If you are wondering how my week is going, a young woman in the plot found me hanging clothes on the clothesline and accused me of sleeping with her husband. Yes, sure, I do sleep with husbands here and there, but not hers. I couldn’t remember sleeping with hers. She had crossed her arms across her chest and was tapping her toes on the floor furiously.
“I don’t sleep with men who sag their pants,” I told her honestly.
She clicked her tongue then swore to kill me. She swore on her mother’s name that she would teach me how to not touch men who don’t belong to me. I lied that I wasn’t scared of her. I lied that I would be the one to teach her how to not mess with me. I pushed a karai of clothes aside with my leg and asked her what she was waiting for.
She lunged forward to give me a life-threatening slap, or punch, I don’t know, because I had already turned around to run for my dear life, but she slipped and fell down, hurting herself badly. She yelped in pain. She dislocated something.
I looked up to the heavens and said, “Dear Lord, I know it’s you. Thank you for fighting my battles, but you should have just let me show her what I am made of.”
And God thought I was serious.
About 20 minutes of crying and cleaning my wounds with hot, salty water, she came to apologise for kicking my ass because she found out that the slut sleeping with her husband was her sister.
We worked as a team to beat up the sister. I also took her sandals. There was no way I was going to pay for her silly mistakes and let it go.
Meanwhile, the husband was sleeping. (Some) Women are foolish.
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