And this is exactly the way I'd always wished it would happen!
So today at the gym, I do what we always do. I'm getting my workout on, deciding what to do and what not to do, seeing what equipment is avaialable and what's not, noticing the astounding bodies and the not-so-much, knowing which set I belong to and being mad/sad/depressed/determined about it. And also what we do, brief eye contact and then possibly a very masculine head nod of acknowledgement, and keep it movin'. Because omg shoot, kill, and eat us right there on the spot if any of us dare be gay at the gym. So unless we're working out with a buddy (and I use the term loosely) we're all in our own little orbits of homophobia, saying nothing and dying to look sexy.
During, I saw a fella who I found attractive in a strange way. He had loose unkempt hair. He was medium build, no discernable paunch (unlike me)but no outstanding v-shape or awesome shoulders that I usually go for either. He had one of those interesting mouths, though. Lips thin and somewhat recessed, in an m-shape. Very white-guy-in-his-forties. Possibly Irish. Curlicues of wild chest hair poking up at the neckline. Not unlike the George that I used to live with three years ago. (Or is it four now?) Not unlike him at all. So let's call him "George II." I wound up doing shoulder shrugs next to his weight rack, where he was doing squats. Nary a word passed between us. I can only hope at this point that no one notices how much I look at them during any given gym session.
After I was done, I hastily changed back to my street clothes, not even stopping to shower. I had no one and nowhere to go so why bother? I was listening to a shuffle of Corinne Bailey Rae and it was affecting my mood again. The first lines of many of her songs can soooo send me to that place --
"Seems like everyone else has a love just for them ..." - Breathless
"Ohhhhhhh ... you're searching for something I know won't make you happy ... " - I'd Do It All Again
"I don't want to give you up, I don't want to hold you up..." -Closer
"So young ... for death ... we walk in shoes too big ..." - I Would Like To Call It Beauty
So I didn't wait around for a shower and I didn't do any aerobics on the elliptical. Just shrugged on pants, shirt, sweater, jacket, hat, scarf, sneakers, and I'm out the door.
Now, this gym is on the 15th floor of a Time Square hotel (one of its' best perks with BEAUTIFUL views of Hell's Kitchen and into the T-Square itself) so leaving it takes me to a bank of elevators. And who should be standing there waiting for an elevator? Why, George II of course! I'd missed when he stopped doing his squats and threw his clothes on, but it had to have been in a lockerroom apart from mine because I didn't see him. And trust me, I look. The lockerroom is the place where I get involuntary confirmation that I am, indeed, gay. Sorry, straight guys who just want to go get their workout on and get on with their day after a shower, but we gay guys are checkin yo shit out. I try not to stare, I promise. To be honest, I don't like you nude anyway. Your junk is ugly. No, I'm sorry, it really is. And your toes are often ghastly. But once you slip into your BVDs ... h'oh boy. And you be wearing them SEXY ones too. Oh no, not just tidy-whities anymore hath our Johnny Straight Guy, oh nooo. And then some of you have the nerve to have abs, and those interlocking rib-muscles?! And NORMAL clean feet with well-proportioned, trimmed nails on EVERY toe? You bastards.
Again, I'm trying not to stare. But wow. A glimpse says a lot.
Where was I?
Right! The elevators with George II! So these are highspeed elevators to service the 30 stories full of hotel tourists above us, who've shelled out good money to be here, and so accordingly, if you press the down button you better be ready to dash to one of the eight possible elevator doors that could open -- because it will not wait for you. And fortunately, when one did arrive, it did so near me, so in I went -- and I held the door for George II to catch up to it. Then I said as much to him by way of banter -- you know, about getting to the vator before it leaves. To which he answered 'It's a fitness test.' Which I laughed at because I thought the same thing about the hard-to-open lobby doors downstairs! And I said so aloud!
And then George II and I had a nice little stream of casual convo all the way down the elevator, down the escalators, through the lobby, out onto Broadway, and two blocks north until I departed to cross the street.
And we didn't talk about anything at all, really. Just about gyms and their opening, closing, the value of ours and the possible value of others. But his voice was sooooooo nice. Cool. Deep but clipped. Announcing every consonant and vowel. Like he could be a radio DJ. Again, very Middle-Aged White-Guy. Comfortable and safe like Ward Clever or Fred MacMurray. And apparently, comfortable with ME! So comfortable in fact that when I was ready to cross the street, he jut out a hand for that fraternal shake and announced his name! To wit I clasped in kind and gave him mine. So masculine!! So buddy!! Nice strong grip, but not trying to out-macho one another. Just Men being Men!
And then I thought DANG! I LIKED that!!! and went to my train.
So, his name is not "George". But neither's was the original George. And I'm not in LOVE or anything. George II had some manky teeth which caused his M-shaped lips to be as recessed as they were. But then again, my teeth are gappy, so who's perfect?
But he was the kind I like. Just a guy, you know? A guy who is open and friendly and ... a guy. An average guy. Who might have a interlocking rib-muscles under there. And a chest full of hair. And who might be gay.
So I'll end it with this -- the odds are, he's not gay. He's probably divorced and probably a sex addict. He's probably disorganized and maybe has some destructive addictions that he's trying to overcome. I'll probably never know why he'll accept me as a friend, but he will. And I'll probably wind up with a big inappropriate crush on him, and on it will go into nowheresville. You know ... that town at the junction of Despair Rd and Chronically Frustrated Life Ln?
Because hey. I'm nothing if not consistent.
And that's what happened today!
*curtsey*
Showing posts with label George. Show all posts
Showing posts with label George. Show all posts
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Being Human
So, I haven't read Ned's blog since "Food Lion", which was about like two weeks ago. A little more. So I go over there today in consolation of not being able to chat with him at the moment, and I discover that he posted about dreams and the interconnectedness of dreamstate phenomena, etc. and then I stopped reading because his post was on the 26th and my post about my Hetereo Dreams was on the 27th. (Please refer to the fact that I hadn't read his blog for 2 plus weeks.) So I'm hoping that the time stamps are somehow jacked, either on his end or mine, because otherwise, right after he posted about dreams and the other-realm quality of them leading to ESP and stuff--I was moved, 700 miles away, to post about MY dream. And you can check the history of both our blogs. Do we post much about dreams at all?
So how weird is life?
Right. I'll tell you how weird.
So every once in a Wolf Moon a television show or a movie will breeze along and drown me in overidentification. Once it was the movie "Sideways," back when I lived with George, and once (way back) it was the TV series "Family Ties" when I realized I was the ghetto version of Alex P Keaton.
Haha. I'm so punny.
So the newest sensation is a TV show called "Being Human". It's a gritty treatise that starts with the tagline "So this werewolf, vampire, and ghost all live in this house..." What it's REALLY about is how hard it is to fit into society when you're not like them. At all. The vampire (who is a hot hairy little number that I'd think was more suited to be the werewolf) has stopped drinking blood and is running parlay between the vamps who still do. The werewolf (who is a right nerd--not geek though, mind you) infected his girlfriend last season and he's trying to life with the consequences of that--and so is she). And the ghost is trying to forget that she's dead and attempted in the first episode to have a job at a pub, get a boyfriend, and stuff and t'ing.
In great dramatic fashion, it all goes slightly sideways. It's a great show.
So I watched the second episode today, at the break of dawn because that's my sleeping schedule nowadays, and I realized how much I have in common with their theme.
Just two days ago I met up with two of my podcast mancrushes for a dinner of laughs and comicbook chatting goodness. Geeks Afire! We are SO not yer granddad's geeks anymore. Or at least, THEY aren't. And to the one, I had already personal messaged my confession of homoness, but on Friday I "came out" to the other. Which makes now 3 altogether out of this community of maybe 50 comicbook geeks.
And it was funny, but my new confidant, who was as cool with it as I'd hope he would be (having had a gay uncle in a 25yr-long relationship until his death, and being an atheist, and believing its purely biological, and realizing one of his three sons could be gay by sheer dint of the odds, and expressed that he and his wife would be perfectly fine with that) said to me pretty quickly "So are you dating?" This was after the rundown of how I "got here" and how I tried so long to fit in with religion and with girlfriend after girlfriend.
So, already feeling vulnerable and skittish, with the guts laid open like that on our 13 dollar burger plates, which he paid for btw, I told him what I was really thinking at that moment and...well generally feel actually. No I'm not dating. I doubt if I ever want to date. And he said, "Don't tell me something stupid like you're 'going to be celibate for the rest of your life'?"
And I thought, God, why do I have to be the one in this position right now?
And this morning I watched "Being Human" and saw these vampires, werewolves, and ghosts struggle for normalcy, and fail and fail and fail and I think again to myself--"I am so kidding myself. I will never be normal. I have never been normal. It won't ever be easy. I have never had it easy."
And at times like these, I feel the greatest despair. The most hopeless. The most prone to curl up somewhere and just fade away.
And really, that's all I wanted to say about that today.
Oh, and that I've lost 16 lbs since Jan 5th. Trying to get comparatively sexy in order to enter into the homosexual dating life that I'll never really do.
And so it goes.
So how weird is life?
Right. I'll tell you how weird.
So every once in a Wolf Moon a television show or a movie will breeze along and drown me in overidentification. Once it was the movie "Sideways," back when I lived with George, and once (way back) it was the TV series "Family Ties" when I realized I was the ghetto version of Alex P Keaton.
Haha. I'm so punny.
So the newest sensation is a TV show called "Being Human". It's a gritty treatise that starts with the tagline "So this werewolf, vampire, and ghost all live in this house..." What it's REALLY about is how hard it is to fit into society when you're not like them. At all. The vampire (who is a hot hairy little number that I'd think was more suited to be the werewolf) has stopped drinking blood and is running parlay between the vamps who still do. The werewolf (who is a right nerd--not geek though, mind you) infected his girlfriend last season and he's trying to life with the consequences of that--and so is she). And the ghost is trying to forget that she's dead and attempted in the first episode to have a job at a pub, get a boyfriend, and stuff and t'ing.
In great dramatic fashion, it all goes slightly sideways. It's a great show.
So I watched the second episode today, at the break of dawn because that's my sleeping schedule nowadays, and I realized how much I have in common with their theme.
Just two days ago I met up with two of my podcast mancrushes for a dinner of laughs and comicbook chatting goodness. Geeks Afire! We are SO not yer granddad's geeks anymore. Or at least, THEY aren't. And to the one, I had already personal messaged my confession of homoness, but on Friday I "came out" to the other. Which makes now 3 altogether out of this community of maybe 50 comicbook geeks.
And it was funny, but my new confidant, who was as cool with it as I'd hope he would be (having had a gay uncle in a 25yr-long relationship until his death, and being an atheist, and believing its purely biological, and realizing one of his three sons could be gay by sheer dint of the odds, and expressed that he and his wife would be perfectly fine with that) said to me pretty quickly "So are you dating?" This was after the rundown of how I "got here" and how I tried so long to fit in with religion and with girlfriend after girlfriend.
So, already feeling vulnerable and skittish, with the guts laid open like that on our 13 dollar burger plates, which he paid for btw, I told him what I was really thinking at that moment and...well generally feel actually. No I'm not dating. I doubt if I ever want to date. And he said, "Don't tell me something stupid like you're 'going to be celibate for the rest of your life'?"
And I thought, God, why do I have to be the one in this position right now?
And this morning I watched "Being Human" and saw these vampires, werewolves, and ghosts struggle for normalcy, and fail and fail and fail and I think again to myself--"I am so kidding myself. I will never be normal. I have never been normal. It won't ever be easy. I have never had it easy."
And at times like these, I feel the greatest despair. The most hopeless. The most prone to curl up somewhere and just fade away.
And really, that's all I wanted to say about that today.
Oh, and that I've lost 16 lbs since Jan 5th. Trying to get comparatively sexy in order to enter into the homosexual dating life that I'll never really do.
And so it goes.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Yay, More Cats!
I really miss having a cat. I can't tell you about my last cat because I think I really messed up with how I left it with her. Okay, I'll tell you. I left her at George's house, knowing full well that he was/is an irresponsible person, which is the kindest understatement anyone can make. In fact, I'm so glad that I haven't had occasion to talk about him as much as I once did, but I'll spare him this one additional tag count.
I was planning on finding a no-kill shelter to place her when I moved from George's, but all that I found were booked solid. So I left her at George's. Knowing that George spent his nights in a drunken stupor with his screen doors ripped open by his other cats. Knowing that my cat didn't get along with the other cats. Knowing that my cat would wonder where the hell I went.
Half a year went by before I got a call from George asking if I came by and picked up my cat.
No, George. No I didn't.
Because my cat was gone and he didn't know where she went.
Now, it is completely to George's credit, 1) That he housed me rent-free for nearly two years and that 2) He housed my cat for 6 months more--which includes feeding her and giving her a place to poop. He honestly owed me or my cat nothing at all. So I have nothing against George. My reaction to him is based on my own antisocialness and how resentful I was about how my life had turned out to lead me into his basement.
My cat didn't deserve to be abandoned. I got her from a shelter in Missouri and promised I would take care of her. I moved her Missouri to Trenton New Jersey, and then to Harlem New York, and then to Paramus New Jersey. And then I left.
Obviously, I haven't beat myself up over it. I've been a cat freak since forever, bearing cat hair stained suits, slogged through cat hair tumbleweeds, left cat pissed matted carpets in my wake and sacrificed girls in favor of cats. My cat love was obsessive nutty pet owner kind of love. I did want to be free of that and try to be the kind of guy who just likes cats ... but my cat didn't deserve to be abandoned.
So that's a reveal on how maybe I deserve my loneliness, and losing my new friend Ned, and having car accidents, and all sorts of crap.
But I mean, what am I going to do? Kill myself?
Dang. This post turned out way different than the way I intended to start it out.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Things That Make You Go ...
Lili Taylor is the first celebrity I've openly flirted with. I've blogged about it.
Now she's going to star in a Lifetime series as a therapist who needs "a little therapy."
Hunh.
Speaking of needing a little, my therapist pointed out that my debt to George doesn't obligate me to a lifetime of friendship with him. She held up the mirror (figuratively) to remind me that I've contributed to the household in ways that he valued. And that ultimately, he's a destructive person who's lifestyle is not conducive to the way I want to live, so if I don't want to be friends with him, I need to make the boundaries firm and stop sending mixed messages.
To which I say, "You betta WORK, Ms. or Mrs. Therapist!" Again, worth every penny.
(I'm sure I'd have said the same thing if I were in her seat, LOL.)
Now she's going to star in a Lifetime series as a therapist who needs "a little therapy."
Hunh.
Speaking of needing a little, my therapist pointed out that my debt to George doesn't obligate me to a lifetime of friendship with him. She held up the mirror (figuratively) to remind me that I've contributed to the household in ways that he valued. And that ultimately, he's a destructive person who's lifestyle is not conducive to the way I want to live, so if I don't want to be friends with him, I need to make the boundaries firm and stop sending mixed messages.
To which I say, "You betta WORK, Ms. or Mrs. Therapist!" Again, worth every penny.
(I'm sure I'd have said the same thing if I were in her seat, LOL.)
Monday, July 9, 2007
You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up
So yesterday I skipped out of church early. I had a real nice time of worship and I didn't want the Pastor to bring me down. (How blasphemous is THAT? I know it was a wrong mindset, but I am readjusting my faith from "Punitive God" to "God, Full of Grace." The Pastor that I figured was about to preach is not on-board my faith-shift. So I skipped out.
God forgive me. (Which, being Full of Grace, He will. And in learning that He will, I also forgive myself. Because I'm happy that I went at all yesterday.)
And out I come, skip-to-my-loo, when who do I look up into the surprised face of?
George.
On the corner of Broadway and 50th. He was just coming from not-seeing the play Tarzan (because he had waited for his son, George Jr., and Junior didn't show. Big shock. So sad how George has no idea).
And get this ... George had a dried blood stain, a palms' width (with fingers spread) on the inside of his jeans' thigh. He explains that the day before, he had picked a pink bump that he though was a pimple, and it started bleeding and wouldn't stop.
Yeah. The day before. So he was wearing the same pants he had on the day before, with a huge 24-hr old bloodstain. He was staying at the hotel suite that he let me stay in over Christmas.
And he wanted me to fall in and hang out with him for the rest of the evening. And I'm not ready. I felt a great swell of compassion for him and how lost he seemed. What he looked like was one of the 888,000 homeless people in Manhattan. I felt a shameful buzz of embarrassment standing there speaking to him. All those feelings whirring around inside. Which means I'm not ready to be his friend yet.
Just let me get all my stuff out his house first and secure my cat to the no-kill facility. Just give me some space. Then maybe. Maybe.
Why hesiation?
Well this morning, after I left NYC, went to my old gym for an hour of buffosity, and returned to George's house to consider what to take next back to my NYC digs, and I find my cat's food bowl tipped over and all the food, (both for the upstairs cats' and my cat's) eaten.
I left on Saturday. Two days ago. And neither George, nor George Jr., fed the cats. Junior was there this morning, and he doesn't have a car. So he was there yesterday. And George was there on Saturday. And Friday.
I'm so out. The shelter will treat my cat better than the both of them do their own cats.
And it'll take a minute before I'm ready to step back to him and try to be his friend.
And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.
God forgive me. (Which, being Full of Grace, He will. And in learning that He will, I also forgive myself. Because I'm happy that I went at all yesterday.)
And out I come, skip-to-my-loo, when who do I look up into the surprised face of?
George.
On the corner of Broadway and 50th. He was just coming from not-seeing the play Tarzan (because he had waited for his son, George Jr., and Junior didn't show. Big shock. So sad how George has no idea).
And get this ... George had a dried blood stain, a palms' width (with fingers spread) on the inside of his jeans' thigh. He explains that the day before, he had picked a pink bump that he though was a pimple, and it started bleeding and wouldn't stop.
Yeah. The day before. So he was wearing the same pants he had on the day before, with a huge 24-hr old bloodstain. He was staying at the hotel suite that he let me stay in over Christmas.
And he wanted me to fall in and hang out with him for the rest of the evening. And I'm not ready. I felt a great swell of compassion for him and how lost he seemed. What he looked like was one of the 888,000 homeless people in Manhattan. I felt a shameful buzz of embarrassment standing there speaking to him. All those feelings whirring around inside. Which means I'm not ready to be his friend yet.
Just let me get all my stuff out his house first and secure my cat to the no-kill facility. Just give me some space. Then maybe. Maybe.
Why hesiation?
Well this morning, after I left NYC, went to my old gym for an hour of buffosity, and returned to George's house to consider what to take next back to my NYC digs, and I find my cat's food bowl tipped over and all the food, (both for the upstairs cats' and my cat's) eaten.
I left on Saturday. Two days ago. And neither George, nor George Jr., fed the cats. Junior was there this morning, and he doesn't have a car. So he was there yesterday. And George was there on Saturday. And Friday.
I'm so out. The shelter will treat my cat better than the both of them do their own cats.
And it'll take a minute before I'm ready to step back to him and try to be his friend.
And I'm not going to worry about it anymore.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
FREE!! FREE!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!
The better room was offered to me a few minutes ago and I accepted it.
While waiting for the appointed time to go see the apartment, I had called the former prospective roommate and opted out of his deal, instead of waiting until after I saw the better situation. I knew what I wanted already and I had realized that a deal like this would be accessible again if it didn't work out. Craiglist is chocked full of offers everyday.
But it did work out.
And according to my calendar, I take up residence in 3 days. Now, George gave me until September, so I can do a very leisurely transfer of my goods and find a home for my dear cat.
Re: my cat. I wuv my little kitty, but I'm trying to take life to another level. A single, "middle-aged" guy with high affection for his cat is suspect. Plus my cat is a hairy little beast. She requires high maintenance which I don't use. So my bed and any black clothing is usually hair-crusted. And have you seen that commercial which huge tumbleweeds of cat hair blows through an old woman's house? There were times it got like that in my room. It was a cause for George (and his father) to gripe at me recently. To say nothing of the puked-up hairballs, which look much more like a soggy turd when produced than a hair"ball". I have to move on from her. In fact, I've seen how George acts with his cats, and from an outsider's pov, it is a strange sight. For most of my life, I've had cats--but for most of my life I've been dysfunctional too. I think my attachment to cats have been part of the package--so I'm letting the attachment go. I need the affection of another human being and the warmth of a woman in my bed. A cat will no longer do.
And my new roommates won't allow pets, so there it is.
And here it is. Just like that.
I'm free.
Like the Genie out of the bottle in "Thief of Bagdad"
In related news, last night George Jr. caught my eye as I came into the house and he was up in the kitchen slurping in something from one of the many strewn-about cartons of food laying on the counters surrounding him. He said;
"Hey Alan, guess where I am right now ...?"
I told him "Where?"
He said "I'm in the strat-o-sphere! heheh heheh."
I went downstairs to my section. He called after me, "Do you know what I mean by that?"
I mumbled to myself, "I think so, but I don't care anymore."
This is a conversation he's tried to have with me before. He likes to tell me when he's high. Why does he do that? Two possible reasons. 1) He wants my help, or 2) He thinks I'm into getting high. (Number Two is not too farfetched. He likes to try to talk streetslang to me. He seems fascinated with me as a black specimen, and in his mind, black seems to =street, pimplife, and getting high. Once when he brought his 'friends' to come down see me in my exhibit, they asked me, "Do you smoke?" as if they were going to either sell me some, or buy some off me. Which wasn't far-fetched to believe since his father was constantly high as well.)
Meanwhile, his father is back in the bedroom naked and unconscious. All this suburban, Eminem-style, faux-'hood, prescription-drug sucking, sons and grandsons of millionaire excess bullsh!t has neary killed my spirit.
So now Junior is 19. Him and his father are legal adults. And I can't help either one of them.
So I'm out.
While waiting for the appointed time to go see the apartment, I had called the former prospective roommate and opted out of his deal, instead of waiting until after I saw the better situation. I knew what I wanted already and I had realized that a deal like this would be accessible again if it didn't work out. Craiglist is chocked full of offers everyday.
But it did work out.
And according to my calendar, I take up residence in 3 days. Now, George gave me until September, so I can do a very leisurely transfer of my goods and find a home for my dear cat.
Re: my cat. I wuv my little kitty, but I'm trying to take life to another level. A single, "middle-aged" guy with high affection for his cat is suspect. Plus my cat is a hairy little beast. She requires high maintenance which I don't use. So my bed and any black clothing is usually hair-crusted. And have you seen that commercial which huge tumbleweeds of cat hair blows through an old woman's house? There were times it got like that in my room. It was a cause for George (and his father) to gripe at me recently. To say nothing of the puked-up hairballs, which look much more like a soggy turd when produced than a hair"ball". I have to move on from her. In fact, I've seen how George acts with his cats, and from an outsider's pov, it is a strange sight. For most of my life, I've had cats--but for most of my life I've been dysfunctional too. I think my attachment to cats have been part of the package--so I'm letting the attachment go. I need the affection of another human being and the warmth of a woman in my bed. A cat will no longer do.
And my new roommates won't allow pets, so there it is.
And here it is. Just like that.
I'm free.
Like the Genie out of the bottle in "Thief of Bagdad"
In related news, last night George Jr. caught my eye as I came into the house and he was up in the kitchen slurping in something from one of the many strewn-about cartons of food laying on the counters surrounding him. He said;
"Hey Alan, guess where I am right now ...?"
I told him "Where?"
He said "I'm in the strat-o-sphere! heheh heheh."
I went downstairs to my section. He called after me, "Do you know what I mean by that?"
I mumbled to myself, "I think so, but I don't care anymore."
This is a conversation he's tried to have with me before. He likes to tell me when he's high. Why does he do that? Two possible reasons. 1) He wants my help, or 2) He thinks I'm into getting high. (Number Two is not too farfetched. He likes to try to talk streetslang to me. He seems fascinated with me as a black specimen, and in his mind, black seems to =street, pimplife, and getting high. Once when he brought his 'friends' to come down see me in my exhibit, they asked me, "Do you smoke?" as if they were going to either sell me some, or buy some off me. Which wasn't far-fetched to believe since his father was constantly high as well.)
Meanwhile, his father is back in the bedroom naked and unconscious. All this suburban, Eminem-style, faux-'hood, prescription-drug sucking, sons and grandsons of millionaire excess bullsh!t has neary killed my spirit.
So now Junior is 19. Him and his father are legal adults. And I can't help either one of them.
So I'm out.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Why I'm Ready To Move
It's bedtime. I've just watched my Doctor Who and I'm listening to a podcast which will send me off to sleepsville, when I hear a cat meowing. Well, one of George's cats are still outside--this I know because the cat slinked around as I entered tonight and wouldn't come in with me. To wit I usually reply, "Well forgetchoo then. Beast." And close her little arse out. Then she might wake me up in the AM with the meowing outside my window. So I figure, why not let her in now that she's ready?
So I go upstairs (I'm in the basement) and open the front door. And in the dark, this boy and this girl jumps up off the front step --of the HOUSE. Mind you, this isn't an apartment house, it's private property. A house in a cul-de-sac. So I look at these two and I say, "I thought I heard a cat out here." And he says, "That was me. I sometimes do that. I'm just waiting for (George's Son)."
Well, yes, George's Son has moved in for the Summer like he did last year when he worked my nerves over. I did what I could not to complain about him heretofore during this go 'round. But now I gotta. I just gotta.
We'll call him George Jr. Or just Junior. Junior goes to sleep at about ... well I don't know when. Because he's always up, thumping around over my head, when I'm ready to go to sleep. He's barged down to my area twice since he's moved in, but he has learned to knock. The first time it was to take my shampoo out of the bathroom, then come to ask me if he could borrow it. Note the order of events. and I had to go upstairs days later to retrieve it. Secondly, he came down with some of his little buddies to show them me. He's done this before, last year. And he has said in every case, "they wanted to meet the guy who lives in my father's house." So this time, after they were gone, I told him that if he didn't want me to hurt his friends' feelings, he would make sure not to bring them down to "meet me" anymore. Junior didn't know what I meant, so I told him that I wasn't an exhibit in a zoo so if I sensed even the slightest hint of that again, I was going to cuss them all out--so if he didn't want me to do that, he would do well to keep them away from me. He didn't seem to quite get it. But he will--next time he does it.
I know! Lookit me being all assertive!
Yesterday, Junior woke me out of an afternoon nap to ask if I'd drive him somewhere. Thankfully I was too groggy to think rationally. If I was in my right mind, I would've caved out of guilt and obligation to George, but my superego was submerged and my selflish, bestial id was riding the reigns and told his ass NO.
But let me go back to a few mornings ago, when I went upstairs to feed the cats, and did not notice that a person was sleeping on the couch in the livingroom until the catbowls were full and I was going back downstairs. Yup. A stranger had slept on the couch. Until tonight. The boy outside on the steps was the guy who was sleeping on the couch a few days ago. And now he's out there waiting--with his girlfriend no less--for Junior to come home and let him into the house again for another nights' repast.
Now why would I--a homeless person living here for free, have a problem that Junior invited a similar chap to do the same upstairs? He's just following in his father's generous footsteps, right?
But I don't trust Junior. He has the insight of a mayfly. Before I ever showed up, he had a group of friends trash this house, write all over the walls, and punch holes through a few that they didn't write on.
So I go upstairs to ask George if he knew about this arrangement. Yes, George is home. George is in one of the three upstairs rooms. His usual room has all its' lights on and a radio blaring sports radio--and is empty. Junior's room is empty and dark too. And George is in the last room sleeping in the bed that his daughter usually sleeps in when she comes over -- and he has no pants on. Naked like a child from the waist down. And after I do the Yuck-Dance (whaddaya know--I'm not homosexual after all) I try to wake him up. Twice. I cannot wake him.
I do not try again. For the last year and a half, he has been a hard sleeper so I don't fear for his health. In fact, I realize its just another drug haze he's in. As he's been in for about 400 nights/mornings. And do I really want him to wake up with no pants on? SOOOO no.
And it dawns on me. If/when Junior gets home and lets the stranger on the lawn into the house, and probably his girlfriend too, George will not know about it in the least. So if this stranger gets a hankering to kill us all in our sleep, people watching the news will be wondering how such a thing could've possibly happened.
It's just insane. This house is insane. And I am a part of the insanity. I might as well be living in a crackhouse. I probably am.
And I am SO ready to get out of the insanity.
But my perspective roommate has not called still. So I'll call him again and leave another message and then start looking again for another place.
Because I'm getting out. Out out out.
And I'll have to post later about what a wonderful day I had today, before I came home to this crazy-ass mess up in here. As of this writing, the stranger and his girlfriend is still outside on the lawn, George is still in a drug coma, and Junior hasn't come home yet. When they come in, I'm sure I'll be awakened--ah, nix that. They're in. Not thumping around yet, but he's turned the light on to my downstairs hallway--and he'll keep it on, just you watch, and now we'll all be under one roof. One big happy.
If you never hear from me again, look up news of a triple homicide from Paramus NJ and direct the police to this blog. Too bad I don't know the boy's real name or his girlfriends'. But let the record show, it was all Junior's fault.
Or my own fault for getting myself into this mess in the first place.
If I live through the night, I'll fix the mess.
I'll fix it because I can. I'm a better person now than I was even a few short weeks ago. I'm stronger, I'm wiser, and I'll tell you all about it in my next post.
God willing.
So I go upstairs (I'm in the basement) and open the front door. And in the dark, this boy and this girl jumps up off the front step --of the HOUSE. Mind you, this isn't an apartment house, it's private property. A house in a cul-de-sac. So I look at these two and I say, "I thought I heard a cat out here." And he says, "That was me. I sometimes do that. I'm just waiting for (George's Son)."
Well, yes, George's Son has moved in for the Summer like he did last year when he worked my nerves over. I did what I could not to complain about him heretofore during this go 'round. But now I gotta. I just gotta.
We'll call him George Jr. Or just Junior. Junior goes to sleep at about ... well I don't know when. Because he's always up, thumping around over my head, when I'm ready to go to sleep. He's barged down to my area twice since he's moved in, but he has learned to knock. The first time it was to take my shampoo out of the bathroom, then come to ask me if he could borrow it. Note the order of events. and I had to go upstairs days later to retrieve it. Secondly, he came down with some of his little buddies to show them me. He's done this before, last year. And he has said in every case, "they wanted to meet the guy who lives in my father's house." So this time, after they were gone, I told him that if he didn't want me to hurt his friends' feelings, he would make sure not to bring them down to "meet me" anymore. Junior didn't know what I meant, so I told him that I wasn't an exhibit in a zoo so if I sensed even the slightest hint of that again, I was going to cuss them all out--so if he didn't want me to do that, he would do well to keep them away from me. He didn't seem to quite get it. But he will--next time he does it.
I know! Lookit me being all assertive!
Yesterday, Junior woke me out of an afternoon nap to ask if I'd drive him somewhere. Thankfully I was too groggy to think rationally. If I was in my right mind, I would've caved out of guilt and obligation to George, but my superego was submerged and my selflish, bestial id was riding the reigns and told his ass NO.
But let me go back to a few mornings ago, when I went upstairs to feed the cats, and did not notice that a person was sleeping on the couch in the livingroom until the catbowls were full and I was going back downstairs. Yup. A stranger had slept on the couch. Until tonight. The boy outside on the steps was the guy who was sleeping on the couch a few days ago. And now he's out there waiting--with his girlfriend no less--for Junior to come home and let him into the house again for another nights' repast.
Now why would I--a homeless person living here for free, have a problem that Junior invited a similar chap to do the same upstairs? He's just following in his father's generous footsteps, right?
But I don't trust Junior. He has the insight of a mayfly. Before I ever showed up, he had a group of friends trash this house, write all over the walls, and punch holes through a few that they didn't write on.
So I go upstairs to ask George if he knew about this arrangement. Yes, George is home. George is in one of the three upstairs rooms. His usual room has all its' lights on and a radio blaring sports radio--and is empty. Junior's room is empty and dark too. And George is in the last room sleeping in the bed that his daughter usually sleeps in when she comes over -- and he has no pants on. Naked like a child from the waist down. And after I do the Yuck-Dance (whaddaya know--I'm not homosexual after all) I try to wake him up. Twice. I cannot wake him.
I do not try again. For the last year and a half, he has been a hard sleeper so I don't fear for his health. In fact, I realize its just another drug haze he's in. As he's been in for about 400 nights/mornings. And do I really want him to wake up with no pants on? SOOOO no.
And it dawns on me. If/when Junior gets home and lets the stranger on the lawn into the house, and probably his girlfriend too, George will not know about it in the least. So if this stranger gets a hankering to kill us all in our sleep, people watching the news will be wondering how such a thing could've possibly happened.
It's just insane. This house is insane. And I am a part of the insanity. I might as well be living in a crackhouse. I probably am.
And I am SO ready to get out of the insanity.
But my perspective roommate has not called still. So I'll call him again and leave another message and then start looking again for another place.
Because I'm getting out. Out out out.
And I'll have to post later about what a wonderful day I had today, before I came home to this crazy-ass mess up in here. As of this writing, the stranger and his girlfriend is still outside on the lawn, George is still in a drug coma, and Junior hasn't come home yet. When they come in, I'm sure I'll be awakened--ah, nix that. They're in. Not thumping around yet, but he's turned the light on to my downstairs hallway--and he'll keep it on, just you watch, and now we'll all be under one roof. One big happy.
If you never hear from me again, look up news of a triple homicide from Paramus NJ and direct the police to this blog. Too bad I don't know the boy's real name or his girlfriends'. But let the record show, it was all Junior's fault.
Or my own fault for getting myself into this mess in the first place.
If I live through the night, I'll fix the mess.
I'll fix it because I can. I'm a better person now than I was even a few short weeks ago. I'm stronger, I'm wiser, and I'll tell you all about it in my next post.
God willing.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Fight or Flight?
George gave me my walking papers today as I left out for work. No acrimony involved. He was able to tell me without freaking out or flapping his hands. Seems his joblessness will now be permanent and he needs to either rent or sell his house. All the home-improvements going on told me as much, but he finally told me himself today.
Now, you know I want out of here. So that's the good news. He even 'forgave me' of what I owed him on the car that I totaled. (Editoral, added June 2nd, 9:38pm--Too bad he couldn't have ended the conversation without commenting on my "mediocre life." I can only imagine that he meant that I am sometimes messy, but otherwise I chalk it up to his Asperger's causing his monumentally social ineptitude to flare up again. Because please. He must well and truly be incapable of seeing his own reflection in a mirror if he thinks my life is mediocre. It is, in fact, getting better every damn day. And that's why George will never be my friend. The ass.) Overall score; George has helped me financially more than anyone else has for the last two years. I can't be mad at 'im. (Ed--for too long, anyway.)
He's also given me four months to get a new place.
Well, of course you see that I'm not as ready as I wanted to be to get a new place. But what I wanted was pie-in-the-sky. I wanted an entire year's worth of rent in the bank. I can only say it was possible, but before I had to empty the account to get the new car, I saw myself not saving money as I should have. So the odds were not with me there.
When it comes to letting my cash coagulate into savings, I'm lousy. But when it comes to ponying it up for big purchases, that I can do. I've even gotten better with living on the scraps leftover after the purchases.
So now I plunge ahead. I will pay off my peeps before I start looking for a new place. I will work up a new budget and see what I've got and what I need to be looking for. I will worry about my rental history (read; eviction history) when the time comes to find a place.
And again, my mind is set on New York City. My friend in the Bronx is paying less than 900 a month. I could live in his neighborhood without batting an eye, just as I did when I lived in Harlem. What I have to do is battle the impulses to uproot everything and flee. Like, for instance, how good does California look to me right now? Also, now that I really do actually truthfully have my New York counseling license in hand, I'm wondering why I can't do as I tried to do in my first NYC incarnation? Just sell my new car, quit this Jersey job, and go live, work, play, and love in NYC.
But this is my flight response to stress. I've learned this finally. I cannot blow everything apart just because of this change. I have to fight it out. I have to keep my spending under control. I have to keep the lessons I've learned. This is what I've been whining about for 1.5 years. By the end of the summer, and more importantly, before my next birthday, I will be a grown man again.
A grown-ass man.
Oh ...
... thank God.
Thank God.
This is so very, very alright then.
Now, you know I want out of here. So that's the good news. He even 'forgave me' of what I owed him on the car that I totaled. (Editoral, added June 2nd, 9:38pm--Too bad he couldn't have ended the conversation without commenting on my "mediocre life." I can only imagine that he meant that I am sometimes messy, but otherwise I chalk it up to his Asperger's causing his monumentally social ineptitude to flare up again. Because please. He must well and truly be incapable of seeing his own reflection in a mirror if he thinks my life is mediocre. It is, in fact, getting better every damn day. And that's why George will never be my friend. The ass.) Overall score; George has helped me financially more than anyone else has for the last two years. I can't be mad at 'im. (Ed--for too long, anyway.)
He's also given me four months to get a new place.
Well, of course you see that I'm not as ready as I wanted to be to get a new place. But what I wanted was pie-in-the-sky. I wanted an entire year's worth of rent in the bank. I can only say it was possible, but before I had to empty the account to get the new car, I saw myself not saving money as I should have. So the odds were not with me there.
When it comes to letting my cash coagulate into savings, I'm lousy. But when it comes to ponying it up for big purchases, that I can do. I've even gotten better with living on the scraps leftover after the purchases.
So now I plunge ahead. I will pay off my peeps before I start looking for a new place. I will work up a new budget and see what I've got and what I need to be looking for. I will worry about my rental history (read; eviction history) when the time comes to find a place.
And again, my mind is set on New York City. My friend in the Bronx is paying less than 900 a month. I could live in his neighborhood without batting an eye, just as I did when I lived in Harlem. What I have to do is battle the impulses to uproot everything and flee. Like, for instance, how good does California look to me right now? Also, now that I really do actually truthfully have my New York counseling license in hand, I'm wondering why I can't do as I tried to do in my first NYC incarnation? Just sell my new car, quit this Jersey job, and go live, work, play, and love in NYC.
But this is my flight response to stress. I've learned this finally. I cannot blow everything apart just because of this change. I have to fight it out. I have to keep my spending under control. I have to keep the lessons I've learned. This is what I've been whining about for 1.5 years. By the end of the summer, and more importantly, before my next birthday, I will be a grown man again.
A grown-ass man.
Oh ...
... thank God.
Thank God.
This is so very, very alright then.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Well, Crap.
Dr. King's daughter died. Thanks to my Friday Night Date, I not only knew who she was, I got to meet her. And now she's gone away. At only 51!!
And this I find on the heels of getting an explanation about a co-worker's continuing struggle with cancer. I blogged about this co-worker before, and now I've learned she's back in chemotherapy 3x's a week.
The woman's going to die. I believe she's said enough to me to indicate that she knows it, and now her co-worker is confidentially spilling the details that she herself won't speak about (I guess he sees me as her boss, since she's in my dept. and I'm the Asst. Director).
And we just keep going through these things in life. We broaden our social circles and reach out for the friendship love of good people, in an effort to grow our humanity, and something like this happens.
I don't want this woman to die. She has highschool-aged children, and a husband. She's being strong for everybody, but what happens in her home when she's gone? What happens at this job?
I saw "The Family Stone" over the Christmas holiday when George put me up in his timeshare in NYC. SPOILER. The audience is told the about the mother's illness in one powerful scene as she confronts her adult son on the choice he's making to marry an unliked girl. She says, "What are you doing?" Tears fill the son's eyes. Then she says, "Are you marrying this girl for me?" The son's mouth gapes with grief. "Getting married is not going to change my illness. You have to stop this and get a girl you actually love." By this time the son is wracked and shaking with wordless sobs.
I paraphrased the mother (played by Diane Keaton)'s words, but that was the jist. I don't know why I didn't blog about it then. I'll never forget it. The actor was the same guy who played Julia Roberts' best friend in "My Best Friend's Wedding." How that actor was able to break down like that was heart-numbing. Oh, and don't think I didn't have a good sob right along with.
So what's going to happen now? And where's my guarantee that this won't happen again? How do I know that Scott, or Alex, or Steve, or Eliel, or My Friend The Doctor, or (oh God please forbid) My Hero won't someday come home with "dreadful news"? How are we expected to survive in the screaming absence of people we love?
It's not fair damn it.
And this I find on the heels of getting an explanation about a co-worker's continuing struggle with cancer. I blogged about this co-worker before, and now I've learned she's back in chemotherapy 3x's a week.
The woman's going to die. I believe she's said enough to me to indicate that she knows it, and now her co-worker is confidentially spilling the details that she herself won't speak about (I guess he sees me as her boss, since she's in my dept. and I'm the Asst. Director).
And we just keep going through these things in life. We broaden our social circles and reach out for the friendship love of good people, in an effort to grow our humanity, and something like this happens.
I don't want this woman to die. She has highschool-aged children, and a husband. She's being strong for everybody, but what happens in her home when she's gone? What happens at this job?
I saw "The Family Stone" over the Christmas holiday when George put me up in his timeshare in NYC. SPOILER. The audience is told the about the mother's illness in one powerful scene as she confronts her adult son on the choice he's making to marry an unliked girl. She says, "What are you doing?" Tears fill the son's eyes. Then she says, "Are you marrying this girl for me?" The son's mouth gapes with grief. "Getting married is not going to change my illness. You have to stop this and get a girl you actually love." By this time the son is wracked and shaking with wordless sobs.
I paraphrased the mother (played by Diane Keaton)'s words, but that was the jist. I don't know why I didn't blog about it then. I'll never forget it. The actor was the same guy who played Julia Roberts' best friend in "My Best Friend's Wedding." How that actor was able to break down like that was heart-numbing. Oh, and don't think I didn't have a good sob right along with.
So what's going to happen now? And where's my guarantee that this won't happen again? How do I know that Scott, or Alex, or Steve, or Eliel, or My Friend The Doctor, or (oh God please forbid) My Hero won't someday come home with "dreadful news"? How are we expected to survive in the screaming absence of people we love?
It's not fair damn it.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
One Dragon, Slain. Sideways-Eight To Go...
I had another all-day training to give today, and with a training partner this time. And I only stressed about it this morning, instead of all last week. So that dragon is slain.
Arriving "home" today, I was glad to see George's car gone, because for the entirety of yesterday, he was loud sloppy drunk. When I walked into the house yesterday, he was screaming raging at something/someone in his room upstairs. He was alone and sports radio was playing. Last year, George had gone to rehab because the Mets had not won the world series and he crashed his car with alcohol-poisoned grief. So I assume that yesterday the Mets had not done well again, and he finally stopped the charade of sobriety so he could mourn Spartan-style. This lasted all through the night, and all through the morning when I was leaving for work. Sloppy, slurry, mumbly drunk. Just like he was before the rehab and flying the flag high for AA.
But what I did see today was the handyman's truck in the driveway, as I pulled up. The handyman is an hispanic fellow whom George's father uses around this house to repair, remodel, and renovate. He's a nice enough fellow whom George seems to hate. Can't say a single kind word about him. So as I'm putting my car in park on the street (since this honkin' big truck is in the driveway), I see a plastic, white ball come rolling out of the open garage and down the driveway. Out dashes the handyman chasing after it as I'm walking up the sidewalk. I figure that he's getting his leisure on--until suddenly there is George's father holding a wiffle-ball bat in his hand in the garage doorway.
George's father looks at me rather woodenly (one of his only expressions I've observed to date) then calls to the handyman, "Okay I think that's enough baseball for now." Only the quaver in his voice gave away the old man's embarassment. I was so surprised that I laughed, and then turned the laugh into encouragement. "No go right ahead and have fun!" I said, dashing past him into the house and making a beeline through the garage to my room.
What the hell..?
For a few hours while I manipulated my blog, my mind kept saying, "That old man is using that handyman for some nasty hijinks!" But then it occured to me. That old man is using the handyman to recapture the times he never had with his son. George is autistic. It's obvious to me now. And his father missed out on raising him because he has never figured him out. And of course, George hates the handyman for being handy, and being able to fix houses, replace skylights, and playing ball with his Dad. And I suppose I would hate the handyman too, if I were George.
But as long as I'm living in this house, I can't be what George needs. If I ever lend myself to him for friendship, I'll need a place to escape to when I've exhausted my daily allotment of goodwill.
I'm sorry, George.
PS; George's father is a millionaire. The Handyman is in for quite a nice payday one day.
Arriving "home" today, I was glad to see George's car gone, because for the entirety of yesterday, he was loud sloppy drunk. When I walked into the house yesterday, he was screaming raging at something/someone in his room upstairs. He was alone and sports radio was playing. Last year, George had gone to rehab because the Mets had not won the world series and he crashed his car with alcohol-poisoned grief. So I assume that yesterday the Mets had not done well again, and he finally stopped the charade of sobriety so he could mourn Spartan-style. This lasted all through the night, and all through the morning when I was leaving for work. Sloppy, slurry, mumbly drunk. Just like he was before the rehab and flying the flag high for AA.
But what I did see today was the handyman's truck in the driveway, as I pulled up. The handyman is an hispanic fellow whom George's father uses around this house to repair, remodel, and renovate. He's a nice enough fellow whom George seems to hate. Can't say a single kind word about him. So as I'm putting my car in park on the street (since this honkin' big truck is in the driveway), I see a plastic, white ball come rolling out of the open garage and down the driveway. Out dashes the handyman chasing after it as I'm walking up the sidewalk. I figure that he's getting his leisure on--until suddenly there is George's father holding a wiffle-ball bat in his hand in the garage doorway.
George's father looks at me rather woodenly (one of his only expressions I've observed to date) then calls to the handyman, "Okay I think that's enough baseball for now." Only the quaver in his voice gave away the old man's embarassment. I was so surprised that I laughed, and then turned the laugh into encouragement. "No go right ahead and have fun!" I said, dashing past him into the house and making a beeline through the garage to my room.
What the hell..?
For a few hours while I manipulated my blog, my mind kept saying, "That old man is using that handyman for some nasty hijinks!" But then it occured to me. That old man is using the handyman to recapture the times he never had with his son. George is autistic. It's obvious to me now. And his father missed out on raising him because he has never figured him out. And of course, George hates the handyman for being handy, and being able to fix houses, replace skylights, and playing ball with his Dad. And I suppose I would hate the handyman too, if I were George.
But as long as I'm living in this house, I can't be what George needs. If I ever lend myself to him for friendship, I'll need a place to escape to when I've exhausted my daily allotment of goodwill.
I'm sorry, George.
PS; George's father is a millionaire. The Handyman is in for quite a nice payday one day.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Not For The Lack Of Trying
(Originally 3/22/07)
George sneaks into the house at night. After my post, I purposed to say something when he returned home. It's a ranch style, so right inside the front door you can go upstairs to the kitchen, livingroom, or his three rooms and two bathrooms--or downstairs to the laundry room, den, my bedroom, my bathroom, or garage. So I was tucked away in my room and barely heard him open the door. He slipped off his shoes and then I heard nothing more. Didn't hear him go up the steps or anything. Didn't notice if he turned on a light. Don't know if he went to the kitchen to eat, or just put something in the fridge. Nothing.
That's what makes me think he was either drunk or high or both. Because my lights were on, and I don't sleep with them on. He knew I was awake. And most times, he calls down to me when he comes in to say hello or something--anything really. And that's what I was waiting for. I was going to respond, then ask him what movie he went to see after he dropped me off at the car dealer. Have a little convo and whatever else he may have wanted to chat'bout. Nothing. I haven't spoken to him since the dealer.
Well, that's too bad. I'll keep trying because I said I would, but at least now I know that it's not just me. As I told you in my history with George--he knows how to lie. He wants me to believe he's been sober since the rehab, so when he goes out to drink, or smoke crack, or whatever, he's not interested in talking. Which suits me fine--but does him no good. And I don't want to force a conversation with him, or expose his inebriation, because I don't want to live in a constant state of confrontation and performing interventions.
So that's all I'm going to say about that right now.
In other news, I had another bank relapse. Two actually. Last week, my gym charged me more than I expected them to and pushed my balance into the negatives. Then two more debit charges appeared after that. Goodbye $105. I let it go because I still had savings in another account and I figured it was a punishment I deserved (I kept saying 'This is the last time!' but still I'm an idiot, so too bad for me). Then I had a payday and shortly thereafter, the accident. Then I did my taxes. Then I paid my insurance bill for the month. Then I rented a car, and they overcharged me to cover the rental without a credit card. Then they didn't refund me the money the same day I returned the car (still haven't, in fact. 2-3 business days, my ass). Then I had to lay down $100 surety for the new car. Then I had to gas up. Then I had to eat. Then ... then ... then ... and next thing I know, my whole paycheck is gone and I'm in the negatives again. And here comes three more debit purchases.
Khaaaaaaan!
Goodbye ANOTHER $105.
I've already flogged myself, so I wont waste bytes repeating it. But My Friend The Doctor bailed me out again. I couldn't even call him this time. I just sent him an e-mail, informing him for the first time about the whole car situation plus the moneylessness. I couldn't ask him for $$ but the e-mail in itself was obviously a request. Which he knew instantly and responded. But aside from the money, he reassured me that I'm not the Crown Prince of all Sad-Ass Losers. He reminded me of my progress over the last year and under what kind of circumstances (See George; Former "My Benefactor", Postmodern Crackhead) that I managed to do it.
My Friend, The Doctor. He really wants to see me succeed. And I really want to. He believes in me. And I really want him to. He supports me, emotionally as well as financially. And I really need him to.
So that's alright then. And My Hero's a friend of mine too!
P.S.; note to self; GET A CREDIT CARD. Even though the interest will be 18%, like the car loan, a credit card would have saved me $210 dollars in overdraft fees for $35 worth of Starbucks and McDonald's, because I could have credit-carded the rental car instead of debiting it. And I can beat the interest if I pay the entire charge before the due date. The next spam application for credit, I'm filling out.
George sneaks into the house at night. After my post, I purposed to say something when he returned home. It's a ranch style, so right inside the front door you can go upstairs to the kitchen, livingroom, or his three rooms and two bathrooms--or downstairs to the laundry room, den, my bedroom, my bathroom, or garage. So I was tucked away in my room and barely heard him open the door. He slipped off his shoes and then I heard nothing more. Didn't hear him go up the steps or anything. Didn't notice if he turned on a light. Don't know if he went to the kitchen to eat, or just put something in the fridge. Nothing.
That's what makes me think he was either drunk or high or both. Because my lights were on, and I don't sleep with them on. He knew I was awake. And most times, he calls down to me when he comes in to say hello or something--anything really. And that's what I was waiting for. I was going to respond, then ask him what movie he went to see after he dropped me off at the car dealer. Have a little convo and whatever else he may have wanted to chat'bout. Nothing. I haven't spoken to him since the dealer.
Well, that's too bad. I'll keep trying because I said I would, but at least now I know that it's not just me. As I told you in my history with George--he knows how to lie. He wants me to believe he's been sober since the rehab, so when he goes out to drink, or smoke crack, or whatever, he's not interested in talking. Which suits me fine--but does him no good. And I don't want to force a conversation with him, or expose his inebriation, because I don't want to live in a constant state of confrontation and performing interventions.
So that's all I'm going to say about that right now.
In other news, I had another bank relapse. Two actually. Last week, my gym charged me more than I expected them to and pushed my balance into the negatives. Then two more debit charges appeared after that. Goodbye $105. I let it go because I still had savings in another account and I figured it was a punishment I deserved (I kept saying 'This is the last time!' but still I'm an idiot, so too bad for me). Then I had a payday and shortly thereafter, the accident. Then I did my taxes. Then I paid my insurance bill for the month. Then I rented a car, and they overcharged me to cover the rental without a credit card. Then they didn't refund me the money the same day I returned the car (still haven't, in fact. 2-3 business days, my ass). Then I had to lay down $100 surety for the new car. Then I had to gas up. Then I had to eat. Then ... then ... then ... and next thing I know, my whole paycheck is gone and I'm in the negatives again. And here comes three more debit purchases.
Khaaaaaaan!
Goodbye ANOTHER $105.
I've already flogged myself, so I wont waste bytes repeating it. But My Friend The Doctor bailed me out again. I couldn't even call him this time. I just sent him an e-mail, informing him for the first time about the whole car situation plus the moneylessness. I couldn't ask him for $$ but the e-mail in itself was obviously a request. Which he knew instantly and responded. But aside from the money, he reassured me that I'm not the Crown Prince of all Sad-Ass Losers. He reminded me of my progress over the last year and under what kind of circumstances (See George; Former "My Benefactor", Postmodern Crackhead) that I managed to do it.
My Friend, The Doctor. He really wants to see me succeed. And I really want to. He believes in me. And I really want him to. He supports me, emotionally as well as financially. And I really need him to.
So that's alright then. And My Hero's a friend of mine too!
P.S.; note to self; GET A CREDIT CARD. Even though the interest will be 18%, like the car loan, a credit card would have saved me $210 dollars in overdraft fees for $35 worth of Starbucks and McDonald's, because I could have credit-carded the rental car instead of debiting it. And I can beat the interest if I pay the entire charge before the due date. The next spam application for credit, I'm filling out.
And I'd Like To Say This About That
(Originally 3/20/07)
I need to go in for an attitude adjustment on My Benefactor.
I hope I've cited this somewhere else on these webpages, but this is what I know about how I feel about My Benefactor--I'm jealous of him and I'm also resentful of the adolescent position I'm put in by his generosity.
That said, let me detail my exact history with this man.
In 1987 I was hired to work in a mail facility on the overnights in Mount Vernon NY. I was in my twenties and it seemed that I was on my way to adultsville. The job paid well, it had benefits, and my girlfriend at the time also worked for the post office. We talked marriage and considered what all would happen when we combined our incomes. We were both in the same fanatical church so all our ducks were in a row. And yes, she was a bit of a nutjob, but she was the sweetest little nutjob I've ever known. Unlike the scary nutjobs I'd hooked up with thereafter.
Anyway, from the day I started that job, I was fascinated by this guy who looked like George Segal. And he with me. I know now that it was a mancrush. Then, being all religious and in High Denial, I never tried to define it. I just went with it. So after I found that this George Segal lookalike was also a community theater actor, I was hooked! And when I dared to say hello, he said hello back! Then I found out that he was as witty as Bugs Bunny, and as mercurial. And his fascination with me was a big plus. So we became friends. I met his wife and his two little kids. We'd gone out to a comedy club, ate sushi in the Village (my first time), saw community theater together, saw Shakespeare in the Park together. I considered us as really good friends, back before I even knew what friendship was supposed to be all about. Also, back then, I always had an agenda with being friends with people who were not in church. I was supposed to Lead Them To Christ. I had even brought him to my church a few times--but getting him to buy into Christianity was like getting Bugs Bunny to buy stock in shotguns. And I wound up going places with him that my Pastor would not have approved of anyway.
But self-delusion is a grand platform from which to dive into questionable behavior. At least, questionable for a Pentecostal, Fundamentalist, Conservative Born-Again Christian.
Okay, enter his fascination with The Asian Beauty. In our small elite work area, a woman had just come out of a long term affair with our married co-worker. Being a Christian, I wanted to offer her support--instead of throwing stones at her, I did what Jesus Would Have Done. I bent and wrote in the dirt instead of joining the condemning crowd. She and I became friends as well. And George (let's call him that) was besotted with her. He couldn't NOT speak with her. He moon-eyed every time she walked by. So when she and I became friends, George piggybacked off me to get face-time with her. Well, okay, I thought. She's a beautiful woman. He's a handsome man. But surely nothing will come of it!
Our other co-workers continually told me that George and Asian Beauty were getting busy. Well, I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't, in fact. Not when they both knew what a Christian I was. Not when I had appealed so strongly to her NOT to return back to being some man's jump-off (didn't know the term back then, but it means being no more than a sex-relief, no potential to be significant) And then, when the rumors were driving me crazy, I had to ask him and her, during one of our many lunches together--just the three of us, split off from everyone else because that's how "close" we had become.
They looked me dead in my face and swore that they weren't having an affair.
Shortly thereafter, in the morning when we all were supposed to leave, they were caught on the parking lot video cameras steaming up her station wagon windows. Before I reported to work that night, it was the talk of the previous two workshifts.
I hadn't had a cry that hard since I had been a toddler. I cried alone, and I cried with the Asian Beauty. She apologized. George apologized. They apologized together. They apologized seperately. So sorry. Everybody was SO sorry.
I grew up a little bit during that season. I realized people were capable of doing anything.
He tried to quit her, and I tried to help. I did my Christian best to help them off each other. (heh). But it was no use. They kept relapsing. I felt the eyes of scrutiny on me as well as on them. I did my best to be a Christian example through all their failures and shameful behavior. I kept asking myself, what would Jesus do? What would he do to George? What would he do to Beauty? Si that's what I tried to do.
Then in late '91, my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. I didn't know what was in store, but surely things would work out fine? In prayer, I thought I heard God tell me that if my mother were to die, I would be free to go anywhere and do anything for him, as I was doing for George and Beauty. My mother died in early '92. Not more than six months after the treatments began.
George and the Beauty took a backburner to the challenge of What Was I Going To Do With The Rest Of My Life. By this time, I had another girlfriend who was the less friendlier version of a nutjob. She had two kids already and a bad temper. She liked my mother (no wonder) but I was 'estranged' from her by the time my mother died.
So, I packed up my cares and went to Missouri to Bible School to become The Next Biggest Preaching Sensation (I've come to know thate this would be the first in a series of runaways that I would perform to get out of uncomfortable and awful situations). The white people who received me had other ideas. Over the next five years, I grew up a little more. I also I forged a relationship with My Friend The Doctor, and with My Mentor, and got a Master's Degree in Counseling. Eight years later, I arrived back to the east, landing in Trenton, NJ (a runaway move to get out of Missouri--I left a doctoral program, a house, and incurred debt to afford to move). Three years later, I moved to NYC, failing at the relationship with the girl I believe I still love to this day (another runaway move to get away from the girl). But I would still get my NY license and become a therapist in the city and succeed, right?
Around then is when I ran into George, who was as fascinated with me as he had been back in '87. We caught up on old times. He informed me that Beauty and he had tried a relationship after I left. George had divorced his wife. But it didn't work out. It turns out that Beauty wanted him for his money. He'd even let her and her two kids stay with him in his New Jersey house. Eventually, he had to force her out. It ended badly.
A year later, my NYC life failed, by license stalled, and I got evicted.
George said, "Come live in my house. I'm hardly there. And I need some help."
Which turned out to be true, oddly enough. Because all the while, throughout all the plays and Shakespeare in the Parks and sushi and affairs and comedy clubs, he had been a stone-cold junkie. A suburban substance-abuser. A prescription pill-popping Poppa.
And I had no idea. All I thought I'd ever seen him do was have way too many beers before coming in to work, but he had an addictive personality and was out of control long before I'd ever met him.
Now I live with him. After all this time. Ain't life funny?
George (I like this name for him MUCH better. From now on My Benefactor will now be referred to as George) has never tried to do me any harm. He's only ever been his own out-of-control self. And through that, he managed to like me enough to do kind things for me.
So yesterday, when I finally took the rental car back, after cinching the deal on my new car, I returned home and started to plan on how I would get back to the dealership, purposing not to ask George for a ride back. I knew that I had not finished paying him for the car I had wrecked, and I know that paying for this new car would prevent me from realistically doing so in the future. If he wanted to sue me over the money I still owe him, he would win hands down. But also, as previous posts will attest, I felt like I hated George. I didn't want anything from George. I hated living with George and I hated George's ugly grown-up son.
So he asks me, "Did you get the car?"
And I say, "Yeah. I can't believe it, but I actually did."
And he says, "Well, c'mon let's go get it! You want a ride?!"
I swear. I can be such a scumbag sometimes. All George seems to want in return for my rent-free existence is the care and concern I showed him back in the day. And that's not too much to ask for is it?
So we rode back to the dealership and we talked about the plays he's been going to see lately (throughout his joblessness), and I went to get my brand new car and he never mentioned how I'm going to pay him for the car I wrecked, and then I left him to drive back by himself and I haven't spoken to him since.
I'm going to work harder at not being such a bad person to him. If repayment for all this generosity is just a few words in the day and the night of friendly concern, I think I could possibly afford that. All this Being Friends education that I've been learning in the last two seasons of my life, through Matt and everyone else, should extend to my home life as well, shouldn't it? And although George tends to want to go further than I do ("Want to see a movie? Want to go to a play? Let's go and get dinner!") I could still afford to say "Hello."
Couldn't I?
Could I?
I need to go in for an attitude adjustment on My Benefactor.
I hope I've cited this somewhere else on these webpages, but this is what I know about how I feel about My Benefactor--I'm jealous of him and I'm also resentful of the adolescent position I'm put in by his generosity.
That said, let me detail my exact history with this man.
In 1987 I was hired to work in a mail facility on the overnights in Mount Vernon NY. I was in my twenties and it seemed that I was on my way to adultsville. The job paid well, it had benefits, and my girlfriend at the time also worked for the post office. We talked marriage and considered what all would happen when we combined our incomes. We were both in the same fanatical church so all our ducks were in a row. And yes, she was a bit of a nutjob, but she was the sweetest little nutjob I've ever known. Unlike the scary nutjobs I'd hooked up with thereafter.
Anyway, from the day I started that job, I was fascinated by this guy who looked like George Segal. And he with me. I know now that it was a mancrush. Then, being all religious and in High Denial, I never tried to define it. I just went with it. So after I found that this George Segal lookalike was also a community theater actor, I was hooked! And when I dared to say hello, he said hello back! Then I found out that he was as witty as Bugs Bunny, and as mercurial. And his fascination with me was a big plus. So we became friends. I met his wife and his two little kids. We'd gone out to a comedy club, ate sushi in the Village (my first time), saw community theater together, saw Shakespeare in the Park together. I considered us as really good friends, back before I even knew what friendship was supposed to be all about. Also, back then, I always had an agenda with being friends with people who were not in church. I was supposed to Lead Them To Christ. I had even brought him to my church a few times--but getting him to buy into Christianity was like getting Bugs Bunny to buy stock in shotguns. And I wound up going places with him that my Pastor would not have approved of anyway.
But self-delusion is a grand platform from which to dive into questionable behavior. At least, questionable for a Pentecostal, Fundamentalist, Conservative Born-Again Christian.
Okay, enter his fascination with The Asian Beauty. In our small elite work area, a woman had just come out of a long term affair with our married co-worker. Being a Christian, I wanted to offer her support--instead of throwing stones at her, I did what Jesus Would Have Done. I bent and wrote in the dirt instead of joining the condemning crowd. She and I became friends as well. And George (let's call him that) was besotted with her. He couldn't NOT speak with her. He moon-eyed every time she walked by. So when she and I became friends, George piggybacked off me to get face-time with her. Well, okay, I thought. She's a beautiful woman. He's a handsome man. But surely nothing will come of it!
Our other co-workers continually told me that George and Asian Beauty were getting busy. Well, I couldn't believe it. Wouldn't, in fact. Not when they both knew what a Christian I was. Not when I had appealed so strongly to her NOT to return back to being some man's jump-off (didn't know the term back then, but it means being no more than a sex-relief, no potential to be significant) And then, when the rumors were driving me crazy, I had to ask him and her, during one of our many lunches together--just the three of us, split off from everyone else because that's how "close" we had become.
They looked me dead in my face and swore that they weren't having an affair.
Shortly thereafter, in the morning when we all were supposed to leave, they were caught on the parking lot video cameras steaming up her station wagon windows. Before I reported to work that night, it was the talk of the previous two workshifts.
I hadn't had a cry that hard since I had been a toddler. I cried alone, and I cried with the Asian Beauty. She apologized. George apologized. They apologized together. They apologized seperately. So sorry. Everybody was SO sorry.
I grew up a little bit during that season. I realized people were capable of doing anything.
He tried to quit her, and I tried to help. I did my Christian best to help them off each other. (heh). But it was no use. They kept relapsing. I felt the eyes of scrutiny on me as well as on them. I did my best to be a Christian example through all their failures and shameful behavior. I kept asking myself, what would Jesus do? What would he do to George? What would he do to Beauty? Si that's what I tried to do.
Then in late '91, my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer. I didn't know what was in store, but surely things would work out fine? In prayer, I thought I heard God tell me that if my mother were to die, I would be free to go anywhere and do anything for him, as I was doing for George and Beauty. My mother died in early '92. Not more than six months after the treatments began.
George and the Beauty took a backburner to the challenge of What Was I Going To Do With The Rest Of My Life. By this time, I had another girlfriend who was the less friendlier version of a nutjob. She had two kids already and a bad temper. She liked my mother (no wonder) but I was 'estranged' from her by the time my mother died.
So, I packed up my cares and went to Missouri to Bible School to become The Next Biggest Preaching Sensation (I've come to know thate this would be the first in a series of runaways that I would perform to get out of uncomfortable and awful situations). The white people who received me had other ideas. Over the next five years, I grew up a little more. I also I forged a relationship with My Friend The Doctor, and with My Mentor, and got a Master's Degree in Counseling. Eight years later, I arrived back to the east, landing in Trenton, NJ (a runaway move to get out of Missouri--I left a doctoral program, a house, and incurred debt to afford to move). Three years later, I moved to NYC, failing at the relationship with the girl I believe I still love to this day (another runaway move to get away from the girl). But I would still get my NY license and become a therapist in the city and succeed, right?
Around then is when I ran into George, who was as fascinated with me as he had been back in '87. We caught up on old times. He informed me that Beauty and he had tried a relationship after I left. George had divorced his wife. But it didn't work out. It turns out that Beauty wanted him for his money. He'd even let her and her two kids stay with him in his New Jersey house. Eventually, he had to force her out. It ended badly.
A year later, my NYC life failed, by license stalled, and I got evicted.
George said, "Come live in my house. I'm hardly there. And I need some help."
Which turned out to be true, oddly enough. Because all the while, throughout all the plays and Shakespeare in the Parks and sushi and affairs and comedy clubs, he had been a stone-cold junkie. A suburban substance-abuser. A prescription pill-popping Poppa.
And I had no idea. All I thought I'd ever seen him do was have way too many beers before coming in to work, but he had an addictive personality and was out of control long before I'd ever met him.
Now I live with him. After all this time. Ain't life funny?
George (I like this name for him MUCH better. From now on My Benefactor will now be referred to as George) has never tried to do me any harm. He's only ever been his own out-of-control self. And through that, he managed to like me enough to do kind things for me.
So yesterday, when I finally took the rental car back, after cinching the deal on my new car, I returned home and started to plan on how I would get back to the dealership, purposing not to ask George for a ride back. I knew that I had not finished paying him for the car I had wrecked, and I know that paying for this new car would prevent me from realistically doing so in the future. If he wanted to sue me over the money I still owe him, he would win hands down. But also, as previous posts will attest, I felt like I hated George. I didn't want anything from George. I hated living with George and I hated George's ugly grown-up son.
So he asks me, "Did you get the car?"
And I say, "Yeah. I can't believe it, but I actually did."
And he says, "Well, c'mon let's go get it! You want a ride?!"
I swear. I can be such a scumbag sometimes. All George seems to want in return for my rent-free existence is the care and concern I showed him back in the day. And that's not too much to ask for is it?
So we rode back to the dealership and we talked about the plays he's been going to see lately (throughout his joblessness), and I went to get my brand new car and he never mentioned how I'm going to pay him for the car I wrecked, and then I left him to drive back by himself and I haven't spoken to him since.
I'm going to work harder at not being such a bad person to him. If repayment for all this generosity is just a few words in the day and the night of friendly concern, I think I could possibly afford that. All this Being Friends education that I've been learning in the last two seasons of my life, through Matt and everyone else, should extend to my home life as well, shouldn't it? And although George tends to want to go further than I do ("Want to see a movie? Want to go to a play? Let's go and get dinner!") I could still afford to say "Hello."
Couldn't I?
Could I?
This Is Not The Weekend For It
(Originally 3/18/07)
I decided to defy my circumstances this morning and go to the gym. Walk to the gym. Two days after the snow/ice storm. Like I walked to the mall yesterday to get my taxes done. Like I walked around last year-plus before I "bought" the car from My Benefactor/Dude I Don't Like.
Yesterday and today I was reminded of a few things that I had lost track of over the past year-plus.
One; I H8 New Jersey. It couldn't possibly be more pedestrian-unfriendly even if designed by Porsche. Sidewalks as an afterthought. Ice and snow piled high on any conceivable curb. Roads that spin on angles away from anything remotely convenient, forcing you to either cross The Garden State Parkway, or walk 45 minutes out of your way to the right. Busses that don't run on Sundays (???!?!?!?!!!!!--well, in Paramus). Because after all, everyone has a car anyway, right? So why should the busses run seven days a week?? And for those who don't have a car? Well, we barely tolerate those kinds of people anyway. They ought to count themselves as lucky that we don't just round them all up and dump them back in their third-world country from whence they snuck. I hate this state.
Two; Sometimes it feels good being powerless. I had forgotten what it felt like to just give up with a shrug and a mighty Eff-You to the Universe. I had forgotten what a weight off my shoulders it was to be able to say "I did everything I could do. I got nothing left." I forgot what its like not to have to fight, and scrimp, and scratch for survival. Not to have to contest with my fellow capitalist and try to be the Most Significant White Guy in the Room With The Biggest House In Tuckahoe (Yes, Childhood Bud, that one was for your friend). It's liberating to be a bum.
But apart from those two sentiments, I find that I'm still mostly angry. Angry that I got myself into the kind of mess that precludes my ability to have good credit and have a credit card for just such an emergency. Mad that I felt like I couldn't afford to pay for full coverage on car so that I might possibly have some kind of money to cover my car accident. Furious that when I try to go get a car tomorrow that I'm going to have to play phallis-hockey with a salesman as he tries to get me a loan, and wind up with about 18% interest after probably a week of bank rejections while the Lying Liar and His Lying Bosses stall my application because they're having trouble getting me an approval but they want to keep my deposit, while every rejection harms my credit score just a liiiitle bit more, because God knows, if you can't play the capitalist game successfully in America, they make sure you get penalized for it in one way or another.
And even as I'm seething with these feelings, I return back to this house, looking forward to some peace and quiet, when for the first time in maybe four months, The Benefactor's Son is here, practicing his guitar lessons with his regular lesson-chick.
This was not the weekend to see this ugly boy.
This may be the weekend I decide to move out of this house. When my sad little existence takes a blow, which seems like an inevitability, given the nature of the utter CRAP planet we live on, I need a haven. Somewhere to go and get away from it all. Without a car, on a cold ice-encrusted day, this house is all I've got. And now I have to field a white boy's melanin-fixation?
I titled this blog with "This American Life" in mind, which I was listening to today on my way back to the house. It made my snow-crunching journey ever so slightly better. Today's episode was particularly good--it had diatribes about television, where Sarah Vowell said some mean things about Pilgrims and America, David Rakoff said some means things about a Sweet 16 "reality TV" girl, and Ira Glass' gave an account of his experience when he heard his favorite characters on "The O.C." refer to his radio show in clever and snide tones. You know, like his show does about everyone else. I'm not sure, but I think I had been inspired to come blog some witty, snide observations of my own. Then I find this boy is in the house and I realize I have nothing snide or witty to say. There's nothing snide or witty about the way I am living. I am the Crown Prince of failed, miserable wasted-life losers and my life is one huge spectacular grand-scale exercise in How Not To Live.
I'm not supposed to make rash decisions when I've experienced something traumatic, such as not-dying in a car accident. I know that. But I can't live in this man's house anymore. I hate his son and I hate him. I hate everything. Hate hate hate. I'm mad and angry and resentful at myself and every electron spinning around every atom in every object in every part of this entire Universe.
And yet, somehow, I'm fixated on survival. There are milestones in my immediate past that I can look back at. There are improvements now that I can take comfort in. There are reasons that I don't have to eat a bullet or force others to.
I'll get through this. Surely. Why else did I live through the accident with just two scratches? I've got a hero who wants to see me again this week. I've got friends I can call (I haven't told My Friend The Doctor about my car yet, because I heap enough Sad-Ass Life drama on him, but my friend Grim Jester pursued my cellphone until he could make sure I was okay, and he had been pissy to me ever since we had the tiff during D&D those weeks ago, but yesterday all the piss was gone, and he was just the caring friend who I was hoping he had been when I had first decided to call him one.) I've still got my job and despite the fact that I have to now spend it, I did manage to get through the pay-period with some savings. And now my taxes are done and I'm getting a cute refund.
So I guess I'll be alright--even though I hate everything--because sometimes, everything deserves to be hated on a little. In my opinion.
So that's alright then.
I decided to defy my circumstances this morning and go to the gym. Walk to the gym. Two days after the snow/ice storm. Like I walked to the mall yesterday to get my taxes done. Like I walked around last year-plus before I "bought" the car from My Benefactor/Dude I Don't Like.
Yesterday and today I was reminded of a few things that I had lost track of over the past year-plus.
One; I H8 New Jersey. It couldn't possibly be more pedestrian-unfriendly even if designed by Porsche. Sidewalks as an afterthought. Ice and snow piled high on any conceivable curb. Roads that spin on angles away from anything remotely convenient, forcing you to either cross The Garden State Parkway, or walk 45 minutes out of your way to the right. Busses that don't run on Sundays (???!?!?!?!!!!!--well, in Paramus). Because after all, everyone has a car anyway, right? So why should the busses run seven days a week?? And for those who don't have a car? Well, we barely tolerate those kinds of people anyway. They ought to count themselves as lucky that we don't just round them all up and dump them back in their third-world country from whence they snuck. I hate this state.
Two; Sometimes it feels good being powerless. I had forgotten what it felt like to just give up with a shrug and a mighty Eff-You to the Universe. I had forgotten what a weight off my shoulders it was to be able to say "I did everything I could do. I got nothing left." I forgot what its like not to have to fight, and scrimp, and scratch for survival. Not to have to contest with my fellow capitalist and try to be the Most Significant White Guy in the Room With The Biggest House In Tuckahoe (Yes, Childhood Bud, that one was for your friend). It's liberating to be a bum.
But apart from those two sentiments, I find that I'm still mostly angry. Angry that I got myself into the kind of mess that precludes my ability to have good credit and have a credit card for just such an emergency. Mad that I felt like I couldn't afford to pay for full coverage on car so that I might possibly have some kind of money to cover my car accident. Furious that when I try to go get a car tomorrow that I'm going to have to play phallis-hockey with a salesman as he tries to get me a loan, and wind up with about 18% interest after probably a week of bank rejections while the Lying Liar and His Lying Bosses stall my application because they're having trouble getting me an approval but they want to keep my deposit, while every rejection harms my credit score just a liiiitle bit more, because God knows, if you can't play the capitalist game successfully in America, they make sure you get penalized for it in one way or another.
And even as I'm seething with these feelings, I return back to this house, looking forward to some peace and quiet, when for the first time in maybe four months, The Benefactor's Son is here, practicing his guitar lessons with his regular lesson-chick.
This was not the weekend to see this ugly boy.
This may be the weekend I decide to move out of this house. When my sad little existence takes a blow, which seems like an inevitability, given the nature of the utter CRAP planet we live on, I need a haven. Somewhere to go and get away from it all. Without a car, on a cold ice-encrusted day, this house is all I've got. And now I have to field a white boy's melanin-fixation?
I titled this blog with "This American Life" in mind, which I was listening to today on my way back to the house. It made my snow-crunching journey ever so slightly better. Today's episode was particularly good--it had diatribes about television, where Sarah Vowell said some mean things about Pilgrims and America, David Rakoff said some means things about a Sweet 16 "reality TV" girl, and Ira Glass' gave an account of his experience when he heard his favorite characters on "The O.C." refer to his radio show in clever and snide tones. You know, like his show does about everyone else. I'm not sure, but I think I had been inspired to come blog some witty, snide observations of my own. Then I find this boy is in the house and I realize I have nothing snide or witty to say. There's nothing snide or witty about the way I am living. I am the Crown Prince of failed, miserable wasted-life losers and my life is one huge spectacular grand-scale exercise in How Not To Live.
I'm not supposed to make rash decisions when I've experienced something traumatic, such as not-dying in a car accident. I know that. But I can't live in this man's house anymore. I hate his son and I hate him. I hate everything. Hate hate hate. I'm mad and angry and resentful at myself and every electron spinning around every atom in every object in every part of this entire Universe.
And yet, somehow, I'm fixated on survival. There are milestones in my immediate past that I can look back at. There are improvements now that I can take comfort in. There are reasons that I don't have to eat a bullet or force others to.
I'll get through this. Surely. Why else did I live through the accident with just two scratches? I've got a hero who wants to see me again this week. I've got friends I can call (I haven't told My Friend The Doctor about my car yet, because I heap enough Sad-Ass Life drama on him, but my friend Grim Jester pursued my cellphone until he could make sure I was okay, and he had been pissy to me ever since we had the tiff during D&D those weeks ago, but yesterday all the piss was gone, and he was just the caring friend who I was hoping he had been when I had first decided to call him one.) I've still got my job and despite the fact that I have to now spend it, I did manage to get through the pay-period with some savings. And now my taxes are done and I'm getting a cute refund.
So I guess I'll be alright--even though I hate everything--because sometimes, everything deserves to be hated on a little. In my opinion.
So that's alright then.
The Alone Life, Part VII
(Originally 1/15/07)
Part VII or some such tally. I lose track how many times I've posted on my state of being. But here's some more.
This weekend saw me with two seperate groups of D&D friends on two different days. It's always very fun pretending to be a powerful Somebody Else--if not completely mental. In one group, a particular somebody finally admitted that he thought his feet were great looking. In my mind, I had to assume that surely he must do, because whenever we're over his house, or it's a degree above 49 outside, out come his feet! So tired of seeing those feet of his!! And this I have said before, white men LOVE THEIR FEET! Every summer, everywhere I've ever been, is a parade of sandals on white men. Billions of toes just gnarling everywhere you look. Women's feet are so much better. So, so much. They are usually artful and petite. And of course, I'm used to seeing them. But men's feet? Just in every virtual state of repair or disrepair. Big fleshy boats at the end of their legs. Cut me some SLACK. How did society teach white males that their feet are equivalent to their hands??
Anyway that happened over the weekend.
Also, The Benefactor brought his son over for the weekend then promptly disappeared for three days, leaving the boy here. And I will add, alone. Because I sure as heck didn't stay, except to return and sleep and quickly leave in the morning back to the gym for fun, frolick, shower, change clothes, and off to the next D&D game. Another reason I'm thankful for D&D.
Before this weekend, My Benefactor left a can of "low alcohol" beverage drink in the fridge--opened and more than half gone. So that solves that "elephant in the living room", but still, I'm not going to talk about it. I have no idea what the man wants to do, or thinks he's doing. He's still unemployed, but again again, his father is a millionaire. He will never go hungry or homeless. So he is now officially Retired. He's even gained about 15 lbs (since he insists on walking around with no shirt on, which is his effort to be considerate since originally he used to walk around naked. You thought I was kidding when I told you he has problems? And yet, I'm glad, because it was another nail in the coffin of the idea that I'm gay. Muscular heroically-posed men--awesome. Naked men--yuuchh). I thought the weight gain might point to his sobriety, but then there was the can of crap in the fridge, so he's just getting fat. Without a job to go to, I know too well how that can happen.
Tonight, he finally returned home and took his boy back to where he came from. The house is now, finally, empty.
And I have the nerve to be lonely. Not like Christmas lonely, but just kind of empty-feeling. Having the day off (and able to look at white girls without getting lynched, thank you Martin), I already have gone to the gym, and really ripped it up. Then I already went to Stabucks and wrote more of the novel. And now I'm back home blogging in an empty house.
Mind you, there's a huge difference between being in the house with someone you like and someone you don't. Being alone is better than actively avoiding The People Upstairs.
But I definitely need someone in my life. Dame Judi Dench is not answering my calls, so I'd better think of prospects elsewhere. I'm going to start getting dental work so I can feel more confident to chat up the honeys, and even though I still have way too much packed behind my flattening belly muscles, I think I'm at a good place to strut rooster-like out on a first date.
And for an added bonus, I'm going to finally publish a photo. (Ladies, don't all call at once. Fellas, really thanks but see above. I've decided not to be gay--even if I look like I am with my dashing scarf).
So, here goes. This was two weeks ago, done by the husband of a new friend named Kim who I met through My Hero, of whom I'm also a friend of, and thus it being all right then ...
Part VII or some such tally. I lose track how many times I've posted on my state of being. But here's some more.
This weekend saw me with two seperate groups of D&D friends on two different days. It's always very fun pretending to be a powerful Somebody Else--if not completely mental. In one group, a particular somebody finally admitted that he thought his feet were great looking. In my mind, I had to assume that surely he must do, because whenever we're over his house, or it's a degree above 49 outside, out come his feet! So tired of seeing those feet of his!! And this I have said before, white men LOVE THEIR FEET! Every summer, everywhere I've ever been, is a parade of sandals on white men. Billions of toes just gnarling everywhere you look. Women's feet are so much better. So, so much. They are usually artful and petite. And of course, I'm used to seeing them. But men's feet? Just in every virtual state of repair or disrepair. Big fleshy boats at the end of their legs. Cut me some SLACK. How did society teach white males that their feet are equivalent to their hands??
Anyway that happened over the weekend.
Also, The Benefactor brought his son over for the weekend then promptly disappeared for three days, leaving the boy here. And I will add, alone. Because I sure as heck didn't stay, except to return and sleep and quickly leave in the morning back to the gym for fun, frolick, shower, change clothes, and off to the next D&D game. Another reason I'm thankful for D&D.
Before this weekend, My Benefactor left a can of "low alcohol" beverage drink in the fridge--opened and more than half gone. So that solves that "elephant in the living room", but still, I'm not going to talk about it. I have no idea what the man wants to do, or thinks he's doing. He's still unemployed, but again again, his father is a millionaire. He will never go hungry or homeless. So he is now officially Retired. He's even gained about 15 lbs (since he insists on walking around with no shirt on, which is his effort to be considerate since originally he used to walk around naked. You thought I was kidding when I told you he has problems? And yet, I'm glad, because it was another nail in the coffin of the idea that I'm gay. Muscular heroically-posed men--awesome. Naked men--yuuchh). I thought the weight gain might point to his sobriety, but then there was the can of crap in the fridge, so he's just getting fat. Without a job to go to, I know too well how that can happen.
Tonight, he finally returned home and took his boy back to where he came from. The house is now, finally, empty.
And I have the nerve to be lonely. Not like Christmas lonely, but just kind of empty-feeling. Having the day off (and able to look at white girls without getting lynched, thank you Martin), I already have gone to the gym, and really ripped it up. Then I already went to Stabucks and wrote more of the novel. And now I'm back home blogging in an empty house.
Mind you, there's a huge difference between being in the house with someone you like and someone you don't. Being alone is better than actively avoiding The People Upstairs.
But I definitely need someone in my life. Dame Judi Dench is not answering my calls, so I'd better think of prospects elsewhere. I'm going to start getting dental work so I can feel more confident to chat up the honeys, and even though I still have way too much packed behind my flattening belly muscles, I think I'm at a good place to strut rooster-like out on a first date.
And for an added bonus, I'm going to finally publish a photo. (Ladies, don't all call at once. Fellas, really thanks but see above. I've decided not to be gay--even if I look like I am with my dashing scarf).
So, here goes. This was two weeks ago, done by the husband of a new friend named Kim who I met through My Hero, of whom I'm also a friend of, and thus it being all right then ...
I Shouldn't Be Writing
(Originally 12/25/06, Christmas Day)
Merry Christmass All! The title is a nod to Mur Lafferty, a friend of Evo's who stopped by a few days ago, and a friend of alex's too (they were NaNoWriMo buddies).
I say I shouldn't be writing because it's Christmas and I'm in the city and I should be out enjoying the town.
Well, I have, and I may do so again, but I have nothing specific to do out there. The view from the room is exceptional this time, I must say. I'm on the 37th floor, overlooking the Ziegfeld Theater. Check the link, note the address. I'm in the Hilton on the block south of the theater. In-Room Dining menu tells me that I can get a Turkey Club sandwich for 21.95--I kid you not. I'll pass. I'm not in the mood to fund Paris' new sex tape. Not to mention what kind of tip I would supposed to leave? That would have to be some serious post-coital bliss to prevent me from going downstairs and getting the same sandwich to-go for 8 bucks.
My Blind Hero sent me an e-mail Christmas card but he hasn't called me to hook up with him. I guess he changed his mind, or found another offer. I don't feel particularly saddened by that. I'm happy that I said yes and was open to him coming. That, for me, is progress.
So, yeah, I'm a little lonely, but not overmuch. My Friend The Doctor called earlier when I was downtown eating Coldstone Ice Cream in the Village. He forgot to call me earlier in the week to check up on me, but that was okay too. I owe him a lot already and he's always there when I need him, so he needn't feel bad. If I hadn't any plans, he'd have been sped-dialed.
So, a few blocks north of here is an apartment building and I can see them in their homes. At most I can see about five families at any given time. i swear I wish i had a set of binoculars so I could see details. But more than that, I wish I knew who they were and how they're living in that building. This is between 6th & 7th avenues, 55th st, I estimate. and since I'm on the 37th floor, they have to be living between 35-45th floors of that deluxe highrise. From my time as a real estate agent (its crazy to type that, but I still hold a NY license for real estate. Go figure) I would expect these people to be paying anywhere between $3500-$5000/month rent. And if they own, the units would have gone for millions, easy. And then the monthly "maintenance" would still be a few thou per month.
But may I tell you, my window is crowded with buildings as tall if not taller, than us. And while this Hilton is a narrow little slip of a structure (wasted space really), these residentials are packed out in every nook and cranny with living space. (The more people Mr. Developer can cram into his building, the more money he gets.) So not for the first time I have to ask;
WHO ARE ALL THESE RICH PEOPLE?!!?
I feel like I can never hope to make that kind of money without becoming an actor, singer, or career bestseller author. There aren't that many of them, and if there were, they don't all live here!
So what is going on?
You know that Saturday Night Live skit about what white people do when no one else is around? I swear it must be true. In the banks, when no blacks or Latinos are around. they just be givin' each other money. Don't deny it, white people! You know it's true! On a more serious note, if not less consequential, I saw a commercial on this Hilton Hotel Satellite TV system (flatscreen TVs give off a lot of heat from their screens, BTW!) they keep showing financial planner commercials and all sorts of high-financed based advertizing. They must think every guest is interested in making and keeping a lot of money. And one of these commericals had a bunch of people in different vignettes. One of them was this middle-aged white guy in a suit with a big voice putting his arm around the neck of a younger white man and saying "I want to leave my business to my son!" and I was like "Ah, HAAA!!!! THAT'S how you guys have been doing it for centuries!! Hoard that wealth!!" How many of the Hilton neighbors (Paris being a prime example) are just beneficiaries of their parents and great-grandparents' wealth? Living off trust funds and the bank account interest that pays their monthly housing expenses?
Well, I currently am doing the exact same thing. I'm reaping the benefit of a two-night stay in a posh midtown hotel, overlooking Manhattan, a sliver of the Hudson River to my left and a sliver of a de-leafed Central Park straight ahead, because of My Benefactor's parent's wealth. We none of us deserve it, but I hope the neighbors are at least as half as grateful right now as I am. This is a really nice opportunity and I'm not going to let jealousy and spite take it away from me.
Happy Holidays to the rich people as well as the poor! "God bless us all, every one!"
Merry Christmass All! The title is a nod to Mur Lafferty, a friend of Evo's who stopped by a few days ago, and a friend of alex's too (they were NaNoWriMo buddies).
I say I shouldn't be writing because it's Christmas and I'm in the city and I should be out enjoying the town.
Well, I have, and I may do so again, but I have nothing specific to do out there. The view from the room is exceptional this time, I must say. I'm on the 37th floor, overlooking the Ziegfeld Theater. Check the link, note the address. I'm in the Hilton on the block south of the theater. In-Room Dining menu tells me that I can get a Turkey Club sandwich for 21.95--I kid you not. I'll pass. I'm not in the mood to fund Paris' new sex tape. Not to mention what kind of tip I would supposed to leave? That would have to be some serious post-coital bliss to prevent me from going downstairs and getting the same sandwich to-go for 8 bucks.
My Blind Hero sent me an e-mail Christmas card but he hasn't called me to hook up with him. I guess he changed his mind, or found another offer. I don't feel particularly saddened by that. I'm happy that I said yes and was open to him coming. That, for me, is progress.
So, yeah, I'm a little lonely, but not overmuch. My Friend The Doctor called earlier when I was downtown eating Coldstone Ice Cream in the Village. He forgot to call me earlier in the week to check up on me, but that was okay too. I owe him a lot already and he's always there when I need him, so he needn't feel bad. If I hadn't any plans, he'd have been sped-dialed.
So, a few blocks north of here is an apartment building and I can see them in their homes. At most I can see about five families at any given time. i swear I wish i had a set of binoculars so I could see details. But more than that, I wish I knew who they were and how they're living in that building. This is between 6th & 7th avenues, 55th st, I estimate. and since I'm on the 37th floor, they have to be living between 35-45th floors of that deluxe highrise. From my time as a real estate agent (its crazy to type that, but I still hold a NY license for real estate. Go figure) I would expect these people to be paying anywhere between $3500-$5000/month rent. And if they own, the units would have gone for millions, easy. And then the monthly "maintenance" would still be a few thou per month.
But may I tell you, my window is crowded with buildings as tall if not taller, than us. And while this Hilton is a narrow little slip of a structure (wasted space really), these residentials are packed out in every nook and cranny with living space. (The more people Mr. Developer can cram into his building, the more money he gets.) So not for the first time I have to ask;
WHO ARE ALL THESE RICH PEOPLE?!!?
I feel like I can never hope to make that kind of money without becoming an actor, singer, or career bestseller author. There aren't that many of them, and if there were, they don't all live here!
So what is going on?
You know that Saturday Night Live skit about what white people do when no one else is around? I swear it must be true. In the banks, when no blacks or Latinos are around. they just be givin' each other money. Don't deny it, white people! You know it's true! On a more serious note, if not less consequential, I saw a commercial on this Hilton Hotel Satellite TV system (flatscreen TVs give off a lot of heat from their screens, BTW!) they keep showing financial planner commercials and all sorts of high-financed based advertizing. They must think every guest is interested in making and keeping a lot of money. And one of these commericals had a bunch of people in different vignettes. One of them was this middle-aged white guy in a suit with a big voice putting his arm around the neck of a younger white man and saying "I want to leave my business to my son!" and I was like "Ah, HAAA!!!! THAT'S how you guys have been doing it for centuries!! Hoard that wealth!!" How many of the Hilton neighbors (Paris being a prime example) are just beneficiaries of their parents and great-grandparents' wealth? Living off trust funds and the bank account interest that pays their monthly housing expenses?
Well, I currently am doing the exact same thing. I'm reaping the benefit of a two-night stay in a posh midtown hotel, overlooking Manhattan, a sliver of the Hudson River to my left and a sliver of a de-leafed Central Park straight ahead, because of My Benefactor's parent's wealth. We none of us deserve it, but I hope the neighbors are at least as half as grateful right now as I am. This is a really nice opportunity and I'm not going to let jealousy and spite take it away from me.
Happy Holidays to the rich people as well as the poor! "God bless us all, every one!"
My Date With Grim Jester
(Originally 12/23/06)
Heehee. He'd hate that I was posting this.
But I will say that he took me out today to eat at a pretty nice seafood joint in a part of NYC that I'd say belonged in a Stephen King novel. I expected Colm Feore any moment to appear on the streets and tell us all "Give me want I want, and I'll go away."
He is one of the new rounds of ammunition in my holster that I am using to fight back the holiday blahs. Our relationship is usually adversarial, because he's just that kind of guy, but he's also a major reason why I lost 25 lbs, and why I survived my eviction from NYC. When I let him know that I'm really hurting, even if he's the cause of it, he has always comes through for me. Seeing that part of him makes all the jousting worth it.
Now here's a bit of a surprise -- and I think this happened last year too. My Benefactor gave me two nights in his time share holiday spot in NYC. Christmas Eve and Christmas Night. He didn't want to see the year's allotments go to waste. He also claims he's remained sober these two months and I haven't the heart to call him a liar to his face, or even through the floorboards. I, in fact, hope it's true but I don't think so. Nevertheless, I'm staying in the city over the holiday.
And lastly, my Blind Hero called me up the other night and asked what my plans were for the holiday, and when I told him, he solicited an invite to the holiday spot. His family is all in another country, and he lost his father some months ago, so I know he'd be lonely if I didn't get with him on Christmas. But you know what? So would I. Not to mention My Hero, My Hero The Cop, The Grim Jester, My Freind The Doctor, and My Mentor have been modeling friendship for me like a pantheon from Olympus. Because of them, I didn't feel right turning away my Blind Hero when he needed me.
I hope nobody reading this is alone for Christmas either.
Cheers!
Heehee. He'd hate that I was posting this.
But I will say that he took me out today to eat at a pretty nice seafood joint in a part of NYC that I'd say belonged in a Stephen King novel. I expected Colm Feore any moment to appear on the streets and tell us all "Give me want I want, and I'll go away."
He is one of the new rounds of ammunition in my holster that I am using to fight back the holiday blahs. Our relationship is usually adversarial, because he's just that kind of guy, but he's also a major reason why I lost 25 lbs, and why I survived my eviction from NYC. When I let him know that I'm really hurting, even if he's the cause of it, he has always comes through for me. Seeing that part of him makes all the jousting worth it.
Now here's a bit of a surprise -- and I think this happened last year too. My Benefactor gave me two nights in his time share holiday spot in NYC. Christmas Eve and Christmas Night. He didn't want to see the year's allotments go to waste. He also claims he's remained sober these two months and I haven't the heart to call him a liar to his face, or even through the floorboards. I, in fact, hope it's true but I don't think so. Nevertheless, I'm staying in the city over the holiday.
And lastly, my Blind Hero called me up the other night and asked what my plans were for the holiday, and when I told him, he solicited an invite to the holiday spot. His family is all in another country, and he lost his father some months ago, so I know he'd be lonely if I didn't get with him on Christmas. But you know what? So would I. Not to mention My Hero, My Hero The Cop, The Grim Jester, My Freind The Doctor, and My Mentor have been modeling friendship for me like a pantheon from Olympus. Because of them, I didn't feel right turning away my Blind Hero when he needed me.
I hope nobody reading this is alone for Christmas either.
Cheers!
He's At It Again
(Originally 11/5/06)
I come through the door from the gym and he's all, "Wanna go to the movies?" and I'm all "Why did I tell him I would yesterday" and he's all "I wrote a new song" and I'm just wishing for a brain anuerism, and he's all "Let's leave in an hour" and in my mind I'm thinking, "Go **&% yourself".
No marginal awareness that I exist ourside of him. Not the slightest idea that I might want to live a life of my own. No periphery AT ALL that I don't prefer his company.
This is so bullcrap.
And I have to find a way to tell him this, because he isn't going to understand unless I do. He does not have the mental equipment to connect these dots.
I remember a half year ago or more, I likened this situation to the movie "Sideways". But now it's not funny, and I am not getting any awards.
I come through the door from the gym and he's all, "Wanna go to the movies?" and I'm all "Why did I tell him I would yesterday" and he's all "I wrote a new song" and I'm just wishing for a brain anuerism, and he's all "Let's leave in an hour" and in my mind I'm thinking, "Go **&% yourself".
No marginal awareness that I exist ourside of him. Not the slightest idea that I might want to live a life of my own. No periphery AT ALL that I don't prefer his company.
This is so bullcrap.
And I have to find a way to tell him this, because he isn't going to understand unless I do. He does not have the mental equipment to connect these dots.
I remember a half year ago or more, I likened this situation to the movie "Sideways". But now it's not funny, and I am not getting any awards.
And Here's Why
(Originally 11/5/06)
Because I felt trapped and powerless. Because I had expectations that got snatched away. Because he intrudes in on my personal space without a care (he's incapable of caring about it; he's autistic, or so he claims, and his life is all about himself).
So I hope you guys had a nice time %$*6ing yourselves. That's what seems to motivate us all anyway, right? I once said I'd make no more apologies, but I think I can afford this one.
Sorry.
Yesterday while looking in the full length mirror, I developed a theory as to why I was still dissatisfied with my weight loss. Lately I've been weighing at 187-190lbs, which would be a max of 25 lbs gone since March. But here's the Weight Chart I keep finding everywhere for men;
5' 7"
(Small frame)138-145
(Medium Frame)142-154
(Large Frame)149-168
My goal is 175, but apparently that is still going to be overweight. I've seen ideal weight on a muscular guy my size (recall Tanny at the gym) and it does look perfect, but I think I'll survive if I'm a mere 7 lbs over. Or, when I hit 175, I might just keep going because I could.
Still, for 190, something still seemed off and I realized, I'm still wearing size 36 pants! I had to buy them at the start of the year because I was starting the new job and I needed to look sane. But I've been losing weight! So, I went to Macy's last night and tried on some smaller pants. I slipped into two sizes of Dockers and two sizes of jeans.
My waist size is now a 33! I tortured the size 32s, but I could still breathe in them.
I am SO going to keep going until I make my goal. This is SO possible.
I feel a little better now. Thank you for indulging.
Because I felt trapped and powerless. Because I had expectations that got snatched away. Because he intrudes in on my personal space without a care (he's incapable of caring about it; he's autistic, or so he claims, and his life is all about himself).
So I hope you guys had a nice time %$*6ing yourselves. That's what seems to motivate us all anyway, right? I once said I'd make no more apologies, but I think I can afford this one.
Sorry.
Yesterday while looking in the full length mirror, I developed a theory as to why I was still dissatisfied with my weight loss. Lately I've been weighing at 187-190lbs, which would be a max of 25 lbs gone since March. But here's the Weight Chart I keep finding everywhere for men;
5' 7"
(Small frame)138-145
(Medium Frame)142-154
(Large Frame)149-168
My goal is 175, but apparently that is still going to be overweight. I've seen ideal weight on a muscular guy my size (recall Tanny at the gym) and it does look perfect, but I think I'll survive if I'm a mere 7 lbs over. Or, when I hit 175, I might just keep going because I could.
Still, for 190, something still seemed off and I realized, I'm still wearing size 36 pants! I had to buy them at the start of the year because I was starting the new job and I needed to look sane. But I've been losing weight! So, I went to Macy's last night and tried on some smaller pants. I slipped into two sizes of Dockers and two sizes of jeans.
My waist size is now a 33! I tortured the size 32s, but I could still breathe in them.
I am SO going to keep going until I make my goal. This is SO possible.
I feel a little better now. Thank you for indulging.
Malignant
(Originally 11/04/06)
I feel like I'm about to serious damage to this relationship.
Mt Benefactor is home. He went to the country club rehab yesterday only to find out that his insurance won't cover it. He tells me he was misled by the local screening center that referred him. I could empathize with his frustration and disappointment. He really wanted to go. He even says he should take a second mortgage out on this house so he can just pay for the 28 days in cash. Because he can do that.
Me? I just wanted him gone.
I've been in such a miserable mood when I woke up and heard this news from him. I don't know who to be upset at. I went to the gym at 7:30 and didn't leave unitl 10:00 because I didn't want to come back here. The only thing that led me back into the door was the promise of getting to blog my own frustrations out. And as soon as I'm done, I am well and truly getting the HELL out.
How dare he have these problems. How dare he. This bastard can pony up 20,000 dollars for a posh stay in a dry-out clinic when I had to beg My Friend The Doctor AGAIN to help me pay for the repair of some lousy-ass, POS alternator? Where the hell does My Benefactor, and his ilk, get the ^7G%ing nerve to have these bourgeoisie "anxiety" problems? Can't make their beds without hiring help. Can't raise their children without a nanny that, in any other social situation, they wouldn't even bother to say hello to on a streetcorner. Can't drive down the road and get through a stop light in one turn. Can't order a %$)TTing Grande Latte without having a nervous breakdown. Can't go through six minutes without having to call somebody on the cell, just for the reassurance that somebody somewhere loves them.
This is a hate day. This is a here-again-is-the-worst-of-me day and I don't even give a bloody worm-infested crap about showing it. This is the kind of day that I don't get married for, or pursue anymore relationships for. These are the days that show me that I'm only good for putting cat food in a dish and scooping clumps of litter--THAT'S my contribution to the betterment of Mother Earth.
Everybody else can go scratch. And by "scratch" I mean "go ^$*! yourselves".
I feel like I'm about to serious damage to this relationship.
Mt Benefactor is home. He went to the country club rehab yesterday only to find out that his insurance won't cover it. He tells me he was misled by the local screening center that referred him. I could empathize with his frustration and disappointment. He really wanted to go. He even says he should take a second mortgage out on this house so he can just pay for the 28 days in cash. Because he can do that.
Me? I just wanted him gone.
I've been in such a miserable mood when I woke up and heard this news from him. I don't know who to be upset at. I went to the gym at 7:30 and didn't leave unitl 10:00 because I didn't want to come back here. The only thing that led me back into the door was the promise of getting to blog my own frustrations out. And as soon as I'm done, I am well and truly getting the HELL out.
How dare he have these problems. How dare he. This bastard can pony up 20,000 dollars for a posh stay in a dry-out clinic when I had to beg My Friend The Doctor AGAIN to help me pay for the repair of some lousy-ass, POS alternator? Where the hell does My Benefactor, and his ilk, get the ^7G%ing nerve to have these bourgeoisie "anxiety" problems? Can't make their beds without hiring help. Can't raise their children without a nanny that, in any other social situation, they wouldn't even bother to say hello to on a streetcorner. Can't drive down the road and get through a stop light in one turn. Can't order a %$)TTing Grande Latte without having a nervous breakdown. Can't go through six minutes without having to call somebody on the cell, just for the reassurance that somebody somewhere loves them.
This is a hate day. This is a here-again-is-the-worst-of-me day and I don't even give a bloody worm-infested crap about showing it. This is the kind of day that I don't get married for, or pursue anymore relationships for. These are the days that show me that I'm only good for putting cat food in a dish and scooping clumps of litter--THAT'S my contribution to the betterment of Mother Earth.
Everybody else can go scratch. And by "scratch" I mean "go ^$*! yourselves".
Updatificationism
(Originally 11/3/06)
When I got home from work yesterday, My Benefactor was home and present. He said he tried to call and leave me a message on my cell that he was staying over his girlfriend's in NYC. The only unusual thing about that was that he tried to call me. He can never remember my number and he has only once called me in the year that I've lived here.
Two things still make me believe that he relapsed;
1) The empty Hennessey bottle existed.
2) His girlfriend drinks alcohol and uses the prescription drug of his choice, and she's not pledged to any kind of sobriety. She happy as things are, plus her boyfriend (My Benefactor) is rich.
At any rate, he went to two meetings last night, but by himself so I have no proof that he went at all. One was an AA and one was an NA. He said they were easy to get to and so he knows definitely that he will be back. He has a plan to go Tuesdays to the cool meeting and Thursdays to the big meetings.
Now today, he will be going to the month-long rehab facility. He feels confident that he's going to stay for a month. Time will reveal. If he did relapse, it didn't knock him out of the box and that's a good thing.
As for me? I feel more secure, but I am going to stick with my exit strategy. This is a rollercoaster ride that I want off of.
When I got home from work yesterday, My Benefactor was home and present. He said he tried to call and leave me a message on my cell that he was staying over his girlfriend's in NYC. The only unusual thing about that was that he tried to call me. He can never remember my number and he has only once called me in the year that I've lived here.
Two things still make me believe that he relapsed;
1) The empty Hennessey bottle existed.
2) His girlfriend drinks alcohol and uses the prescription drug of his choice, and she's not pledged to any kind of sobriety. She happy as things are, plus her boyfriend (My Benefactor) is rich.
At any rate, he went to two meetings last night, but by himself so I have no proof that he went at all. One was an AA and one was an NA. He said they were easy to get to and so he knows definitely that he will be back. He has a plan to go Tuesdays to the cool meeting and Thursdays to the big meetings.
Now today, he will be going to the month-long rehab facility. He feels confident that he's going to stay for a month. Time will reveal. If he did relapse, it didn't knock him out of the box and that's a good thing.
As for me? I feel more secure, but I am going to stick with my exit strategy. This is a rollercoaster ride that I want off of.
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