05.13.06 - 3:09 a.m.

and here it is:

the freakout begins. What was supposed to be a quiet night at home with "Not My Boyfriend and Not Just a Friend but Nevertheless the Guy Im Fucking," turns into a debacle that i sign myself up for and then fail all the tests. And he's asleep during the movie and hes snoring so loud that i cant hear any of the dialogue and i start to get so mad and i cant figure out why. That it was so familiar with s and d? That i felt expendable and sad and in a situation not of my choosing. And there are so many small and large things. He bought me pony miller high life. To people that dont drink beer this wont translate (you will think--aww...cute!), but in my world, it means this:
1) he bought me mhl so i wouldnt drink his good beer.
This is fine because:
1a) i dont care about good beer and i would buy him Clean and Clear if i knew he was using my Clinique.
2a) i drink one half and leave the rest of his seven- dollar- a- bottle beer to warm on the floor.
This is NOT fine because:
1b) it makes me feel like he thinks im fat and shouldnt be drinking beer because his father, once, tricked him into losing weight and this kid called it "smart." Which to me sounds like "Machiavellian" and concerns me that it will, inevitably, manifest itself in a way that is entirely detrimental to the current precarious situation.

Which leads me to ancillary point 1x)

"To me women were like the perfect model of government: paving the roads and protecting the weak. Omnipotent. Boys without fathers say that kind of thing a lot. About their mothers. About their wives.Comparing ladies to goddesses and gold. But i still think we hate women even more than the average guy."
--Victor LaValle

I seem to keep dating men who hate their fathers and this is exactly why. And, also, this is exactly how it ends up.

and also:
2b) its selfish. Ive THOUGHT about asking him about the rapidly decreasing , overly expensive face wash...but i havent.

He's snoring, and the movie, The Tao of Steve, is about how men fuck up and how a woman (who is a set designer for major opera performances) ends up with man (who lives in a group house, smokes a bowl first thing in the morning, and has affairs with married women.) And he's snoring in his pj's and im laying next to him, in my work clothes, HATING HIM. For what?

1) Not staying awake and asking me about all the different ways he can be more like my father and brothers.
2) Not immediately going down on me.
3) Still living in an effeciency with no kitchen (even though he effortlessly fed me Chinese Broccoli, Rice, and Sage Sausage using only a hot plate and a George Foreman Grill. Which i SWORE to myself he would never be able to muster.)
4) Not coming to get me at work and not changing his night to stay at my place (with a kitchen and overpriced face wash and, most importantly, earplugs.)
5) For falling asleep before he knew i was taken care of (though he woke frenzied every four minutes to say "Baby! Whatre you doing? Babe! Are you okay?")
6) For not using a top sheet like a normal fucking human.
7) For fucking me in the ass without a condom (obviously, i let him.)
8) For not being able to stay hard without a condom.
9) For KNOWING we are driving ninety to nothin toward the National Mall when we both know full well that HE needs to be in Silver Spring and I need to be in Falls Church. (extended metaphor that i tried on him while stoned. Somehow he brought up a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich and a tube of floss and lambasted me.)
10) Not immediately putting on his clothes when i told him i wanted him to take me home.

I said, very sweetly (and with all the fervent energy of the one time I took HIM home when he needed me to) "Baby, will you drive me home?" To which he, of course, responded--"I wanna sleep, why dont you take my car."

I dont want to take his fucking car. Play connect the dots with a bunch of drunk assholes for the one parking spot left in the city. Plus, at this point, im not even sure i want to see him tomorrow and having his car would neccesitate said meeting.

And then, of course, Im crying.

Boo Hoo Bawlin. Well, im doing it tastefully so that i wont wake him up--which, i gather, is how us southern ladies handle our grief. And im trying to remember the last time i cried, and i couldnt remember. And im thinking about him telling me that if i went on birth control again and went crazy, again, that he would have to say "enough."
1) Its his goddamn fault that i have to go on BC in the FIRST place. If he could stay hard we wouldnt be having this problem.
2) So--okay--i have to:
a) Pump my relatively delicate internal structure full of hormones again, but
b) If i go crazy the whole thing (The Whole Thing being im on bc because you cant fuck me in the ass with a condom when i really dont even like it in the first place) is over.
b1) [rebuttal] "I understand thats a lot of pressure on you, but if you start to feel it making you crazy then you'll stop and we'll figure something else out."

Oh, and this is the impossible thing. The closer you get to right, the harder it is to tell whats wrong. Its like--this is terrible, but then there is this other variable that brings terrible up to pretty all right. How in the world does anyone make a decision like that? With D it was obvious--cocaine addict, theif, liar. Done. With S it was a little trickier--alcoholic but generally okay guy. Now this kid: This kid. I dont know.

And im in his bathroom and im crying and watching myself in his mirror and im thinking what in the hell is wrong? Trying to name it: This Thing is Wrong. And for every terrible thing i come up with, the quick clean up hitter is everything good. And im thinking about my masters and his lack and then im thinking about the set director and the pothead. And i know i have to leave because his snoring is like the soundtrack to the scary scene in a movie and you can only stand that for so long. And so i get my stuff, try to decide whether or not to tell him im leaving. I tell him and he wants me to stay and he doesnt understand why i cant and i dont either and i dont understand why he wont take me home and he wants me--if im leaving--to turn of the bathroom light. In return i kick his bookbag, which is in the way, then--baby wants a kiss. I tell him theres no way im braving the stretch of size fourteen shoe littered linolium with my pitch dark sobbing eyes and i leave. And im crying and there is no where to be quiet in the city. I hail a cab but halfway hope that he'll pass me so i can walk home in his stupid hoodie and save, at least, $8.50. Of course, he sees me right away. When i get in, the other passenger throws up in the seat and the cabbie yells at her--"Dont YELL at me!" she yells at him and calls him a theif. She falls out and We speed off. I wonder about whether or not she is leaving some boy to snore or to rub his dick against some girls ass in some dance club, whether she knows shes not going anywhere on the metro at 4 am. The cabbie proceeds to tell me ALL about it. He calls her a crazy bitch. I understand both their sides but i dont want to debate it. Im crying because this boy doesnt love me right and hes calling some drunk, puke covered girl and crazy fucking bitch. Im pissed that i have to pay him and that hes gonna charge me two zones even though i spent all four minutes of my cry time listening to his sad sad story and inhaling vommited rum and diets.

I ask him to let me off way before my house so i can amble around with my cigarette and my pricey bottled water and just sit on a stoop and be the caricature of a mid twenties something crying about heartbreak but theres nowhere to sit. Stoops are in front of lit windows, curbs are blocked off with wrought iron. People in the city dont like the weak. I sit on the stairs of my complex (literally) and cry. Im thinking about what it means to be safe. Im thinking about what it means that i have a panic attack at the idea of sleeping in this man's bed. The same man that has driven me all over gods green earth taking me to eat good food, pick up my car, ferry my drunk friends, drive me to the gynocologist. The same man that has already picked out my birthday present. What does it mean to not have my own four walls around me--to assume the worst in him; always. Its nice. Its raining a little, perfect, his hoodie is way to big and like arms around me. My cigarette tastes like a best friend. Im alone. Alone. Alone, which i despair and embrace. And im thinking about alone--finally; dreading it and feeling so relieved at the same time.

And as im thinking, finally, that this all happened because hes not allowed to park in my lot and, thus, i couldnt have taken his car home, a fucking i swear to god bright yellow 2006 VW bug rams up the driveway to the complex. A Bug. Bright Yellow. I pray pray pray to the god i cant make friends with, that he will go in the back, and, because life is a big dumb obvious joke, he doesnt. He stumbles over to me. Do you live here? No, do you? Yes, i live on the second floor. Oh, im just waiting on my friends. And a whole entourage of drunk dumb kids come walking sideways up the path. They desire, each of them, to introduce themselves. My mascara is all over. I feel like a loose cannon. I hate them. They go loudly upstairs and proceed to party in a way that i--being always safe and obedient--would never try because of the Grumpy Downstairs Lesbian.

And i sit there, and i watch this long, pink worm makes its way down my stair. And i wonder what in the world it must be like to have rational responses to stimuli. To respond to hurt with hurt. To respond to help with help. To respond to life like a twenty six year old. To not cry in someone elses bed.

And im hating him in a pretty solid way. And im hating myself way more. And i drink all of the beer in the fridge and i smoke everything i can find and i wonder if i will ever talk to him again and its 4 am.

And, because life is a big dumb obvious joke, he calls. He calls. He calls. His ring is like a fire alarm in my bag. He wants to know if im ok. If im safe. If im okay. No. Yes. No. I tell him im alright i just needed--just needed:
1) to be in my own quiet bed.
2) you to be a better man.
3) sit and cry
4) obsessively transcribe every emotion.
5) feel in control for one dumb second.
6) wake up late and take a noisy dump.
7) drink coffee in my fat robe with no panties on.
8) have no visual of you for the next five hours.
9) pretend like you dont exist.

i went with some variation of 1 and 4. He bought it. Though, i could have told him that i needed to come home and fuck the Grumpy Downstairs Lesbian. He was doing the Honest Guy Thing. And i praised him for it. He told me he will call me in the morning. And he will--first thing.

Im turning my ringer off.

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