Faster Pussycat, Kill …… Someone
Home from work on Friday at 5:15 am. Watched half an episode of Sex and the City and then off to bed. I emerged from the crypt at 12:45 pm. The sun was shining; the coffee was perking (well, dripping but that sounds bad). I opened my bedroom window and a cool breeze wafted in. I enjoyed my morning caffeine injection as it’s the only thing getting inside me lately (“Hello, can I speak to Tony, please?”). I remember being somewhat surprised how alert I felt midway through my second cup. Plan for the day included a trip to the gym. Fourth time this week, although this week’s workouts all consisted of ½ hour of cardio and light weights for ½ hour. Hardly strenuous except I kicked my own ass with my ab routine. I’m still sore two days later. I was busily checking e-mail and watching a Call for Help rerun.
Then The Ex got up. Shortly after that so did the Enraged Bitch Goddess from Hell. I don’t know why I was so aggressively nasty to him. Is it because I can? I mean, at this point, with all of the nasty comments and horrific things I’ve said to him over the years I guess he’s not leaving. And there was that one time a couple of months ago when he confessed that he was still in love with me. All that accomplished was to further embolden me to verbally harass him without fear of driving him away. This relationship comforts and confuses me. We are a shining gay example of ex-lovers living together, which technically, makes us still together without the sticky wet part. We certainly bicker like we’re still together. But how long are we going to stay together? How long should we? I certainly don’t want him to leave now but will I ever? Will there come a day when I will officially live a life without him? I’ve been toying with the idea of relocating to Florida or Vegas. At no time do I include The Ex in this fantasy relocation. What would I say if he just included himself, (as he so often does) or asked to be included? I honestly don’t know.
What I do know is that this afternoon , at least, I wanted to push my fist right through his face and out the back of his head. I don’t know what made me snap and then be so vocal about said snappage. At some point in the afternoon, as he was lying like a beached beluga on the sofa, I heard Ewan McGregor doing a familiar but kind of strange sounding overdone European accent.
“It can’t be. I thought, not again.”
I came out of my room more in disbelief than anything.
“What are you watching?”
“Moulin Rouge.”
“Oh my god! Again? You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“I like this movie.”
“You must! This is about the sixth time this year!”
“No it isn’t.”
“It is! You watch the same six movies over and over again every weekend. If they come on network TV, you watch them. If you find them on cable, you watch them. If you don’t find them there you watch them on DVD. But it’s the same six movies over and over again. It’s maddening!”
He does the same thing with TV. On Wednesday, it’s South Park at 9:30, then again at 10. On Thursday, it’s South Park at 10 again. On Saturday, the rerun of the South Park he saw on Wednesday. I want to hit him with a shovel.
In frustration, and because Ewan McGregor’s singing voice is starting to liquify my brain, I leave the apartment. I go to the bank to get a quick $20. I go to CVS for some toiletries and a new gym lock. I head to the grocery store for some food essentials. All in all I’m gone a good 45 minutes. Upon my return I walk through the living room and even though part of me wants to resist the part that doesn’t wins.
“So, what time does Star Wars Attack of the Clones start?”
“It’s not. And why do you even care?”
“Because your hearing is starting to go, and all your movies are loud. So even if I leave the room I can hear every word of it. And every word of the same movies every weekend over and over again for years and years has driven me insane! I hate these movies and I hate the weekends when you just lay there all day!”
I go into the kitchen to unpack groceries and start cooking breakfast. Of course it’s not until now that he needs to get ice. And then refill an ice cube tray. And then pour himself a soda. And then put his two liter bottle of soda in a freezer barely big enough to hold the freezer items of one person. In New York City, if one person is rummaging around a kitchen then the other person clearly isn’t. There’s no room. As I’m dumfounded and wondering to myself why in the hell all of this couldn’t have happened in the 45 minutes I was gone, and what my beginning to prepare my breakfast triggered that meant he had to do this now I simply rested my forehead on my palms and stared at him while he finished.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. I hate you right now.”
He put the soda back and walked away.
Breakfast finally made and eaten and the skimpy Saturday New York Times perused I go back to the PC to cruise for cock and check for fresh blog entries. Most bloggers take the weekend off. (With the exception of Our Hero) Shortly thereafter, I hear the unmistakable sound of a bathtub being filled. Now, I know he has plans to meet with M------ this evening and it’s only about 4 pm. Again, part of me resists but….
“Are you planning another two hour bath? Do you think maybe I could use the bathroom to get cleaned up first so I’m not trapped in the apartment all afternoon?
“Go ahead.”
He’s not even fighting back anymore. I've broken him. At least for today. He’ll bounce back to fight again. I guess that’s why we’re still together.
