I have yet to decide what the deal is with the cat who lives in this house. I know she is descended from both Freddy Kreuger and a cobra, but I assume there's some other genetic background in there, too.
Whenever I walk into the kitchen late at night/early in the morning (it's between me and the bathroom), there is a slow hissing sound that could be coming from anywhere low to the ground. Thus, cobra.
And the other night, I had a dream she had climbed on to my bed, and was sleeping pleasantly behind me when, for no reason, she swatted my back. When I woke up, I had a scratch on my back. And my bedroom door was closed. Kitty did this with her mind!
Man oh man do I miss Asscat and Rebound.
And the next time they make the same mistake I tell them not to get caught in cycles. Stop making the same mistakes over and over. Idiots, learn from the past.
I am caught in my own cycle making the same past over and etc. Idiot, learn from people's mistakes.
Bad sex is a cycle. Different face, different flaw. Same result. Revolving door of disappointment. I'm caught in my past. Repeating the same cycle etc. and over.
What I was trying to say the other night was that we're both repeating ourselves. We're both past-locked revolving, and it just isn't working for either of us, but still, I prefer it to the alternative.
I'm told I'm good at writing sestinas, villanelles, and pantoums. All these form poems where you have to repeat words, echo lines. It's the way I'm wired, I guess. I keep having the same relationships, sometimes with the same people. Cycle etc. Past idiots caught in repeating flaws.
I know better than this. We all know better than this. And I keep telling someone he's not crazy (it's a cycle) because crazy people don't realize they're crazy. But I think I'm over and over wrong. Maybe he is crazy isn't the etc. point. Sometimes knowing you're crazy and not fixing it makes you a more dangerous kind of revolving crazy.
None of my recent posts seem overly and overly sane.
I am presently moreso single than I've been in a year and half. I'm taking over and over advantage of it, but it's really more that I'm taking over and over disadvantage of it. Nothing is fitting together properly. None of these men have comfortable flaws. And months ago I mentioned that he had ruined sex with other men for me, and I thought I was being hyperbolic. But the past few revolving nights seem to prove that I was being overly honest.
I'm tired of you reminding me of Elvis and Ryan etc. etc. Be more dangerous crazy honest with me.
I would be more worried about missing you already if I didn't already miss you when we were together.
Last week, I slept with three men with dog names: Duke, Rusty, and Spike. This is not bullshit, or creative liberties. Three men. Three names I associate with dogs.
Duke was hot. As in feverish. I was waiting for the T (the Boston subway) on my way home from work when he started talking to me. He recognized me from a show I did, and started telling me how hilarious I was. And the way to a man's penis is through his ego. And since he lived near me, we ended up going back to my house, watching Arrested Development, and heading back to my room. Duke sweat. And all I could think of was how dogs don't sweat, and how much hotter Duke would be if he just salivated and panted instead. This led to much giggling, which I refused to explain to him. Of course, we did it doggystyle. And it was average.
Rusty was a college student. When I was doing the online whore thing a couple of years ago (nothing to rival Whore Month...it was one or two guys a month), we'd contacted each other, but never met. Basically, he never wanted to meet up until really late at night, and I didn't live near enough for him. Well, now I live down the street (moved here about two months ago). So I e-mailed him, and at 3 o'clock, he called to make sure my roommates were asleep before he came in. Fucken closet cases. In fact, one of my roommates was awake, so he pussied out and went home. Then called at 5 to see if they were still up. Roommate A was now asleep, but Roommate B was awake. So, I headed over to his place. His place.
His place was freaky. He lives in a building near a bunch of colleges in Boston. He lives in the basement of his building. There's a washer, a dryer, a furnace room, a supply closet, and an apartment. To get there, you have to be buzzed into the building, and then you get in a serial killer elevator. A brass contraption with doors you have to hand open. The doors seal with magnets, and I think there may be some Sudanese children who hand crank the thing up and down. Freaky.
His room was filled with candles, and other things that suggest he has a romantic soul, and no one to fuck. He was only wearing his blue and red striped briefs when he answered his door. He called me Sir. Sir. While those who know me, may infer that he was way younger than me, he wasn't. I'm thirty. He was, at the youngest, twenty-five. He kept asking me ridiculous questions about where I was from, and asking me if I knew Tom from Cape Cod. Because, you know, there's only one Tom on Cape Cod. "The gay one." He said. I know four gay Toms from Cape Cod. "The one who killed himself." I know four gay Toms that killed themselves from Cape...wait, no, I don't know any Toms that killed themselves.
"Ummm...Do you want to fuck? Or did you invite me over to see if we knew anyone in common, cuzzzzzzz, I've got to go to work soon."
I am ashamed to say that not-very-attractive, socially awkward, kind of annoying Rusty was A Fantastic Lay. Loose enough that just a tiny bit of fingering was required before entry, but not so loose that I accidentally got my knee stuck in his ass during foreplay. And loud. I'm pretty sure people passing by the tiny window to his basement apartment stopped and said "I don't know who's doing the fucking in there, but they must be amazing."
I overflowed the condom.
I overflowed the condom.
And he said "Oh my God, I've never seen so much come before. Anyway, I was supposed to see my sister like an hour ago. You should probably leave. Call me tomorrow?"
I didn't call him the next day. But I haven't ruled him out for the future.
I have ruled out Spike. Spike has an ass like a pancake, but flatter, and less defined. Also, too much maple syrup, if you know what I mean. Once his clothes were off, he bent over on my bed, and I said "Uhhhh. Yea, this isn't going to work."
He looked over his shoulder at me. "Huh?"
"You need to take a shower. And perhaps consider buying a different brand of toilet paper."
"Oh, sorry, man." He said. "We ran out in my apartment."
While editing an entry for bad_sex, I was waiting for a guy. I can't say not just any guy for he was just any guy. We'd e-mailed back and forth a bit. A 32 year old guy, fairly tall, black hair, practiced gay bottomer just wanted to come over and get fucked all night long. Sweet, right?
Apparently, where he's from, night is roughly four and half minutes long.
Maybe it's my fault, I transposed the first two numbers of my address, so he wandered around lost for a bit (luckily there is no house with the transposed numbers, and he was at least smart enough to realize that I don't live at a Dunkin' Donuts).
When he finally found the house, he knocked. I answered the door. And a not quite so tall, not as dark haired as in the picture he sent, not as young as in the picture he sent, guy was there. At least forty. And under careful scrutiny after he left the house, it can be determined that he didn't send a really old picture of himself, he sent a picture of someone who marginally looked like him. It's a very small picture. Maybe 75x75 pixels. I should have known. He'd also included a picture of his ass, probably figuring that no one would be able to tell the differences between asses based on a 75x75 pixel picture, as long as the skin tone was accurate and the shape roughly the same. Well, he didn't know he was meeting an ass connoisseur. When cops have Closed Circuit footage of drive by moonings, they call me in and have me investigate the subjects (and, if they're guilty, I get to investigate more liberally). The pic was not his ass.
I still stuck my dick in it.
Condomed, naturally. And after a lubing.
After a couple of minutes in the dog position, he said "Ow. Could you. Slow down?"
Of course I did.
"Still. Maybe. Maybe another position. It's very hot in here."
Position change. Position change. Position change.
"I need a break."
It's been a little over four minutes.
"I just. I wanted all night, but. I've only been doing this for a couple of weeks. And I think I like it but. Can I use your shower?"
"I'll need a towel."
Yes, you will. So, I reach for the closet doorknob. Of course, my hand is covered in lube, so I can't open my closet door to get the towel, nor can I towel off my hand to open the doorknob because the towel is on the wrong side of the door.
When I finally manage to get the door opened, I pass him the towel, and he starts to walk naked out of my room. "You should probably put the towel on." I say. "I have roommates."
"Are they home?"
I don't know. "Possibly. Better to be safe than to freak out my roommates, though."
He shrugs, throws the towel over his shoulder and he and his not as well shaped as it was in the pic ass mosey on into the bathroom.
While he showers, I put on my clothes, and wash my hands in the kitchen.
He comes into the room dressed as well. "Do you want to jerk off?" he asks.
Not with you, you lying fucken weirdo. "No thanks."
"I live right down the street." He says. "We could do this. A lot."
Yea, I really look forward to having a guy come over, let me fuck him for four and a half minutes and then have him use my shower. That's hella sexy. Hold me back.
"I'm very discrete." He says, in the gayest voice ever. Gayest. Carson Kressley thinks this guy's voice is annoyingly shrill.
And out the door he walks. He won't be coming back.
I don't know how my phone got lost under my suitcase. It's as though I was being called away. This is why I didn't get your message. That, and you didn't leave me a message.
Stupid amorphous you.
It's too morning for consciousness. And I am thirsty for something my house can't satiate, so I head down to the pharmacy. Five AM and there's a line full of driftwood. The Pakistani woman with the carriage filled with six packs of soda bottles, the dancing nic fixer who is obviously broken and handfilled with Pringles cans, the probably heroin addict with the two bottles of Cookies & Cream milkshakes. I don't know how these people are my brethren.
I grab a bottle of juice from the cooler, and a prepaid phone card and get in line. There are three registers. One is working fine, a Pakistani cashier waits on the Pakistani customer who wants a million different coupons, a rain check, and more soda. The elderly woman working the next register is on the verge of tears because the receipt paper is jammed and she can't fix it and the broken nic fixer is chock full of nail biting and "Are you gonna fucken help me here or what?". And the third register is open. There's a third cashier who has spent at least three minutes trying to open a garbage bag. She is not helping anyone. And the phone is ringing. No one is answering the phone. "Seriously," ring "are you gonna fucken help me?" And the probably heroin addict is talking to himself. I hear only the words fucker, late, bitch, and shampoo.
I just want to pay for my drink and card with a rain check. I'm tired and need a sleep fix, ring. But I'm not broken. See, things are okay. It's too morning, sure, but last night I met a probably boyfriend who makes my ears ring.
"This is bullshit. Why won't anyone" ring "help me?" Because you're a bitch. It's late. You're a fucker. I don't know how shampoo fits into this, you'll have to ask the heroin addict. Ring.
The Pakistani cashier rings up the Pakistani woman, then asks the elderly cashier to write out the customer's rain checks while she tries to "are you gonna fucken help me or" ring "what?" fix the receipt paper.
The probably heroin addict leaves his milkshake on the floor and walks outside. "This is" ring "bullshit."
The nic fixer has bitten all her nails off. A man walks in and asks her what's, ring, taking so long. She points at the cashiers. "No one will" ring "fucken help me."
The third cashier is still trying to open the, ring, trash bag.
"ENOUGH!" And nic fixer throws her Pringles can at the man who just walked in and leaves. This is, ring, naturally when the cashier fixes the receipt paper and smiles at me. "I believe you were next." And she's right.
On my way home, I pass the probably heroin addict. I am wearing headphones, but not actually listening to any music, having already determined my house is three "Since You've Been Gone"s from the pharmacy. And I don't need music, I'm, ring, next.
"Fuckers never answered the phone." The addict says, and I think he's probably, ring, right. "I know you can hear me. Think I don't know you're not listening to" ring "fucken music."
I'm troubled by how well insane people and addicts know me. Like the guy in Harvard Square who stopped me on my way to being stood up by a date, who said "Don't cross Jennifer Love Hewitt, she's not worth it, and the bitch will fucken kill you."
I have no, ring, plans to cross JLH, but I think he was just talking about Love, not Jennifer, not Hewitt. Don't cross love or that bitch will, ring, kill you. And he's, ring, right.
And I'm back home and typing this, ring, entry. My head is still ringing from the first sex I've had in a while that didn't result in a bad_sex entry. I don't know how to answer it, and amorphous you refuse to leave a message. I'm troubled by my complete inability to type the word cashier properly on the first try. My sleep is broken. My dreams are driftwood. I am on the verge of ring. Call me. I promise I'll answer in the morning.
Every day is the worst day of your life, and I'm tired of hearing about it.
I remember discussing a mutual friend with JBob, and him saying "That person is like a black hole of negative energy. Every conversation sucks you into his despair."
And I remember thinking That's exactly right. Neither one of us knows a damn thing about how black holes work, but I get what you were trying to say. And I started consciously avoiding Mr. Black Hole.
That was over a decade ago. I perform poetry a couple of times a week. I work in a comic book store. I date men. I am surrounded by black holes.
The problem with trying to smack a black hole upside its head is that it sucks your fist in, and then the rest of you. Also, black holes don't have heads. They're really a problematic metaphoric device.
The thing is, back before I had confidence and trustworthy friends, I was a good listener. It was my only definable personality trait. So negative people flocked to me. Everyone had a love crisis or a family trauma, and, sure, I wouldn't be able to help solve anybody's problems, but I probably wasn't going to run away from their boring ass drama with my fingers in my ears, either.
I am still a good listener. I do still care most of the time. I'm sorry your Betta has fin rot, or the girl you met bagging groceries with the snaggle tooth and the bum leg won't return your calls. It's a damn shame your father doesn't understand you. He didn't understand you yesterday. The likelihood of him understanding you tomorrow is slim. I know this. My father doesn't understand me, either, but do I corner you in a basement bar and complain about it every week while you're trying to mack on someone hot? No. It's not your problem.
I'm tired of having personal epiphanies at your expense. Particularly when those epiphanies are I should be more selective about who I'm friends with.
And now this whole entry is negative, so let me tell you black holes (and you non-black holes who are reading this entry) a story:
Last week I was counting comic books in a different store than I'm used to (I work for a chain). A coworker who I'd never met before, but who's good friends with two of my new roommates, and I were exchanging good-natured jokes that violate every page of the sexual harassment guidelines they gave me when I was hired.
At around four in the afternoon, two obviously art students walked into the store.
"I'm an art student" the taller of the obviously art students said "looking for a graphic novel or collection that has many different artists in it. See I've got this class where our homework is to talk about our influences, and I really don't know that much about comic artists yet."
So I suggested Flight, DC's Bizzaro collections, and other things most of you don't care about. But the girl I work with is prettier than me, and lo but hot girls who know about comics are nerd black holes, and this particular obvious art student was sucked into her awesometude. My opinion was nothing. And that's when the shorter obvious art student started hitting on me for the next three gay hours. Hitting on me enough that I noticed it, and I am notorious for my cluelessness about people flirting with me.
He may have even asked if we had a line of underwear in our store featuring our employees because he wanted my face on his crotch.
I'm fairly certain that means that he's into me. And has no tact.
Tact is overrated.
We came up with a few comic ideas that may or may not come to fruition on the web. They're dirty comics. Maybe not as dirty as Sexy Losers used to be, but pretty dirty. We made plans to meet this past Wednesday to hang out and make plans to hang out at a time I wasn't at work.
He didn't show up.
The world didn't end.
I did not scowl, pout, mope, cry, kick things or otherwise Eeyore. Shit, I shouldn't even be telling you about the last part because it doesn't fucken matter. On Saturday he wanted my face on his underwear. That trumps him not being around on Wednesday by a lot.
I haven't seen Sorain over a month. I try to only mention it as a punchline. It's not worth mentioning, otherwise, because you're not the one who has to date him. Something, for which, you should all be grateful.
I'll try not to use the shitty day as fertilizer routine. I'll not talk about bows after rain or any other self-help claptrap. I'll only say that, from now on, every time you woe at me, you'd best be prepared to spend at least an equal amount of time entertaining me in such a way that I don't feel like crossing the street every time I see you in public, or sticking my dick in your mouth to shut you up. Because, let's face it, if every day is the worst day of your life, tomorrow is going to be absolutely torturous for you, but I see no reason why it should be torturous for me, as well.
Every day since I picked up the last of the money she owed me, my landlady calls me.
Hi Safey. This Landlady. I want you call me. I can not open window. You I think open window when you live here. I need you show me how open widow. It very important. Please call me back.
I can't explain how happy these messages make me. I've been saving them. I'm thinking of making them mp3 files and listening to them when I'm having a bad day. Cause guess what, Landlady, your windows are not my problem. I laugh at your windows. I throw imaginary rocks in their general direction. I laugh when the imaginary broken glass tinkles. And then I laugh at the word tinkles. Tinkles.
Oh, I'm never, for the record, calling her back.
There is too much distance between fingers and keyboard. Between clock hands and ticks. There were too many e-mails in my inbox to even look at. I'm not ignoring you, I'm overunderwhelmed. Been mentally playing hackeysack with my former landlady's head.
September 1st? 2nd? One of the first post-living in her house days, she agreed to meet me at 9 to give me my deposit and the money I had paid her in advanced rent. Nine came and went. Nine thirty came and went. One of the new Chinese tenants (all the new tenants are Chinese) came downstairs and asked if she could have some of the furniture I was leaving behind. So I helped her carry them upstairs, and lamented over Landlady being late.
"She...she crazy. I no trust. And she not in Boston now. She in DC."
So I called Landlady, "Hi (Landlady), this is (Safey), I'm at the house waiting for you."
"Yes." She said. "I be at nine."
"It's ten fifteen."
"Yes. I be at nine."
"Nine o'clock when, (Landlady)? nine o'clock tomorrow morning? Nine o'clock tomorrow night? Nine when?"
"Nine. Yes. I be at nine."
This is when I started to doubt the whole "I no speak good English" routine. According to the new tenant upstairs, Landlady is just as crazy and hard to understand in her native tongue.
I hung up having no idea when she was coming back. My guess was the ninth of September. But she called during the next Thursday shift to complain about some of my stuff still being in the basement. "You gave me until October to get my stuff out of the basement."
"Yes." She said. "But today Thursday."
I gave up. "Fine. Look, I'll borrow my boss's van, drive over and pick my stuff up after work tonight. I will be there at nine. You should be there to give me the money you owe me."
"Yes. I be at nine."
"Nine o'clock, tonight, you will be at the house to give me the check?"
"Not September ninth, or in nine months? Tonight? Nine?"
"Yes I be nine."
So, after a full day arranging comic books, flirting with hipster nerds, and dealing with family madness, I picked up the comic bookmobile and drove to my house. She, of course, wasn't there, but I started moving the shit that I'd left behind. A box or two of my own stuff, but mostly stuff from Divine, Celeste, Sir Trick, Sora, and the previous tenants, who never moved all their belongings out.
I was just about finished when I heard lots of Mandarin being spoken by a familiar voice. "Landlady?" I shouted.
She did not respond. But I saw her walk out to her car. So I ran up the stairs to where she could see me. "Do you have my check?"
"You couch need move."
"Excuse me? You said I should leave behind some furniture for the new tenants. I said I'd leave the couch, the computer desk, and the bureau. I gave the bureau and the computer desk to the people upstairs. So all that is here is the couch."
"It too big. Need move."
"I can't. It doesn't fit through the doors." And it's true. Someone busted the double doors at the front of the house, and the couch is too big to maneuver through a single door. Still, Landlady's husband, two of the upstairs tenants and I tried to move it out. Unsuccessfully. They addressed each other, and me, in Mandarin the entire time. Yelling at me in a language I don't understand. What I did understand, and what they came to understand, is that the couch wasn't going to get outside until the doors were fixed. Which was not my fucken problem.
"Ok. Well, I can't do anything about the couch until you get the door fixed. Please give me my check."
"You have, I think, stuff in basement."
"Yes. I am moving it out now. There's two bags left."
"Last tenants leave too much stuff. Too much. And I fined for throw out. I no want fine again."
"(Landlady), there are two bags downstairs, you have watched me moving my stuff into a van. Give me the money you owe me so I can move out."
"Ok. I write check while you move bags."
Fine. I went to the basement, picked up the bags and walked to the van. When I came back, she was gone. No check.
I left a note on the door, telling her to call me when she read it. I called her phone a number of times. Two days later, she e-mailed me Hi, because when I am home you are in work. It's hard to meet. Do you mind to give me your address and I can mail you a check( that may be fast than we meet).
I minded, and told her as such. She pretended not to know what I meant.
The walls of my old apartment were not at all like a beautiful woman. And neither was the woman who owned it. Knowing full well I was in Texas for a couple of weeks, she called and left me the following message: "(Safey), it (Insane Landlady Bitch). You no at house when I stop by. You unstable. You artist. I no renew lease for you. You call me."
So I dialed her number, hands shaking, ready to curse up a storm. But my phone would not connect. So I waited until I was calmer and e-mailed her a message reminding her that I was in Texas, that I had received her very rude message, and that I would look for a new apartment. I then broke the news to my new, not-shitty roommate (who was also in TX) and began searching Craigslist for apartments instead of sperm recipients.
Things looked promising. There were loads of apartments available, and many of them were affordable and close to the comic book store, where I'm now officially working.
Then I had my eventful trip home with Ben and the bus people. And I called my landlady. She did not call back. Days passed into week. I e-mailed. She failed to respond. Unfuck her.
So, my new roommate, Byrne, said he'd help look for a new apartment, and another poetry friend of mine, Mike (not a Michael, Mike) said that he and his imaginary friend were looking for an apartment. So we pooled our resources. Spent a couple of days searching through Craigslist, and then Mike found three or four apartments that we should look at.
We only made it to the first one.
How to describe the oasis of freshly laid Greek marble tiles, bamboo, stainless steel kitchen appliances, a washer and dryer without coin slots, a stunning lack of rats. There aren't enough words. Out of our price range comes to mind, but it wasn't. It was...$150 a month cheaper than where I was currently living with Divine the Nowhere Near Great and Just Plain Old Terrible. So we took it. No look at other, more expensive apartments was necessary. Though, something about the way the landlady smiled when she talked made me uneasy, Mike assured me she was a great person.
That night, while changing the trash at three a.m. an acrobatic rat did a backflip out of the trash can and hit me in the face. A sure sign I was not meant to stay. There was also a certain smell to the apartment. Mike suggested it was something dead, I noted that I hadn't seen Divine for a while. I optimistically opened the door to her room, but her corpse was not there, and neither was a great deal of her stuff. So she must have moved out. Cool, I'd alert my lawyer.
The following day, Mike, his imaginary friend and I went to sign the new lease (Byrne was working). Sure enough, when I got there there were three people in the room besides me: the new landlady, Mike, and MybuddyDex (the aforementioned imaginary friend). He seemed almost real. While we were signing, someone knocked on the door, another one of Mike's friends that I'd assumed to be imaginary (who also thought MybuddyDex was imaginary, and vice-versa). He'd just moved in down the street and was serving as a guarantor for us.
The ink on the lease was barely dry when my phone rang, it was Byrne, who'd just arrived at our old apartment. "Your Crazy Landlady is here. She's yelling something about you not calling or something."
I groaned and muttered. There was less than a day left in August. Soon she and her madness would be behind me.
"We should check out the neighborhood." Mike said.
A great idea. So we wandered over to the nearest grocery store to check it out. It was...huh. Sawdust on the floor. Hysterically laughing employees. Spam EVERYWHERE. And more types of pudding than The Geneva Convention allows for.
"Pudding!" Mike said. And we shit talked and wandered around and..."Hey, where'd MyBuddyDex go?"
We looked around and around. No sign of him.
"Fuck." I said. "You've got to concentrate harder, Mike. Everytime you lose focus one of us disappears, like the people on Michael J. Fox's photograph in Back To The Future."
We went to the checkout counter, where there was still no sign of MyBuddyDex.
"I think he's gone forever." Mike mused.
The checkout girl said "Should we page him?"
Of course we should page him. So we did "MyBuddyDex to the front of the store please, your parents are waiting for you and very worried."
"Guys." MyBuddyDex said. "I'm right here. I've been here the whole time. Why were you guys talking about me like I wasn't."
Oh, this apartment is so going to rule.
Outside, on our way back to the apartment, we caught a glimpse of a harvesty moon. "So beautiful."
"What?" Asked Mike's Other Imaginary Friend.
"The moon." Mike said.
"I can't see it."
"Why?" Mike asked. "Because you're Jewish?"
"It's true. The only drawback to being one of the Chosen People. You can't see the moon."
I cocked my head. "The Chosen People. You're a Pokemon? Guarantor, I choose you! Lease signing attack!"
To which Mike's Other (Witty) Imaginary Friend replied "Guarantor! Guarantor!"
Oh, this apartment is definitely going to rule. But first I had to go back to the old place to pack my shit for the move.
I packed for a day. Wasn't totally finished, but had a good lead on it. Byrne and I took four trips back and forth to the new apartment using his Rav4. The next day we had a van rented, and were ready to move the big furniture. We were tired after trip four and ready to sleep. I went into the kitchen and rearranged my refrigerator magnets to read Worst Landlady Bitch ever. So, of course, there was a knock on the door. Worst Fucken Landady Bitch ever.
"Hi (Safey). You look so good. Very nice. I renew yo lease. You stay, I think. Been try to call, but you no answer."
The fuck? The hallway was clearly filled with boxes, it was the last day of,...scratch that, it's now September 1st, but just barely. There was no way I was staying the fuck there.
"Sorry" you insane bitch "but I already have a new apartment. Cheaper. Nicer." And the landlady is normal.
"But, I think, you, Celeste, all you friends been living here eight years total. Always one of you. I renew lease."
"I'm not staying. Look, I've been cleaning as much of the apartment as I can, scrubbing the bathroom and everything."
"Ok." She said. "Looks very nice. Maybe I see kitchen."
Yes, kitchen where the refrigerator is, and the magn..."Uhhh, actually, I have a question..." We stood there blinking at each other. What was my question? "Shelves! There are shelves in the closet. Should I leave them? Throw them out?"
"I like shelves. I keep. Now, kitchen..."
"Oh, and my computer desk. Should I leave that?"
"I see." And so I went through every piece of furniture I didn't want one at a time, and then asked inane questions about whatever I could think of. Maybe Byrne had heard and had already rearranged the magnets. And maybe if I imagine hard enough, flowers will sprout out of my ass (though why anyone would want that to happen, I have no idea).
The stalling eventually worked, and she never made it to the kitchen. "You have one week to move out stuff. No worry bout hurry. I rhyme. I artist too." I'm sure she meant to say unstable.
The next day, after I got done with work, I met Mike and MyBuddyDex at my old apartment, we loaded furniture (including Byrne's GIGANTIC bed), and headed to the new place to unload it. Then we went back for smaller things. Byrne joined us, replacing MyBuddyDex who had to go to work. During our last packing session, Mike fell asleep on a mattress in Divine's former room.
When Byrne and I were just about done, he awoke with a scream. "Dude, there was a mouse in my ear."
"I woke up and a mouse was nuzzling my ear. I've got to get out of here."
I knew exactly how he felt.