My First Ex-Wife

SO, I haven't really slept in three days. I'm going to blame stress and the MAN Chili. This morning I "woke" up at the mansion. Yep. Even the mirrors refused to look at me. I lead an interesting and classy life. As you can tell from my previous post, the last 72 hours have been, well, just plain bad. No adrenaline rush for me. Sorry, I had to. Go ahead, chuckle.

Let's re-visit Tuesday morning. It began far too early, 0645, with ex-roomie's boyfriend, let's call him C, showing up from another city because I had a boy on the couch. We'll call him D. C threatened D. D was minding his own business sitting on the ex-couch working on his iBook. Ex-roomie refused to talk to D. As I facebook chatted with D from my bedroom to gather the details, it became painfully obvious that not only is C, an evil possessive tyrant, but my roommate planned on moving out and not telling me.

I must surmise, at least at this point, that my having a house guest, who had a penis, had something to do with this. Let me also say that I have never come home piss drunk or vomited in our toilet. Or anywhere else in the apartment/sidewalk etc. I'm a good roommate. I'm really clean and I smell terrific.

I hate this divorce thing. I have decided that, unlike my usual plan of having three husbands, I'm only going to have one. I don't want to get divorced. She owned the furniture AND the T.V. This sucks. She also left behind the get well card that I got her when she was really sick. That just hurts. How difficult would it have been to say, "hey, I'm moving out."


The really sick thing is that they never spoke a word to me and I was in the same room. The same room! Actually, after Adrenaline Boy ever so gently rejected me, I got home and walked in and most of the stuff had been removed. Then C walked out of the bed room, and smirked at me. Then he walked back into her room. Wow.

All because I let a boy stay on our couch so he wouldn't freeze to death? This must be that superior moral reasoning I hear so much about.

On the upside, I brought my desk and computer to the living room. What up home office.

Well, it'll be dinner time soon and I'm going to eat pizza on the living room floor like my gypsy ancestors. Or something. Thanks roomie, you're making a great ex-wife already.

Adrenaline Made Me Do It

In my 9+ years of dating, I've heard just about everything. I have quite the arsenal of excuses, "I don't like blondes," and "you're not Catholic" as well as "I hate the way your forehead wrinkles," and the classic "I'm too busy," let's not forget, "You voted for Bush," and last but not least, "you don't fit in to my 5 year plan." That last one has become somewhat of an inside joke amongst friends because it's happened to me three times. I must attract really finicky long-term goalers. Whatever.

The excuse as of late (yesterday, which never ended since I never went to bed) is a real dinger, and has already reached inside joke magnitude. Wait for it... "adrenaline made me do it." I mean at least he called me to tell me that he blamed his youthful horny indiscretion on the levels of a certain hormone in his blood. That's like me blaming vodka for dropping that thing in the toilet on 4th of July... never-mind that. My point is, that I chose to have vodka and as a result of my CHOICE, I dropped something in the toilet. He chose to tickle-kiss and then pounce on me. Then he chose to freeze me out after weeks of solid pursuing-type friendship. He made these choices. He led me on. Don't blame an adrenaline rush from watching the game. Your team didn't even win.

I'm really sore on excuses. I'd rather he just said, "you looked hot/smelled good, so I made out with you. Sorry." But, "adrenaline made me do it." Don't lie, bastard. Let me elaborate, adrenaline makes him, "make bad decisions," (making out with me) as well as, "do things I wouldn't normally do," (be a straight man) and, "I've had this problem for a long time," (tool) and change his personality, "that's just not me." It's not like you to make out with a hot blonde? Well, you have got issues. The "problem" that you have is the problem of being a womanizing ASS and a liar. I know, I know, I'm a little proud of him for being so creative, and I will probably use this line later in life, but, how do we go back to being friends when I know he is lying. I don't like people that lie.

Phone call Yesterday, 1500

"So I don't want to lead you on."
"Ok. I see. I should probably call off the Fatwa on your head then."
"What?"
"Nothing. So, that's it, adrenaline?"
"Yup."
"Ok. I'm going to go now."

He could have just said...."look, i don't want to lead you on anymore. the other night was fun, but maybe it's for the best if we don't do it again." That would've been acceptable. I knew the no good night kiss thing was a tip off. I hate being right.

There is a Campfire in My Mouth

Last night, I was invited to "Man Day." Man Day is a night where my guy friends get together to drink, eat and watch man movies. I felt quite honored to be the only girl invited. Then again, maybe this is why I don't have a boyfriend. Oh well. The cuisine was chili—not ordinary chili though, MAGICAL MAN chili.

Let me describe to you the entity that was the chili. This stuff could remove tar from your shoes. The meat to bean ratio was astounding. I had a mind altering experience, and that was befroe the gas. I only had one forkful, yeah all the spoons were dirty. It was like having a campfire in my mouth. And it tasted like it, too. I think I ingested fire. Me and my bowels are still recovering. I think the stuff actually caustically burned my mouth.

The movie was also noteworthy. You're not going to believe this, but we watched, "The Good, the bad and the Weird," which is the * Korean * version of, "The good, the bad and the Ugly." Yeah... As if the chili wasn't enough, I was actually coaxed into taking another forkful at one point, and it was better with rice. Rice made the movie better too. It made it feel more Asian. Whatever. No more Man Day for me, and not during finals week. Although, it was the most relaxed I've been in a while. I think that because it is so cold outside that my blood has turned to (chili) sludge and is slowly creeping through my veins. I digress.

In other news, I'm sick of living with a four-year old and her father/boyfriend figure. I had a house guest last night because he was locked out of a friends' house. And I wasn't going to let him freeze to death, so he slept on the couch. At about 0200 my roommate knocks on my door.

0200 Naomi's Doorway
"Yes?"
"There is a boy in our living room."
"I know I put him there."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Wh-no."
"Oh, ok."
"Good night."

0645 Living room.
ENTER roommates boyfriend—I haven't seen him since Sunday. Wait, today is Tuesday... yep. He lives in Butte, MT. which is a 4 hour drive on a good day. She called him because there is a guy on our couch. I re-iterate, I am sick of living with a four-yr. old. More on this later. I have to finish my play before my final at 1215.

Thumper, Soup and Subjectivism

I'm hungry but I don't want to get something to eat because my roommate and her (jealous-possessive-emotionally abusive) boyfriend are in the living room. I don't want to talk to them. As Thumper once said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't go into the living room and confront the people you can't say anything nice to," or something like that. It occurs to me that I must really not like him if he is getting in between me and, not only my coffee, but my soup. Ass. I think I have some tic-tacs in my purse...

It's been snowing all day, which is really odd for Billings, MT. We have about 45 minutes of daylight left, and then I am in for the night because ThundyToes rejects snow/ice. Good MN car. (Sarcasm sign).

I promised an update about my homework. Yesterday during lunch, I finished my Whitman essay. Here in an excerpt:

"If Walt Whitman’s antebellum poetry was some sort of pleasurable climax of prose, then his post-bellum scrawling represents the morning after nausea, confusion & cerebellum trauma. The cerebellum is the part of the brain that controls equilibrium. It is an integral part of the human existence. Whitman’s post-bellum writing is the perpetual hangover. Unfortunately, Whitman never regained his carefree, yet balanced self. Instead Whitman sank into the unstable mindset of suffering."

Literary analysis is not my forte'. I've decided that this is because literature is overwhelmingly subjective. I refuse to draw closure from wide-eyed subjectivism, nor do I relish taking one professor's "interpretation" of literature when lit is, again, more often than not subjective. Perhaps this is the bane of being a Platonist-moral Absolutist.

I often suspect that if I were a liberal, not only would college have been more enjoyable, but it also would have been easier. I guess I don't like things easy. I like the feeling of accomplishment and over coming challenges. Some say this makes me "too tightly wound" or 'difficult." Boo on them. I have fight, and I like it that way.

Experience the joy of quitting! Start smoking now!

Greg-alogue Part Deux

Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too

SO, I'm taking a break from constructing my American Literature essay about Whitman... the title? "Antebellum, Post-bellum and Cerebellum, Too." I disagree with the last 600 words, but it's creative and praises the "universal ejaculation" of Whitman or... whatever. I don't really listen to professors who go off on illogical, immoral or cultural relativistic tangents. I intend to wear my "I survived college without becoming a liberal" shirt with pride. I digress.

I was in the library earlier, looking up quotes for my essay to juxtapose between creative vomit, when I noticed this guy join a group of what appear to be his female study pals. He asked a lot of questions for someone who is 5 days away from their final... actually he talked a lot. And very loudly, too. I was also listening to my ipod at the time. What, did you regress to kinder-garten? Inside voices, please.

In other news, today I was reminded about how I should focus on the blessings of my life instead of the possibility that I could be in hell. I'm going to try this. Starting with...I'm half-way done with the second to last paper I will ever have to write. OK. I have my basic necessities, loving family, check. Health, check. Car, check. Job, check. iMac, check. Talent, check. I'm fighting the urge to think, what is the usefulness of all of this if I don't have anyone to share it with. Nope. Just typed the thought. I guess, I'm lonely. I'm thankful for the ability to recognize what is wrong with me. Another essay update soon.

(How to) Create Your Own Hell

Once again the world has lulled me into a false sense of security and pulled the rug out from beneath me. It was short-lived, though, my sense of security, too short to forget what falling on my ass was like.

I seriously just considered the possibility that I could be in Hell. This is not just because it is "Dead Week." This morning I was reading Sarte's No Exit, an Existentialist play in which the characters make for an interesting & creepy case study.

They create their own hell, at least that is what I've interpreted thus far after, you know, the first 10 pages. Then I began having creepy thoughts. The characters seemed to demand hell. They ask about torture chambers etc.

But, the tricky thing about Hell is in the anticipation. A slow Hell is far more torturous than the expected. Which is probably why i've grown so accustomed to expecting the worse. No surprises that way. No deceivingly pleasant pink embers inevitably turning red. Like my wine and meat, I say give it to me red!

In the play, the characters torture each other and themselves (Man v. self much?). This is mostly accomplished by fixating on comforts that have been denied such as a toothbrush, mirror, or a means of suicide like the statue on the mantle. One character, Garcin, notices that he cannot blink and is forced to endure daylight at all hours, he never gets a break, though, I think that if he hadn't been so concerned with figuring out his torture, he might not have realized this.

Once the characters realize that all they can do is interact and endure their self-torture, the become stagnant. They are void of Hope. The absence of Hope is despair. By this, I suspect at least, that one cannot find Hope in Hell.

Fortunately, I still have Hope, though it is fading. The world—perpetually—lulls me into a false sense of security. I grow comfortable and hopeful. I walk through a peaceful field only to realize that as I stop to inhale the sweet air, that I stand not on grass, but on snakes. What an unstable surface! Nasty, too.

Then again, maybe this is my Hell after all.

Back in my St. Thomas days, I had a delightful Psych 101 professor interject "you can't trust anyone or anything in life. You must go on thinking that your heart will be broken," during his lecture about emotion.

The scariest realization of the day is that I've grown so used to Hell and torture that the goodness, happiness and joy in the world are now my new torture. Mostly because they can be stripped from me. And I'd rather expect their removal, than fear it. So my soul remains cold.