Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Travelin' Gypsy All-night Birthday Party
I attended the Travelin' Gypsy All-night Birthday Party for a friend of mine. I spent the entire evening putting out fires and trying not to put myself out into traffic. At some point, the birthday boy and I spent about an hour outside a late-night bar half screaming at each other because he was running around acting the fool. He's like a two-year-old. I always want to smack him upside the head and say, "Use your words!" He did, at one point, use his words to say, "I don't have any friends," which apparently meant that I was getting full-body frostbite for absolutely nothing. The next day, I wrote a one-act play about it. Here is a sample of the dramatic monologue I perform at the climax of the action.
An excerpt from "Jesus Christ, Will Everyone Please Just Shut the Hell Up?"
No, Katie, Mike really does love you.
I think you've had enough to drink, Tommy.
Yes, Mike, Katie really does love you.
No, Jonathan, Cherie really does love you... well, okay, maybe you shouldn't have slept with Rebecca. No, wait, come back, I'm sorry!
I think you've had enough to drink, Tommy.
Okay, random bar person, you need to get your hand off my ass. Wait: what’s your name? Hey, Brian.
No, Tommy, don't hit him. No, Brian, don't hit Tommy.
Hey, new hottie at work, how are you? No, Tommy, don't hit the new guy.
Here, Jonathan have a Kleenex. You need to tell Cherie how you feel. Well, she's already not speaking to you, how much worse could it get? No, wait, come back, I'm sorry!
No, Katie, don't leave. Mike really does love you."
An excerpt from "Jesus Christ, Will Everyone Please Just Shut the Hell Up?"
No, Katie, Mike really does love you.
I think you've had enough to drink, Tommy.
Yes, Mike, Katie really does love you.
No, Jonathan, Cherie really does love you... well, okay, maybe you shouldn't have slept with Rebecca. No, wait, come back, I'm sorry!
I think you've had enough to drink, Tommy.
Okay, random bar person, you need to get your hand off my ass. Wait: what’s your name? Hey, Brian.
No, Tommy, don't hit him. No, Brian, don't hit Tommy.
Hey, new hottie at work, how are you? No, Tommy, don't hit the new guy.
Here, Jonathan have a Kleenex. You need to tell Cherie how you feel. Well, she's already not speaking to you, how much worse could it get? No, wait, come back, I'm sorry!
No, Katie, don't leave. Mike really does love you."
Saturday, October 04, 2003
Animatronic Boyfriend
Not only did he come over while I was at work today and seek and destroy my terrorist bug, but he also made my living room pretty and brought my garbage can up from the street. Now if I can just get him to clean my fridge...
He is such my bitch.
Friday, October 03, 2003
Eek!
Boyfriend won’t come get my bug. I have a bug the size of Wisconsin on my couch. I think it has ties to al-Qaeda, but he doesn’t care that this bug threatens our national security – or, at least, my personal security.
I’m sure that I’m being childish and petty. He also says that I’m insane. Probably. But I am terrified of bugs, the way people would generally be terrified when staring down an escaped Bengal Tiger. I want to run, I want to make myself invisible, but I end up screaming and crying. Seriously. I’m sure that makes me incredibly infantile, but I have no intention of ever going to Africa or Asia because they have roaches as long as a school bus, and not the short kind. I would die of a heart attack right on the spot – and on the off chance that one touched me, I would crumble instantly to dust.
Boyfriend doesn’t understand that, as the man in this relationship, he has a role to play. He’s “protect” and I’m “nurture.” If the goal was to give the bug higher self-esteem, or to encourage it to be a gentler, kinder bug, well, that would be my department. Killing, maiming, injuring – that’s him. He has the penis; he kills things. I have the vagina; I take care of things.
In reality, I only invoke this rule when there’s something I’m scared of doing. Like killing a bug, or taking out yucky garbage. Otherwise, I take care of myself. But it’s a decent trade-off forhim. I usually pick up the check. I think of our dinners out as my corporate shell through which I launder my bug-killin'-garbage-totin' money.
I’m sure that I’m being childish and petty. He also says that I’m insane. Probably. But I am terrified of bugs, the way people would generally be terrified when staring down an escaped Bengal Tiger. I want to run, I want to make myself invisible, but I end up screaming and crying. Seriously. I’m sure that makes me incredibly infantile, but I have no intention of ever going to Africa or Asia because they have roaches as long as a school bus, and not the short kind. I would die of a heart attack right on the spot – and on the off chance that one touched me, I would crumble instantly to dust.
Boyfriend doesn’t understand that, as the man in this relationship, he has a role to play. He’s “protect” and I’m “nurture.” If the goal was to give the bug higher self-esteem, or to encourage it to be a gentler, kinder bug, well, that would be my department. Killing, maiming, injuring – that’s him. He has the penis; he kills things. I have the vagina; I take care of things.
In reality, I only invoke this rule when there’s something I’m scared of doing. Like killing a bug, or taking out yucky garbage. Otherwise, I take care of myself. But it’s a decent trade-off forhim. I usually pick up the check. I think of our dinners out as my corporate shell through which I launder my bug-killin'-garbage-totin' money.
