Re-launched, but still slightly under construction. :-)

Friday, October 03, 2003


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.


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