Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Foot in the door
Last night Annie and I got in huge fight because she grabbed my tit on the street and I asked her to stop. What I said, specifically, was: "Not in public."
I understand that this was a hypocritical request, because I grab her tit in public three to four times per outing, but I was wearing this sleeveless lace shirt with no bra and felt really naked so it made me feel weird. We went out with Melissa, who was in town trying to sublet her apartment. First we stopped by Library, and unknowingly plopped ourselves down next to the creepiest guy at the bar. He was staring and laughing at our jokes as if he was part of the conversation. Then we went across the street to Julep to play pool, where instead, Annie made a b-line for the game machine and Melissa sat me down and bombarded me with all the reasons as to why she, her mother, and her Columbine-esque boyfriend dislike me. (Sample quote, sans hyperbole: "Katie, they just don't understand that you and I are the same kind of person: selfish, vain, and only cares about themselves.") It made me sick to think that such a good (albeit ridiculous) friend could describe me in such a heinous way with such utter nonchalance, so I told her I was going home. Annie came with me, and by this point she was belligerently drunk. When we got home, she started tearing around the apartment, screaming about how I'm ashamed of her and my gayness and how dare I tell her not to grab my tit in public? She screamed so loud and so hard that I locked myself in the bathroom and then she punched a hole through the door. I ran out of the apartment because I thought she was gonna hit me, and collapsed against the side of the fire house next door. A few minutes later she came down after me, limping with a bloody foot. She had kicked a beach-ball sized hole in the bottom of the door after I left, and it tore her foot open. We sat there and cried and then went back upstairs, where we sat on the bloody bathroom floor. She said, "We've already broken up," and I said, "No we havent't," and she said, "You either care or you don't. You can't half-care." Then she said, "If I was still mean, you'd care. But I love you too much, so now you don't. You have the edge." She's wrong. I don't have the edge. What I do have is an alcoholic girlfriend with a wounded foot who I care about so much I can't even think straight.
I understand that this was a hypocritical request, because I grab her tit in public three to four times per outing, but I was wearing this sleeveless lace shirt with no bra and felt really naked so it made me feel weird. We went out with Melissa, who was in town trying to sublet her apartment. First we stopped by Library, and unknowingly plopped ourselves down next to the creepiest guy at the bar. He was staring and laughing at our jokes as if he was part of the conversation. Then we went across the street to Julep to play pool, where instead, Annie made a b-line for the game machine and Melissa sat me down and bombarded me with all the reasons as to why she, her mother, and her Columbine-esque boyfriend dislike me. (Sample quote, sans hyperbole: "Katie, they just don't understand that you and I are the same kind of person: selfish, vain, and only cares about themselves.") It made me sick to think that such a good (albeit ridiculous) friend could describe me in such a heinous way with such utter nonchalance, so I told her I was going home. Annie came with me, and by this point she was belligerently drunk. When we got home, she started tearing around the apartment, screaming about how I'm ashamed of her and my gayness and how dare I tell her not to grab my tit in public? She screamed so loud and so hard that I locked myself in the bathroom and then she punched a hole through the door. I ran out of the apartment because I thought she was gonna hit me, and collapsed against the side of the fire house next door. A few minutes later she came down after me, limping with a bloody foot. She had kicked a beach-ball sized hole in the bottom of the door after I left, and it tore her foot open. We sat there and cried and then went back upstairs, where we sat on the bloody bathroom floor. She said, "We've already broken up," and I said, "No we havent't," and she said, "You either care or you don't. You can't half-care." Then she said, "If I was still mean, you'd care. But I love you too much, so now you don't. You have the edge." She's wrong. I don't have the edge. What I do have is an alcoholic girlfriend with a wounded foot who I care about so much I can't even think straight.
# posted by Katie @ 10:10 AM 
