Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Hmmm
Her tattoos punctuate the planes of her skin like cartoon exclamation points. I loved waking up and gazing at her body every morning as she slept, generally with her mouth open and her little feet poking out of the covers at the foot of the bed. I could do it for hours. I moved to a city I knew nothing about to be by her side. I told her things I never told anyone. She taught me so much about how to live and the importance of persevering in the face of excruciating adversity. She's my hero, and my best friend, my heart, my family, outrageously hot, and I love her with every fiber of my being.
I feel hollow. Like one of those huge chocolate Easter bunnies where you initially think it's solid chocolate, but then you realize that it's actually about one tenth of an ounce of chocolate cause it's not only hollow, it's also really flimsy and thin. That was a roundabout way of me letting you know that I'm really thin. We spent all day yesterday getting drunk together and talking and laughing and crying and she kept calling me "my love," which is what we've always called each other, and I can't tell if I should maintain hope or try to forget her completely, if it was just an old habit that she hasn't quite shaken yet or a sign that she still loves me but just needs time. I don't know.
I feel hollow. Like one of those huge chocolate Easter bunnies where you initially think it's solid chocolate, but then you realize that it's actually about one tenth of an ounce of chocolate cause it's not only hollow, it's also really flimsy and thin. That was a roundabout way of me letting you know that I'm really thin. We spent all day yesterday getting drunk together and talking and laughing and crying and she kept calling me "my love," which is what we've always called each other, and I can't tell if I should maintain hope or try to forget her completely, if it was just an old habit that she hasn't quite shaken yet or a sign that she still loves me but just needs time. I don't know.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Vacation!
Annie and I just went to visit her family and see Sara's new baby. For some reason, we thought it was a top-notch idea to bring the dog, so I asked my mom if I could borrow her car for the expedition. We were tired of trucking out to Nashua, New Hampshire on an overcrowded Chinatown bus that smells like a mixture of rancid b.o. and dollar-bin cologne, and knew that they wouldn't let us bring our puppy onboard.
So I drove. Louie puked the entire ride up, first all over Annie's lap, and then seven or eight times in his crate. In spite of the fact that we stopped every half hour or so to take him out and let him stretch, get some air, and relieve himself, he always waited until the second he was back in the comfort of his freshly-cleaned kennel to projectile vomit, take a mighty wiz, and then roll around in it with a hearty grin on his face.
At one point, when Annie and I pulled into a "rest area" so that I could pee, I pissed so hard that it splashed back off the pavement and into my right eye, temporarily blinding me and causing me to stumble around with my pants around my ankles in plain view of the highway, squealing like a stuck pig. The trip took about eight hours, and we finally arrived only to spend roughly twenty-four hours at her mom's before loading back into the car and doing it all over again.
The night before we left, Annie opted to guzzle gin and juice cocktails in the basement after the rest of us had all fallen asleep. She eventually made it upstairs to our room and passed out next to me, only to spring out of bed approximately fifteen minutes later, tear off her boxer briefs, and hurl them at my head. Then she wandered into her mother's room in nothing but a baggy sports bra, where she lingered by the side of her bed before coming to the realization that she was not in the bathroom. She finally made it to her destination, and moments later her mother found her slumped over on the toilet, fast asleep, with her face nestled between her legs. She gently escorted her back into our room, where I was still lying there puzzled, unsure as to why my beloved had just booked it out the door in half a birthday suit.
The fact that Annie and I can do things like this (me peeing in my own eye, her assaulting me with cotton briefs while in a deep slumber) and still find each other feverishly attractive stands as testimony to our love. I would take 10,000 more trips like that one to be at her side, because she's my home.
So I drove. Louie puked the entire ride up, first all over Annie's lap, and then seven or eight times in his crate. In spite of the fact that we stopped every half hour or so to take him out and let him stretch, get some air, and relieve himself, he always waited until the second he was back in the comfort of his freshly-cleaned kennel to projectile vomit, take a mighty wiz, and then roll around in it with a hearty grin on his face.
At one point, when Annie and I pulled into a "rest area" so that I could pee, I pissed so hard that it splashed back off the pavement and into my right eye, temporarily blinding me and causing me to stumble around with my pants around my ankles in plain view of the highway, squealing like a stuck pig. The trip took about eight hours, and we finally arrived only to spend roughly twenty-four hours at her mom's before loading back into the car and doing it all over again.
The night before we left, Annie opted to guzzle gin and juice cocktails in the basement after the rest of us had all fallen asleep. She eventually made it upstairs to our room and passed out next to me, only to spring out of bed approximately fifteen minutes later, tear off her boxer briefs, and hurl them at my head. Then she wandered into her mother's room in nothing but a baggy sports bra, where she lingered by the side of her bed before coming to the realization that she was not in the bathroom. She finally made it to her destination, and moments later her mother found her slumped over on the toilet, fast asleep, with her face nestled between her legs. She gently escorted her back into our room, where I was still lying there puzzled, unsure as to why my beloved had just booked it out the door in half a birthday suit.
The fact that Annie and I can do things like this (me peeing in my own eye, her assaulting me with cotton briefs while in a deep slumber) and still find each other feverishly attractive stands as testimony to our love. I would take 10,000 more trips like that one to be at her side, because she's my home.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Jealousy
I can't take it anymore. The anorexic bus driver who my girlfriend made out with has been stalking her on Myspace. Like, unabashedly. This is particularly hard for me to stomach because on our two-year anniversary (April 28), Annie tentatively broke up with me because she said she wasn't sure how she felt about the girl. Since then, she's claimed that she's changed her mind, that she loves me and wants to work things out. Which we've been doing, and all is good. However, this girl just won't go away. Everytime I log onto Myspace, she's written Annie a new comment. Now, the comments are never overtly aggressive. They're just these quiet, relentless little pleas for attention. She's offered Annie blessings on her new niece, written cutesy little things about how the "bosten red socks suck!!" (yes, that's how she spelled "Boston"), and has casually informed Annie that "May 9th is National Orgasm day--so spread 'em!!!" which obviously forces Annie to envision her screaming and moaning, hairy little back arched, and having what I'm sure is in her case the dorkiest orgasm ever.
Now, there is only so much comfort to be found in the fact that this woman is 30 years old, works for the transit authority, can't spell to save her life, and is a former crackhead who has had the word "ADDICT" tattooed across her back in Old English letters. The reason for this is as follows: she's a foot shorter than me, weighs roughly one hundred pounds less than me, and is drop dead gorgeous. I don't mean to call myself unattractive. I'm actually somewhat pretty and fairly fit. I'm just acutely aware that, at 5'9 and 138 pounds, my size emasculates Annie.
Granted, she's never faulted me for this. She just says things like, "I wish I were taller," and "I wish I could pick you up and swing you around." Now, someone of Annie's size and stature would have no problem slinging a shriveled latina over her shoulder and feeling like quite the he-man. If Annie tried to pick me up and swing me around, she'd probably die. She's 5'5, smokes over a pack of cigarettes a day, and drinks substantial quantities of beer. Even a muscled, gargantuan gym rat would have a hard time swinging my hefty ass to and fro.
Basically, I've been so consumed by jealousy (which is alternately justified and completely irrational) that I un-ironically changed the song on my myspace profile to Brandy and Monica's "The Boy is Mine." Every day, I have to physically restrain myself from sending her petty messages deriding the glamour-shot photos she's posted of herself, the dime-sized mole on her chin, and the nest of greasy black hair that sits on top of her pointy head like a dirty mop. Like Daryl, the Soul Glo heir from from Coming To America, but worse.
Now, there is only so much comfort to be found in the fact that this woman is 30 years old, works for the transit authority, can't spell to save her life, and is a former crackhead who has had the word "ADDICT" tattooed across her back in Old English letters. The reason for this is as follows: she's a foot shorter than me, weighs roughly one hundred pounds less than me, and is drop dead gorgeous. I don't mean to call myself unattractive. I'm actually somewhat pretty and fairly fit. I'm just acutely aware that, at 5'9 and 138 pounds, my size emasculates Annie.
Granted, she's never faulted me for this. She just says things like, "I wish I were taller," and "I wish I could pick you up and swing you around." Now, someone of Annie's size and stature would have no problem slinging a shriveled latina over her shoulder and feeling like quite the he-man. If Annie tried to pick me up and swing me around, she'd probably die. She's 5'5, smokes over a pack of cigarettes a day, and drinks substantial quantities of beer. Even a muscled, gargantuan gym rat would have a hard time swinging my hefty ass to and fro.
Basically, I've been so consumed by jealousy (which is alternately justified and completely irrational) that I un-ironically changed the song on my myspace profile to Brandy and Monica's "The Boy is Mine." Every day, I have to physically restrain myself from sending her petty messages deriding the glamour-shot photos she's posted of herself, the dime-sized mole on her chin, and the nest of greasy black hair that sits on top of her pointy head like a dirty mop. Like Daryl, the Soul Glo heir from from Coming To America, but worse.
