January 8, 2011
I hate it when W comes over my house.
My parents like having him over because he does stuff around the house. Shelf to be installed? Brother to tutor? Opinion to be solicited? W’s their man. Whenever he makes his once-a-month weekend stay at our place, the family monopolizes him. That’s great.
My mother makes things very difficult for me while he’s here. I cannot talk to him or engage with him in any meaningful way. My every action is scrutinized. Not even a single moment of mine goes noticed, nor a single detail. My mother is meticulous and doesn’t let any of that go. It’s a blistering silent interrogation process so horrible I can’t even begin to describe it.
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December 20, 2010
I was obvious about my intentions when I started this blog. I wanted to talk about sex. But books are better than sex sometimes. Not better, but different, and sometimes easier to handle.
A turn of phrase can get me unexpectedly horny for no good reason. Inappropriate places, too. I always turn to the line from Before Night Falls, where Arenas discusses how one of his partners and potential persecutors “dismissed him with his penis”. For a long time I took a cucumber and held it to my crotch, using my fake dick to try to dismiss others. It turned Arenas on; his prose salivates as he describes being dominated and tormented by his oppressors. Punishment and control can be sexy. Extreme control and punishment can be even sexier, something that produces resistance so sweet that the misery is almost worth it.
When I was young, I turned to books for emotional release. I needed to be loved. If not, I wanted to perceive others being loved. Different books held different promises of love for me. I turned to Dickens when I wanted to hold my ribs from being cracked open. I loved the Brontes (sometimes) for keeping me in the throes of real outrage. I adored Austen for her cool, clever quick-witted humor that hid quiet poignance.
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December 16, 2010
I thought about this on my own, but it seems that others have spoken about it.
Boyfriend and Girlfriend.
This morning, I read a piece about Oprah. In the caption, it mentioned that her “boyfriend” Steadman sat in the background, watching the festivities.
The man was at least fifty. How on Earth do we get off calling a fifty year old man a “boy” anything? I am uncomfortable calling W my “boyfriend”. He’s no boy. He’s an almost-thirty-year-old man!
It agitates me, but I can’t find a real alternative. “Significant Other” is too clinical — and “partner” sounds ridiculous unless one is forced to use it to hide sexual orientation.
What do you think?
This isn’t all I’m going to write about the odd ways we refer to our significant others, but I think it’s a good place to start. I want something that will spark a discussion.
August 10, 2010
18 Shithole St
Oh, 18 Shithole Street. I give you a fond farewell.
Yes, you stink like shit. No, really, you reek. You’re worse than a monkey’s backside. (Don’t ask me how I know that. It’s a disturbing story I’ll never be able to live down, and it involves a series of pranks I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.)
Your taps leak. The sound is drawn out torture. Particularly when W and I are having sex.
The smell of garbage never goes away even when we stay inside with the door closed. The neighbors pile it gleefully on the curb. Never-ending chicken dinners turn into rot in the hot sun, and then into leachate in the rain.
Your bathroom is always wet. It’s saturated with piss and shit and hard water. The mirror light is way harsh. I always look like warmed-over Death and a nasty date with a Silver Patron or five.
Don’t get me started on your kitchen. No matter what we do to it, W and I catch the centipedes. So many goddamn centipedes. In the sink. In the garbage. Scuttling across the floor. Running for the carob powder. (I absolutely don’t recommend carob powder.)
But I am sad. I’m sad to leave you.
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July 16, 2010
I recently went from working as a temp at my current job to being shifted to perm with the company itself. That means getting a salary, insurance benefits, paid time off — all of that. I actually got a higher salary than I was expecting, which was awesome. I was literally so excited about it all I could hardly sleep last night, and I have had to cover this smile on my face for over 24 hours now. Except, there is now an issue at hand because of all of this: my boyfriend SB.
I told him yesterday while I was at work that my boss was putting me on the company payroll, and at a higher salary than I expected. I also told him that my boss was going to put me on the insurance plan ASAP as well, when I would have to wait three months, usually. What was his response to all of this? “When do you get your first paycheck?”
No congratulations, no enthusiasm, no happiness for my success – nothing.
Instead, he wants to know the exact day I will be receiving my first salaried paycheck. He doesn’t just ask once – he asks three times. I tell him I wanted to get about $300 in new clothes with my first paycheck, which is certainly doable after I pay the rent and get some food and the like. My boyfriend starts telling me that I should shop at H&M and The Gap because they are cheaper, and to not spend all of my money and be irresponsible. I got incredibly irritated at this. First of all, I have been paying 6/7 of the rent. I buy most of the food. I only get $25 a week from SB for the rent, as well as maybe $30 in food after the normally $60 or $70 in food I buy runs out. Which leaves him with about $185 for himself since he says he makes $240 a week through his temp agency job at a hospital in Brooklyn. When I was working the temp agency thing at my job, I paid 6/7 of the rent like I said, and I would buy the majority of the food as well. Then I had to get my MetroCard. Let’s not forget my doctor’s visits and prescriptions I had to pay for with no insurance. That left me with nothing usually; either that or I had to call my parents and ask for help monetarily. Yet he’s bitching about no money? It really got to me, considering I sacrificed for that.
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