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A Tale of Two Cities

Days Since Leaving New York: 92

Pussy is a total turn off.

I think that’s been a fact in my life for years now, but never moreso than lately- when my roommate, BYOB, brought home a new cat to celebrate her new relationship with an old friend. I doubt the relationship will last, but the cat- that cunt will still be in my apartment for months. She’s super tiny and super cute, which makes it all the harder to hate her. When she was born there were a few berthing problems and as a result she has some scratches on her cornea which limit her vision…. we named her Leela.

leela-futurama So while the adorably near sighted mini-beast careens through my apartment and antogonizes the cat that we already had (Suki, an unassuming but shed-tastic cat), BYOB chooses to slather it with love whenever her boyfriend du jour is unavailable. The newest quagmire BYOB has waded into is with a friend of 5 years, and now that the relationship has gotten physical they’re both under the belief that it is likely a perfect emotional match as well. They’ve yet to date but they’re picking wedding dates. Not really, but they’re moving so fast before even discussing what they’re doing that even going on a date would feel cataclysmic. Not that it’s currently a problem, this new boy would first have to dump his current girlfriend to start dating BYOB. So they’re in limbo, too far into a relationship that has yet to start and stuck in a relationship that’s too inconvenient to end. Meanwhile, my greatest concern is that the cat still hasn’t mastered the litter box concept.

I ought to change her name to BYO-Boy Problems, because that is currently the only thing she is capable of discussing. If we’re not talking about her new pussy then we’re talking about who’s in her old one. Ugh. Fortunately I have a burgeoning work relationship to keep me afloat, a newly formed love affair with Tilly. Working with Tilly is exactly like working with a Chucky doll from Child’s Play- though she looks adorable, you can rest assured that 100% of the time she will do the completely inappropriate thing. I’m in love.

tilly Along with Tilly, I still have Weather Man and Georgia Ann to calm my nerves as I settle into the new home, which after these last few months is beginning to feel like a real home instead of a temporary hostel. I’ve finally purchased sheets, a light for my room, found a place to put my clothes, and  even reassembled my broken doorknob (kind of). After nearly six months in New York I have a home. Now all I need is a few boys to help wreck it.

And that’s exactly what happened. Only a few days before his anticipated arrival in New York I phoned Weather Man. Instead of a happy reconnection with someone how has become one of my best friends, I found myself hours into a drawn out argument with someone who has become one of my only ex’s. Not quite sure how that happened or when it happened, but as the conversation about emotions and betrayal and abandonment (and ultimately symantics) escalated, it was clear that this was not too friend’s merely feeling combatitive. After a year of watching Weather Man put himself together following a terrible break up I was fearful of watching him get his heart broken agian. To prevent his heart break at my own hands, I shut him out of mine completely. Try pulling at that thread in one conversation.

One cell phone battery and a large bowl of macaroni ‘n cheese later, we were better off for having gotten into the emotional slugfest. Strange how fights have to break out before I allow myself to say the most loving things. Being loving can mean doing harsh things, and sometimes harsh conversations actually provoke the most loving responses. It makes sense, boiling water yields soft macaroni, right? Maybe I’m just hungry for more of that mac n cheese…

Meanwhile, Georgia Ann and I celebrated the existence of my new sheets by fleeing them and heading into Manhattan to catch a Mirah concert. The Highline Ballroom looked sparce when we first arrived and listened to No Kids (a surprisingly fun batch of nerdy kids with electronic instruments and a River’s Cuomo fashion sense). By the time Mirah took the stage the place was packed with a strangely diverse group of hardcore lezzies and softcore indie kids, young and old, who just wanted to listen to her soft voice and a guitar. It was the best 15 dollars I’ve spent in the city to date.

dc After saying goodbye to Georgia Ann I got a call from a dear college friend who enthusiastically informed me that she had moved to DC, to the exact niehgborhood I had spent months living in. During the hour long ride home I thought about my conversation with Weather Man, about my goals for this city, and about whether or not my time in NYC is becoming a failure. In only three months in DC I had met a fantastic group of friends that I still care about, reluctantly gotten into the most serious relationship I’ve encountered in years, been offered an incredible first job, found a city that felt like home, and scored a posh apartment (albeit with a pedophile, but still, sliding glass doors).

After six months in New York I barely have bed sheets. I rent an apartment wedged between unfriendly ultra-convservatives and ESL Chinese families, a job in a cubicle next to a woman who believes Sarah Palin is a god, a close friend who cannot be trusted if a bottle of wine is within arms reach, a roommate who cannot stop talking about the ridiculous boy problems she creates, a fledgling casual dating relationship with a man who teaches special ed, and a city that still feels closed off in many ways. I thought I was saving Weather Man from hurt when I closed my emotions off to him, but perhaps when I turned my back on Washington DC I left a large part of my resiliency and charm behind me.

Of course the fifteen minute walk from the subway to the apartment was made in the rain late at night. Of course BYOB wanted to talk about her latest web-chatting catastrophe with the boy when I arrived home. And of course I found myself sitting in my room wondering if I was worse at finding my own way than the blind kitten curled up next to me. That bitch.

[i abdicated, now i’m just a prince without a land. my subjects all adored me but for this i had them banned]

Fight Club

Days back in Michigan: 5

My computer blew up. Ass.

Home is an extremely bizarre place. There are entire fields of grass for absolutely no reason. There are stars at night… STARS?!?! And you can hear crickets when you’re trying to sleep on the couch of your entirely uncomfortable living room couch (not to mention that the house is without air conditioning). It’s kinda nice, though.

Needless to say, I am back in Michigan for a week before heading back out to the city. In a few short days the new job begins. Exciting! Until then, baseball games and Dominicans and ice cream and Project Runway. In that order. It is a far cry from the life I grew to love in New York, which culminated with Burkeman (yay!) and Dude Mathews drunkenly hailing a cab to La Guardia at 5 am. Bars in New York close at 4, so staying up the extra hour at a diner was no problem. Finding my ID in my bags while drunk in line to pass security, that was a bigger problem. When I tripped and fell in the Detroit airport during my layover I realized perhaps I should’ve slept a little before arriving home. Nothing says “you fucked up” quite like eating shit in the middle of a magazine store in an airport. Note to self: drinking on a flight is great. Drinking for six hours and then catching a flight- not so great. On the upside, the crying baby next to me on the flight stood no chance against my binge-drinking coma. I slept like that baby should’ve. However, that only lasted a half hour before arriving home, where my family was mildly horrified that I reaked of Jameson and hadn’t bathed in a few days. New York turns scion into a slob.

There is one large change between home and the city that I’m not adjusting to very well, I admit- my computer. Its on the fritz and cannot be revived until I am back in Manhattan. Only problem, I might not be going back to Manhattan…

While walking home on a Sunday evening Straight Boyfriend (of the Harlem Harem, a group I recently elected to live with) ran into three large men on the street. Well, he didn’t run into them so much as their fists. Multiple times. The attack is believed to have been racially motivated, as Straight Boyfriend is a large white Alaskan dude in the middle of a largely Dominican section of Harlem, but his attackers weren’t Dominican.

Forunately the incident was stopped before it could become to brutal, but he does have some bruising on his face and a severely broken desire to remain in Harlem. Thus the Harlem Harem may soon become the Brooklyn Brigade. It will be a journey.

Oh, and Weather Man will be back in the city when I arrive on Saturday. AND I’m living with the Femme Fellows in Hoboken for the month of August. And work, the first day of the rest of my life, starts on Monday (same day as Drag Queen Bingo).

It’s about to get very interesting.

[we are adventuring, we are adventurers]