Saturday, July 26, 2008

water damage

"you're drunk?" derek asked incredulously, and with a twinge more judgment than I could deem appropriate.

"that's funny, coming from someone who nearly got arrested at hustler club last night for refusing to pay a tab that you ran up while you were time traveling."

it was nine am.

I'd just returned from a surreal beginning of day that would prove to be as unusual as its predecessors. morning broke and I peacefully slept through it, only waking to the sounds of a couple beginning their morning routine at lydia's house, unaware of their audience in the guest room. the faucet started to run below me and I groggily came to consciousness.

"baby, will you hand me the rembrandt?"

"here." some scuffling followed.

"no, no, the mouthwash, the whitening stuff."


"it's right there, second shelf." I heard someone gurgling.

"babe, did you talk to greg?"

"yeah, he said that," the pause was filled with the sound of a vibrating uvula, "he was going to be in the studio on thursday, I know that it's longer than we wanted to wait but--"


"I know, I know, but,", he spit, "it's just the only way it's going to work out."




"my mom still wants to take us out for brunch, tomorrow. I was thinking maybe squat and gobble."

I heard another wad of minty spit hit the sink and then a door slam.

I became acutely aware of my leftover intoxication. I looked around for remnants and found a warm bottle of cooks. upon inspecting my cell phone I'd missed several texts from inquiring minds wondering why and where I had stolen off to without bidding anyone adieu. I felt as if explanations were cheap, but much more than I was willing to pay with a head swimming with emotional piranhas and turmoil.

the view from the 4th floor at lydia's apartment is nothing short of breathtaking, it's the sort of sight that can bring about love affairs with san francisco, hills sprawling freely and perfectly orchestrated, cotton candy hued houses plugged into the skyline like lego sculptures. I stood out on the roof balcony to survey the scene, as fastuous as the king of a pride, only momentarily numb to the melancholy I've been battling in recent weeks.

lydia found her way back to me with apologies for the promised spooning that didn't come to fruition. I agreed to be satisfied with a rain check, and then was called home by my roommates blowing up my phone like pearl harbor 2008. I knew that the basis of the frenzied phone calls was a suspicious leak in my ceiling that I'd noticed a few days before, but I hadn't fully realized the seriousness of the abnormality in my banana cream yellow ceiling that I'd come to affectionately call, "the bubble". the bubble ended up being of sinister nature.

when I stumbled up my stairs, I heard a hacksaw buzzing, and I knew that anything after that point was going to be a sight that my sore eyes would much rather never see. upon entering my room, I discovered a small mexican man atop a tall ladder that was planted squarely on a pile of my dirty underwear, diligently stabbing my ceiling with a power tool. a monsoon of plaster was falling from above, victorian particles falling sadly at my patent leather clad feet. I laughed.

it wasn't because I was happy, or because the situation was particularly funny. I laughed because of real-life absurdist humor, the satire of reality, and the fact that a migrant worker was punching a hole in my roof that led into my ex-boyfriend's empty room.

I opened a beer.

"you're drunk"?"

"that's funny, coming from someone who nearly got arrested at hustler club last night for refusing to pay a tab that you ran up while you were time traveling."


"yes, derek." I answered, lolling my head from side to side to punctuate my ridiculousness, "I... am drunk." I let my hair fall into my eyes. "and I've no intention of being otherwise."

"okay, then."

"do you want a pizza?"

"a pizza? now?"

"yes, a fucking pizza, do you want one?"

"well, yeah."

"I'm buying. what kind do you want?"

"I don't know..."

"pepperoni and feta?"

"pepperoni sometimes upsets my stomach, maybe we could--"

"ooh! cable car special. chicken. yeah. let's do that."

when the pizza came I gave the delivery man some attitude and a 30% tip, and then proceeded to eat the entire pizza except for the piece I relinquished to derek. fatty food guilt isn't necessarily unlike catholic guilt. it's been too long for me to have any educated estimation of how many rosaries I owe for a medium pizza and two canisters of ranch, but I choose denial.

I sat on derek's bed in a sunny spot, and we went through his old baby photos from a childhood in georgia. derek had the beautiful mug of a gerber baby, and even cooler 80's video game themed clothes. there were countless photos of him with his flaxen haired older brother, both of them sharing a icy, piercing gaze, although his brother had a mismatched pair of eyes with a hazel one offsetting the blue. derek never mentions his siblings, especially the likes of this phantom older brother, and I couldn't help but think it inherently odd. how can someone share a life and a bloodline with someone and end up only peripherally involved, at best? it struck me unsettlingly, as a person who is a self proclaimed penguin-esque, mate-for-life, type. is loyalty a pipe dream? in matters with brothers, lovers, corner store guys, there are bonds you just don't break, there are battle lines and boundaries to respect. I wouldn't cheat on a boyfriend or new star-ell liquors.

the pizza didn't sober me up enough to stop me from sending a barrage of pathetic text messages to jon. later on at work I made the dire mistake of taking a gander at my outbox and very soon after was tempted to stab myself in the eye with a chopstick. I don't want to play the hot and cold game anymore, but it never fails to keep my heartstrings tethered. (thanks, daddy issues!)

this week I've got to do some remodeling even aside from getting a new ceiling, some real heavy spring cleaning on my heart and mind. I want to try and write every day, I will start respecting my body and stop living off of barefoot bubbly, cigarettes, and goat cheese, and I am going to try and remember that It's Called a Break Up Because It's Broken.

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