Archive for the ‘ Never Being Wrong Can Suck’ Category

One Way. Wrong Way. Dead End.

Posted on December 16, 2008

One Way Only? Please.

One Way Only? Please.

talk talk talk talk talk talk. Circle. Again. Once more. Pause. Pause. Further… talk talk talk.

Wild French electro-punk blares behind us.

Fucking annoying, and the trance-like lyrics pop in and out “I know that this is the end.”

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Meant for gay men in an underground Parisian drug den.
SHUT UP. The radio. Not you.
Plot. Plan. Lists. Commitments. Try. More. Fill in promise
Accusation. Acknowledgement. Rinse. Repeat.

I can handle all of this. This is fine. This is good. It gets dicey when you point out how callous I’ve become with regard to certain topics, as of late.

Why do I feel the need to argue the other side? Devil’s Advocate is not a full time profession.

That zings me hard. I am nothing if not sensitive. I do however have an affinity towards defending the indefensible.

Stop analyzing me, it gets in the way of my self-analysis and my ability to properly shut you out.
Ugh. You’re right. But I’m not sorry. If I were, I’d stop. I refuse to insult you by lying about my compassion towards that. I have none. Heinous. Mean. Evil. Hard. Uncaring. YES! Stop there. That’s the thing. I don’t actually care.
I see why you have to, but the Blind Faith is hard for me. Faith itself is a struggle. Do not attempt without the benefit of sight.

I’m living in my head. I invited you in because I owe that to us. Don’t be afraid. We come from different places. Opposing spaces. We need to meet in the middle, but the middle is scary. The middle is treacherous. I fare best in the extreme. You knew this. You know this. Maybe we can split the space. One line in middle. One line on each end. No lines in the sand.

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Obsessions and Concessions

Posted on September 3, 2008

The Art of Moving with a Partner

The night is April 1, 2006. I am lounging on the floor of my Gramercy Park apartment, which I am scheduled to vacate (as in move out of, not like, go to dinner) in 45 minutes, which is perfect because this episode of South Park is the BEST (the one where the Mormons basically discredit their entire being because they can’t read those silly tablets exactly the same as they did yesterday. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum.) I can watch this ep and still have 15 minutes left over to throw my belongings into some bags before my boyfriend of 3 months and the three Rastafarian movers he has hired, arrive. So, I sprawl on the floor sipping some coffee. I trust, I chill, I giggle.

(One hour later) They are so high…clearly these are legit Rasta men, not just East Williamsburg posers. It’s cool though…funny actually. I am not concerned. It takes us 12 hours to move. Literally. And at 5:45 am on April 2, 2006, my boyfriend and I stand outside of our new Washington Heights dwelling and watch the sky turn pink with the promise of a new day, a new phase, a new adventure.

My boyfriend has turned into my husband and our moves have gotten markedly more complex since that Spring evening two and a half years ago.

Life evolves, situations and people grow. Particularly when it comes to acceptable moving styles. For instance, I now lean towards boxes and movers with insurance. I’ve learned to find the Zen in throwing things away. I really enjoy it. Perhaps too much. Throughout the past month, my husband has, on several occasions, inquired as to the whereabouts of the girl who thought that 15 minutes of pre-move prep time was sufficient. I replied that she didn’t own a couch. Or a coffee mug. Or guest towels.

I think he secretly misses her and her existentialism. Frankly, I do too (a little).

This is where the art of balancing ones obsessions with a modest amount of concessions comes in. For instance, at 11pm last evening, I wanted to start switching the outlet plates from the yellowing, cruddy 1989 throwbacks to the shiny, clean, chocolate brown plates that I had purchased. My husband looked displeased. I conceded. That can be done later. See? Compromise. I am a master of marriage. Sadly, I don’t think he sees it that way. I think he may be wondering if my sense may have accidentally been thrown in the trash chute along with the 4,000 business cards which bore my maiden name and the journals from 2001 which were too sad to bare. I am not entirely sure he is wrong.

Additionally, moving is not dissimilar to taking a vacation to some exotic locale. Like, say, Siberia.
I have no friends. I am the social equivalent of the hunchback, Ephialtes in the movie “300″, and I forget what a conversation that doesn’t include the words “tired”, “stressed” or “what do we owe you?” sounds like. Normalcy is relative and not as overrated as I once thought.

As an aside, I’ve never been more satisfied. My home is magnificent (truly everything I visioned as a child), my husband is hot, and I leave for Maui on Tuesday. Sorry if the rest of this entry gave a different impression. Take from it what you will.

This makes it all worthwhile. One of the two awesome things I come home to...

This makes it all worthwhile. One of the two awesome things I come home to...

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