Whilst cleaning out my computer today I found some old writing that never made it onto the blog site. Here are brief, unfinished glimpses of an abundant 2007:
OK. I can verify the alacricity and thoroughness of www.craigslist.org but if there was one thing the Abundant One would want her gentle readers to pack away in their little bloggy bags it is this: caution.
View Exhibit A: Flegette Munyon Rippey my current roommate thanks to Craig’s cornucopia. Shortly after my brief stay at
Anyhoo, it’s helpful to type 85WPM and “know my [sic] way around the Internet”. Chick. Tsack. 85 year old man needs tenant to wipe his ass. In exchange will provide furnished rooms and Ensure breakfasts… no, not really, instead I found Jet.
Our first conversation: spark off the motherfucking cosmic match head. That whole Gemini/Leo/Fire/Air thingy (read: my mother, Lu, various nightclub
It’s hard to wade through the mental thicket back to that place after ten months and – we’d have to confess it – numerous Def Leppard “F-F-F-Foolin’” sing-a-longs later. Hey, I’d be re-miss if I didn’t state before I dive into the familiar refrain of “Oh my room mate drives me craaaazy” that I like Jet.
When she’s not drunk, which happens on a daily or at least every other. She likes to pull the grey office chair a foot away from the Panasonic’s 50” screen and drain two Sam Adams with a fifth of Jim Beam. Please believe I wouldn’t spew vitriol about her addiction between my seven “Euro” joints every night spent when Jet’s in the same state. Wouldn’t have a single thing to write about if she wouldn’t make it intricate with her snide remarks which occur mid-way through the end of the Adams’ and the start of the Beam. Common themes include how snooty I am. How I don’t know anything. How she’s such an asshole, a loner and how she knew when I first called her that I would be like her little sister, but not one she would like in a sexual way even though her type was light skin, eyes, etc.,
This is heavy to write right now. She’s in front of that Panasonic watching a Heroes re-run and the soundtrack’s a symphony of sadness. While her back’s been turned I’ve been staring at her with my face contorted like a Balinese mask of anger: die bitch, die bitch…
Four days ago Jet woke up and decided she had had enough of me and Will and resolved to hate us to our graves. No lie. I can’t even believe it and I’m not being sentimental, I am the die bitch mask, remember ;) Listen, web trawlers, I am a whole lotta crazy but making up room mate drama isn’t my skein. And I’m woman enough too, yes I am! , to grant that it’s her right as an earthing, American, the gay black lesbian she always titles herself to be to decide who the hell she wants to fuck with on a regular or not. So she wakes up and doesn’t want to be friends with me anymore, whatever.
We’ve had more fun than just the singing, many nights of great conversation and fun, laughs, and silly goings on. She’s even told me that she wanted to kill herself on many, many an occasion – over the senseless murder of the only man who she ever loved, the only friend she ever had whose name was, curiously, Sam. The thing about Jet is the same afternoon you think you’ve made a really good friend leads into an evening when you have to challenge her in front of your landlord because you overheard her telling him that she doesn’t have the rent because she’s been “supporting” you and your boyfriend.
And then she left her job, not even because it was paying only $165 or something per week. Quit….because. And you took her to that telemarketing farm job casting call, where she was booted because she wore jeans when you told her not to. You went into “mother mode” and marched her across the street to Target where she tried on a couple of pairs of polyester office pants, got a blouse and pair of shoes. She protested and promised to return, well dressed, in a few days, it’s true. But you knew she could get the job today, needed the job today to pay Jerry the landlord, and why not help a friend? Besides, you could return the clothes to Target and get your money back and if not, well, Merry X-mas if she gets the job we’ll work it out.
Three weeks into training she loses the job. It’s now June and she hasn’t worked except for three weeks at some scammy little so-called “re-mortgaging” telephone farm for ten hours a week, hating it from day one. Crying in the night, rocking back to forth in the grey chair while I sat next to her in the dog stained living room, howling over how Dawn left her, why can’t she get over her pain…
