(This is Part 4 of the “Autocorrect” series, where I show how God talks to me through messing with my phone by changing words I text and not just in the voice in my head that keeps repeating the mantra, “Kill your mother!”)
PLACE to PAVE
I have been living in an apartment for the last three years that has been filled with much more vermin than vagina. I have had cockroaches, fruit flies, regular flies, a few mice and a water snake. Okay, I didn’t have the snake, but just by mentioning it suddenly my insect zoo doesn’t sound quite as bad.
Worse than sharing my apartment with creepy-crawlies and buzzing-buggies that don’t contribute to the rent payments, is the clutter and filth. For the first six months with my last girlfriend, she thought I was a kinkster because whenever she entered my place I had her put on a blindfold. That and a strap-on.
I recently threw out some stuff that has been hanging around untouched for years, like my V for Vendetta costume and the broken plastic jumprope handle that I thought could be a good weapon (“Give me all your money and nobody will get hurt!” “Uh, are you holding us up with a plastic jumprope handle?”), and gave the place a through scrubbing. The place is still too cluttered but at least now I can walk barefoot without feeling the grit of dirt on the soles of my feet, albeit without the comfort of wearing my Guy Fawkes mask. I’m a bit of a hippie but still believe that soil should be on the earth and not on the linoleum floor.
In the past, I had talked with my newly acquired ex-girlfriend about moving into her place but because I have a mental/emotional block with throwing things out, it has been hard for me to take steps in this direction, which includes paring down and boxing up—forgetting the fact that I feared being ignored in close proximity would be even harder than being ignored at a distance.
Because she not only doesn’t have this blockage, but actually excels on the organizing front, she has shown no tolerance for my lack of movement. (As an aside, I used both “blockage” and “movement” in this sentence and am reminded that everybody poops.) I wasn’t asking for sympathy but maybe at least some empathy. But despite my predisposition towards living like Pigpen from the Charlie Brown Peanuts Gang (“I’ve got a shotgun. What do you have?” “A broken plastic jumprope handle.” “Nice.”), I still managed to scrub a dub.
At first I thought of PAVE as metaphorically symbolizing concrete has been poured in my living space with, feeling trapped and stuck in place. But most things are a two-edged sword. Even love comes with the price tag of your heart being torn from your chest by a woman turned wildebeest, who bites a chunk off of the left ventricle, filling her belly with blood, tissue and horror movie laughs. The other edge of PAVE signifies the possibility that there is a PAVED yellow brick road of hope that may facilitate a much smoother ride than the rocky road to the Baskin Robbins in Oz. Or perhaps, like a Mafioso casts one’s feet into a pair of custom-fitted cement shoes, I’ll come out of this dead but sporting a new pair of stone mason Louboutans.