AUTOCORRECT--yelling at cellphone

(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!”)


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.

Did that come out of my ass?! I’ve had things that big go INTO my ass but never come OUT OF it!

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.

AUTOCORRECT4--V for Vendetta

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.

AUTOCORRECT--IM10Because 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.

Pigpen from the Peanut’s Gang

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.

AUTOCORRECT4--cement shoes

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