When I got home from my lunchtime client, I figured I’d take Toad and Abandon to Sam Ash Percussion on 48th Street, where Toad could meet my friend Dan (Abandon already knows him quite well) and we could bang on some drums while Abandon would lie on the floor and stare at us with a look that seems to say, “And how exactly is this more fun than walking on the sidewalk and smelling urine?”
Upon opening the door, it was just Abandon who greeted me with wagging tail and I thought Toad was probably taking her afternoon nap, a necessity for her as she stays up each night to the wee hours of the morning, if I could sound a little like the Lucky Charms leprechaun without mentioning “blue diamonds” (as much as I’d like to!)
I like my dog greeting me, because after a few licks and a head rub she knows to fuck off. Humans feel the need to make small talk by asking you banal questions like, “How was your day?” not realizing that the best way to say, “I care” is with a beer and a blowjob and then by silently fucking off.
Toad wasn’t in bed and knowing she is taking a pharmaceutical drug which cures depression—of the pharmaceutical executives who aren’t satisfied with their current pile of money that could buy and sell Portugal—I thought to myself, “If she’s hanging from the shower curtain, I’m going to take Abandon out for a walk, come back and feed her, check my email and then I’ll take her down.” I then thought how she’s been downing a pint of ice-cream each night and the weight from her fatter-than-last-week belly and ass would probably bend the curtain rod and if I ever actually decided to shower, I’d consider that a pretty inconsiderate swan song, in the same vein as blowing yourself up and killing dozens of innocents because you are too ugly and stupid to get laid anywhere but in Muslim Heaven. She wasn’t hanging from the curtain rod and I breathed a sigh of relief, as there was a blue moon that night which meant I was scheduled for a shower.
It wasn’t until spending a half-hour online that I saw her note on the top sheet of the Post-It pad, which said she thought I needed my space and so she went back home—which was several highways, a bridge and a ferry away. I don’t know why one would write a note on a Post-It and just leave it on the pad. I mean, even the name of the product tells you what to do with it after you write on it—“Post-It.” You can stick those bastards anywhere—on the refrigerator, on the computer, on the toilet seat. Frankly, you’ve got to be a lazy son of a bitch to take 30 seconds to write a note on a Post-It and then think to yourself, “I’m just going to leave it on the pad because to have to actually peel it off and POST-IT somewhere is just not worth the effort.”
Was writing her note in consideration…or inconsideration?
People always do something “for your benefit” when they really have no clue what you would consider beneficial. Often they are really quite considerate, the person they are considering being themselves. A month ago, when Toad spent an hour while I was away with a client destroying the sanctity of my apartment [see “Hurricane Toad” http://rebelyogi.com/hurricane-toad], she didn’t consider once that I would never take the time to go through all the boxes of crap that was now polluting my apartment in order to put everything away according to a new system that I wouldn’t read the 400-page manual to figure out and that I would therefore be destined to spend the rest of my days, until moving out of this apartment or dying, hopscotching over piles of crap—feeling much the worse for her effort, thank you very little.
When my Mom bought me a new bathroom set, with a maroon shower curtain with extremely gay tassels, towels that have no fluff but match the aforementioned gay shower curtain and a wooden toilet seat that, while the nicest item of the lot, my ass couldn’t care one way or another when making a deposit what its sitting on, having the same irrelevant look on his cracky face one would give a bank teller who asked him while making a deposit, “Did you notice the new tassels we hung up around the ATM machine?”
One of the biggest, shall we say “challenges,” in a relationship is when one or both—or in the case of Mormons, all seven—parties attempt to capture the other living, breathing, moving body with a still camera, instead of an 8mm—er, High Definition video to you youngin’s. Or in Good Will Hunting terms, “You’re an orphan, right? Do you think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you?”
Think about this: Could one single photograph capture the gist of you? Imagine I took the worst picture you’ve ever taken and spread it far and wide over the Internet and say, “This messy-haired, plumber’s cracked, tub of ice-cream eating, pasta sauce stained shirt-wearing girl is Barbara. Nothing more to say about her.” You would probably try to retaliate by posting far and wide the picture of me from last year sharing crack and blowjobs with Obama.
In the morning I may need space because I am downloading poetry from the Astral Plane. In the afternoon I may want to interact, in the evening I may want to go to a party and when I get home I may want to have some privacy again so that I can reflect on the girl I should have tried to ball at the party with my only accompaniment being a bottle of Baby Oil.
It is a dis-eased mindset that wants to kill and stuff a living person, carry him around all day like a Linus blanket and then sleep with him at night. They call it necrophilia when you bang a dead person. Perhaps there should be a name for sleeping with a person you’ve killed by freezing him in a past time as you carry him with a smile like you would a frosty mug to the keg. Cryophilia?
While some might argue that “people” don’t change, feelings and thoughts certainly do. People change moods all the time; if they are a premenstrual woman, once every 3-minutes. If you get in an argument with someone yesterday, to be mad at her today is freezing them in the icebox of yesterday. In the morning you might wake up all excited and have an abundance of energy and by the afternoon realize that your life has no purpose and all you want to do is lie in bed and Two-Spoon it—one spoon in a pint of ice-cream and one in your ass. Imagine someone knocks on your door at midnight of the same day and says, “Joe, you were so energized this morning, I thought you’d like to go for a 7-mile jog now.” You’d slam the door in his face. If he said he was only thinking of you, you’d beat that idiot silly with both spoons!
Life is unpredictable and requires spontaneity in order to be lived authentically. Maybe you go to a party ready to, in Flintstone’s jargon, “have a gay old time,” and when you get there it’s filled to the brim with fat chicks revealing their thongs and no amount of alcohol will ever be able to wipe that image from your mind. The New-Age yoga poser remains at the party with a fake smile plastered on his face and a feeling of nausea permeating his gut and taunting the back of his throat as he repeatedly vomits into his mouth and swallows it. The authentic, flowing person says, “Later, fatties!” and gets the hell out of there.
Toad acted like a coward and pretended to be a valiant knight. She didn’t even attend the Fat Party, acting all responsible with a lame line like, “I have a lot of homework to do,” while plopping her ass on the couch and watching The L Word all night. I may be a dick; I may even be accused of being an asshole. But I’m definitely not a pussy. I have enough guts to attend Fatty Simcock’s party and leave disgusted rather than making some excuse not to show up because I’m too scared to talk to a woman.
“See, there’s three kinds of people: Dicks, Pussies and Assholes. Pussies think everyone can get along and dicks just want to fuck all the time without thinkin’ it through. But then you’ve got your Assholes, Chuck. And all the Assholes want is to shit all over everything. So Pussies may get mad at dicks once in awhile because…Pussies get fucked by Dicks. But Dicks also fuck Assholes, Chuck. And if they didn’t fuck the Assholes, you know what you’d get? You’d get your Dick and your Pussy all covered in shit!”
—“Team America: World Police”