I don’t know, different things I guess

cunt clusions vary. by brand. and applicable individuals.

your mom likes it hot and wet, she told me that day she came over and made me that awesome lasagna she said you hate.  you are so ungrateful. 

I bought a cheap bottle of white wine. it’s because it’s Monday, and Mondays require wine. no, that’s a lie. most days do, not this cheap though. I’ve never been so broke in my life as I am right now. I struggle, hardcore. I go to the coinstar for gas money. I stand in the alcohol aisle and contemplate, "Well I can get the bottle for five dollars but then Gordon only gets one can of wet dog food."  I buy Pedigree even though I know it’s shit, full of gross crap, preservatives, horse penis.  Gordon doesn’t know the difference, he spins and hops before I put it down.  He devours it, licks his chops.  I’m so lame the way I fucking love my dog.  But, oh, if only you could see how fucking stoked he is to go to the dog park or how his lips curl back when he plays dead.  If only human beings were as simple and furry. or just as simple.

I drop the boyfriend off in the morning.  I forget I need to take him home, push snooze a million times, get ready too fast, my hair is frizzy and I forget to put deoderate on.  fuck you, like you haven’t done it.

We sit in silence.  He says

what are you thinking about?

We pass the Phoenix School of Law and the Rythem Room.  We hit every red light.  I say

I was wondering if I was going to make it to work on time

He says,

This whole time?

I say,

I don’t know.  Different things, I guess.

I let him out, he gathers his camera, his computer.  I say,

good luck today.

He looks away.  He wears his sunglasses when he doesn’t want me to see his eyes.  It’s annoying.  I can tell there’s something wrong but I choose not to engage.  I smoke a cigarette when he gets out and listen to track three on the comp CD he made me four times in a row.  I watch a fat guy in a horizontilly striped shirt eat a corn dog at nine in the morning, while waiting for the light rail.

I’m on a roll in the morning.  I’m typing fast, sending the writer focuses through.  I chat with the tech guy about our short.  He starts spewing information to me about "wireless lav mic costs" and "audio recorders with multiple inputs."  Finally I say I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.  I tell him I just write the stuff, the tech equipment is foreign to me.  He says,

lol

and proceeds to try and give me an education on mixing sound in post and the differences between a boom mic and a shotgun mic and lav mics and blah blah.  He sends me wikipedia pages to read.  I skim them and drink my tea. 

Just now I was thinking, for whatever reason, about when me and my friend Nathan used to smoke cigarettes in bed.  We had this brown cup that had ceramic Panda bears hugging it, and we’d sit it the middle of the bed and smoke and talk about stories and music and things that weren’t real or dramatic.  He’d read his short stories out loud to me and one time this guy in the apartment over yelled at us for being loud.  That apartment was weird.  Dark and new, crappy and unkept.  Nate would eat my roommate’s Ramen noodles in the mornings after I went to work and one time I came home and he had put a newly purchased dresser together for me, and hung a heavy mirror on the wall.  I had just been bit by a dog at work and had my finger wrapped, leaving me unable to do it on my own.  He left me a note in my room that began, "Dear Mummy Finger…"  I fucking miss Nathan.

The boyfriend starts IMing in the middle of the day.  He questions a comment someone left on my Myspace page and then copy and pastes an excerpt from a blog I must have saved on his computer.  It’s a descriptve paragraph about my office mate.  At the end of the paragraph I say, "he’s awesome and I would totally have a beer with him."  Apparenly the boyfriend found this unacceptable.  Though, this particular office mate has a girlfriend of six years and I have no interest romantically in him at all, the boyfriend felt this was a red flag.  We argue through Googletalk for a good portion of the day.  It’s stupid, juvinile, unprofessional.  Finally I say something exuding the finalization of things.  Something like, "I’m done." 

I give the tech guy a ride home from work.  He talks about the work he needs to do on his old car; buying new tires, the engine, the progessionalism of tire guys, engine costs.  I say,

yeah. uh huh. I know right. oh. no way. that sucks.

I go to the store and buy a bottle of white wine for $2.47 and some dog food.  I talk to Rich on the phone while I walk Gordon.  He is the boyfriend and I’s best and only mutual friend.  He understand my frustrations, he bats for both teams, he makes us both feel better. He says

He just needs to make himself happy first.

I eat dinner, drink wine, mess with the short, I text the boyfriend and say

we struggle, but I miss you

he says

you miss the idea of me

I think he may of stole that line from me.