Boyfriends for Killing

I tried for an insane amount of time to figure out how to import my old diary entries on to this fucker and to no avail.  I will, at some point, accomplish this.  I’m still learning how to navigate this enourmos site and it makes me miss my old blog site… simpler times.

There was no one thing that made me want to blog today.  A member of my tiny office was fired leaving only one comrad and myself to meander and bullshit through the day.  I’ve taken to throwing a rubber ball at him periodically througout the day which makes me laugh and laugh.

Last night I picked the boyfriend up from work per his request and sat on his bed, drinking a cocktail he created for me (it was gin and orange juice, too tart but not poorly made).  He starred at the ceiling and talked endearingly about the young boys he watches at the group home where he works.  Apparently a boy under his care had wondered off and was found near his Mother’s house, blocks away.  I talked about the editor’s meeting we recently had and run my fingers through his hair.

It was nice.

After exchaning daily stories we turned the lights off and curled up on his bed in the dark.  He held his arm under my neck and began to lower his other, caress.  I was tired, it was after two a.m., and so my response was less than receptive.  Eventually he stopped, huffed, turned over, set up his lap top near the bed. I laid on my side and watched him pull open his mac and slam the keys until pulling up the pilot episode of The Wonder Years.

I ask what’s wrong, but I already know.  He proceeds to go on a tangent, filled with anger and resentment, about how he feels unwanted, that I’m not attracted to him, that he’s 26 and should be able to have sex with his girlfriend more than once or twice a week and how I never come on to him and how maybe I need to think about how I feel.

I smash my head in the pillow and listen to the song from The Wonder Years opening for a  few moments

what would you do if I sang out of tune

I say something stupid like,

we just had sex on Friday, it’s only Sunday.

Which was true but perhaps wasn’t entirely his point.  I feel emotionally tired, I don’t want to engage tonight, I don’t want to defend my feelings and actions.  I just want to sleep.  I say little more.  I turn my back and stare at this stark white, vertical blinds in the dark.

lend me your ear, and I’ll sing you a song

He slams the pause button on the opening credits again and says,

is there someone else?

I lift my head and stare at him the dark.  I say something like,

are you kidding me right now?

He reinterates his seriousness and I say no, of course not.  As it goes, there is no one else.  There is just me and my dog and my debt and his debt and our addiction to chicken wings and movies.  I lay my head back down, try and allow my body to relax.  I feel shitty now for having rejected him, regretful and selfish.  I forget that he takes these matters so seriously.  I forget that our relationship is on “probation.”  I forget we’re both trying to be better for each other.  I feel all these things, but I’m too tired to have another discusssion.  I listen to the first ten minutes or so of the pilot episode of The Wonder Years before drifting slowly off to sleep.

In the morning I wake up late and use his deodorant because I forgot my own.  I stuff my scattered clothes back in my book bag and stare at him spread on his side, with the blankets off of him, his face smashed into his arm.  I sit on the edge of the bed and run my fingers through his hair.  I kiss him on the cheek, then on the mouth and he opens his eyes. I say,

I’ll see you later, have a good day, I love you

He murmers a half hearted “you too” and I know he’s still upset.  I sit at long red lights and feel like a jerk.  I stare at my phone, no text messages.

I edit bad writing all day, I talk to the office mate about big brother stories and Art Brut, he sends me stuff on Youtube.  He listens to a Thermals song 25 times in a row.  I play the “top five albums” game with the tech guy.  I eat chicken salad and strawberries for lunch.  I listen to True Dreams of Wichita by Soul Coughing a million times in a row and decide that is one of the best songs ever.  I listen to Bright Eyes in my car and finally find a song on that album I like.  I drive a million miles to the dog park only to discover it’s closed for some bullshit reason.  If dogs could cry, Gordon would have.

I cook drinner, drink jasmine tea, stare at my cell phone.  Still no text message.  Ah, I think, I’m such a stupid girl, and shit is mostly my fault anyway.

Just now, I get an Instant Message from him on Googletalk.  It says,

hey.

I will try not to sing out of key