Sunday, February 12, 2012

Tetris Tragedy 2/3

A short story cont'd:

My friends were sick people. They were the kind of people who seemed to keep me around because they had no moral compasses of their own. They were the jerks that put roofies in people’s drinks. To my knowledge they never actually brought anyone home. They dropped ketamine or ghb or whatever screwed up club drug they could think of into the punch because they thought it made the night more fun. No one takes off their top and does keg stands after one beer. And that was their fun. A good night was the one they couldn’t remember; a bad one was where they spent the next day hungover and embarrassed at their pathetic lives.

And I lived with them. The place was a dump. There was absolutely no reason to clean the place. New dirt replaced old dirt. The shower drain was clogged with what I hoped was human hair and just snot.

And my girlfriend. She was a masochist. Not in the fun way where someone gets sexual release. She was a pent-up prude who had taken all of her frustrations out on her job as a lawyer. I was pretty sure she was sleeping with her boss in order to get ahead; good for her though. It meant that soon I wouldn’t have to pay rent and I would be married to a partner because she was too scared of taking risks to dump me. And I could live with a loveless relationship. Ten years down the line I’d have a Porsche and a big backyard.

Medusa36 took this all in. She fed off my self-loathing and disgust at my life. She always pursued my wildest fantasies. I lived a gluttonous materialistic existence. And she wanted to hear more about what I was. She didn’t just listen. She fueled my rage.

I imagined her taking long drags off her cigarette and typing in the words that got me fired up. “Put LSD in your room mate’s contact solution.” “Leave post-it notes from the boss in her bags.” “Crush aspirin into the cat food.”

I never followed through. I was a sissy. But her words were like honey on a sore throat. Their mere existence was enough. I was never suicidal but it made me feel good that she would love it if I jumped off a high-rise.

And that’s what I was doing when I got the news. I was putting blocks together at a furious pace, chatting about the cat that was scratching at the door. I was taking particular pleasure in leaving a messy diarrhetic bowel movement in my girlfriend’s toilet at the time. It was a post-Indian food trip to the bathroom that had all the hallmarks of something particularly unpleasant to smell and clean. And it was all her job because I never did it right in the first place.