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November 23, 2013

Remember the date. It’s the date, Twig, where you listened to Hawksley Workman‘s soundtrack for The God That Comes on repeat 20 times. Nothing happened. Well, you didn’t die, Twig. Whether MTIA and his roommate duke it out to the death remains to be seen. Will I feel guilty? Oh, I already do. I have some impressive weight that I’ve heaped upon myself in that regard. But now, I have to let go.

It’s time to let go. I will not fuck up a friendship. Or love. Or whatever the fuck it is that MTIA has with his fucked up cunt of a roommate/friend/lover.

I was nice to that bitch tonight. Really nice. So nice, in fact, that I thought maybe I should get into acting. I didn’t lie. I paid MTIA’s  best friend compliments on her hair cut, her style, anything I could think of. I tried to raise topics of common interest. And she played along partly, but was getting more and more pissed off as the night went on.

MTIA is not mine.

He could never be mine. (No one could ever be mine, as possession of humans is something to which I am inherently opposed, but you know what I mean.) His roommate has seen to that.

I was raised Roman Catholic. As the joke goes, the Jews invented guilt, but the Catholics perfected it. And I have come to know a little something about this kind of world/spiritual/philosophical view over the past few decades.

In just over two months of knowing that MTIA exists in the world, my own little world has changed. How can I possibly begin to imagine how twenty years of knowing someone like MTIA would impact someone?

“Everything is okay. It is always okay.” I gritted my teeth as I said it to him.

I’m a drama queen. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have said that. I could have just smiled and acted okay. But I love me some drama, so I delivered my tag line. MTIA heard me say the same words the night we met. He knew it was a lie then. But is it a lie? Aren’t I always okay? Yes, I am. Because I come home to the herd of house-trashing hellions that teach me patience every day. One ate a hard plastic  cup while I was in the shower before going out tonight. I really liked those cups. That was the extent of the damage all night, actually, though, so I was actually sort of impressed. I always come home to the herd. Sure, I imagine that they could be happy in plenty of places, but I won’t force them from here, ever. They are my fur children (yeah, I went there). My human family and my fur family are the only reasons I stay alive. They are very important reasons.

The moment he said his roommate was coming, I should have left. Instead, I tried to be the bigger person. I put on the show for everyone. As the tension grew, I chose to leave. I held back tears as I squeezed MTIA’s shoulder and said, “I’m out. I have to go. Now. I have to go.” And I left. In no condition emotionally to drive, I stood around the corner smoking. I watched the roommate storm out. MTIA followed shortly thereafter, clearly sad.

We walked to my car, and I cried. I drove him home. In relevant conversation, I asked about the scratches, and he said simply, “I did that.” I didn’t say anything. I just want him to be happy. I cried more, and I finally said, “She loves you. Just… go be with her. I never should have come tonight.”  He hugged me. I didn’t hug back. He begged me to come inside to talk.

“What’s going on? Are you okay? You don’t seem okay,” that drunk fuck asked me. I broke down.

“I am not okay,” I sobbed. “Please just let me go.” He kept begging, though. I was finally caving to the idea, had my car door open, when the roommate called. I cried harder as he began fighting with her over the phone. “MTIA, please,” I begged him, “Just let it go. Let me go home.” He still insisted he wanted me to come inside and talk. We both needed that, obviously, but I didn’t want to be near his roommate. Still, I consented to go inside. His roommate was right there in the living room, sitting on the floor, eating in the dark, fucking weirdo. She kicked the tray of food in MTIA’s direction and got up from the floor, saying, “I don’t want anymore. I don’t want to be in this room anymore,” She never even looked at me. She brushed past me and stormed up the stairs. From the second floor, she suddenly started screaming at MTIA. She said that MTIA had been an asshole to her all night, a bunch of stuff I couldn’t hear, and then MTIA stormed back down the steps to me. “Please,” I begged him again, “Just make things right with her. She’s your best friend. Nothing is worth this.”

And then she started Em-Effing from upstairs again. “Wait here,” he told me. She stomped back upstairs, the sound of delicate things shattering filled the house, and then the real screaming started: “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!” she yelled over and over again. “YOU THINK I’M THE ONE WITH ANGER ISSUES?! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I was, at this point, curled up in a ball behind a couch.

MTIA stomped back down the steps and called out to me in the dark. “You have to go. You have to go now.” I got up. I walked past him. I didn’t say a word. He didn’t say a word. I just left.

There is nothing for me to go back to. His best friend needs him more than I do. I need nothing. I need no one.

“Twig. You have to go. You have to go now.” And so I went.

I am not okay. But I will be. Because there is no other option.

MTIA’s roommate did more than take him away from me, someone who got me, completely, for the first time ever; she also took the same from MTIA. She, his best friend, would rather have him miserable with her than happy with someone else. Now THAT is clearly a wonderful friendship. But I don’t say anything, because that is the nature of love. I won’t cause him anymore pain than he already is facing.

I guess this has been the tragic love affair I had imagined it would be, ending in pain and degradation.

MTIA, I love you. You never have to be anything but yourself with me. You never have to hide what’s in your head from me. Please don’t give up on us. I really, truly love you.

“And you were countin’ the ways that you think you disappoint me.
You feel messed up and you tell yourself you’re gonna change.”
~Hawksley Workman

Okay, I’m done. Bring on the next trial for me to handle histrionically. (Can guys be histrionic? Just wondering, given the word’s etymology.) I can overdramatize the shit out of anything.


From → fiction, rants

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