After a month of fighting a near-deadly peanut butter craving, I finally gave in on Friday. As I'm about as impulsive as a slug, this mainly involved mental capitulation to my inner Pandora. I would buy peanut butter that very day, go home, and then decide whether I wanted to eat it defiantly in front of Butters or hide in my room like any self-respecting addict.
Fortunately, I was saved again from passing the store where I would have bought the best peanut butter in the world. But I would pass a market that sold ordinary peanuts and there was no stopping this juggernaut.
Not even N2O's warning that the price of peanuts had nearly doubled was enough to dissuade me. With a backpack on, I haggled for a great deal in a market that used to terrify me – three victories which allowed me to arrive home on an euphoric high.
Which Butters systematically peed on, as is his wont regarding anything that gives me the slightest hint of joy. He used a stupid American mathematical model to smirk that I'd saved two minutes of time, which we'd just wasted on our conversation. According to a more practical Congolese one, I'd saved the equivalent of a week's worth of breakfasts – this is difficult to explain to someone who, despite a year of being cheated, is about as guarded as an incontinent chihuahua (though with the same initially frenzied reaction).
I was incensed when he demanded why I was home so early and then muttered that I was a creature of habit who should be at church. Never mind that I'd also panicked earlier and systematically gone through a list of church activities in order to discern whether I really, actually, truly, had a free night.
After some pressure on my part, he then politely offered me future homemade pizza. I froze and eyed him suspiciously. This is the standard level of confusion involved in all our interactions, but you must understand that it is all his fault – I wanted pizza, not a poisonous mixture of tomato sauce and pineapple chunks.
We ended up cooking a meal together, during which process Timbit and Butters bonded over their love of The Beatles. I watched them crooning an apparently tuneless classic and mainly failing to cut a fresh pizza with four hands, a pair of scissors, a knife, and a cooking spoon. As Timbit emphatically tried to explain the generations and genres of music they influenced, I bit my tongue to keep from gleefully returning with I don't care! They are the 60s version of Hanson! I only know three of their names, one of which probably seemed like a good idea when it was discovered on a popsicle wrapper while high. Huzzah - vive la différence!
I enjoy ruining Butters' day in this fashion; I don't know Timbit well enough yet. But I do wish I could start any conversation with white people with “I don't like The Beatles” in order to weed out those to whom this matters.
But this would be a terrible lie.
The truth is that I don't know if I like the Beatles or not – I don't think I've ever heard a full song other than Hey Jude. Can I help it if my parents scoured garage sales for Boney M. records when they were going through their part-nostalgia, part-Canadian assimilation period? Maybe this should be my small talk-destroying gambit.
The next night, Butters accused me of being shallow because I would not bear his babies due to his height. I stood by my decision at the time, but regretted it later.
“I'm sorry I said I wouldn't bear your babies. That was rude.”
“...That... was a joke.”
“I know, but I--”
“Definitely not--”
“No, I know, but--”
“--a serious offer.”
“I know, just--”
“Definitely.”
“Yeah, but I--”
“Not.”
“I was joking! I just need your help! I need you to come to a concert with me!”
“...In your room?”
“In my... No!”
Specifically, I needed him to accompany me to a concert at a church and offer his English-teaching services to a friend.
True to form, he refused and gave smug relationship advice that I hadn't requested and would never follow. In the end, though, I was glad he didn't come because I would've been wondering the whole time if he was bored, if he was hungry, if he needed to be changed...
Fortunately, I was saved again from passing the store where I would have bought the best peanut butter in the world. But I would pass a market that sold ordinary peanuts and there was no stopping this juggernaut.
Not even N2O's warning that the price of peanuts had nearly doubled was enough to dissuade me. With a backpack on, I haggled for a great deal in a market that used to terrify me – three victories which allowed me to arrive home on an euphoric high.
Which Butters systematically peed on, as is his wont regarding anything that gives me the slightest hint of joy. He used a stupid American mathematical model to smirk that I'd saved two minutes of time, which we'd just wasted on our conversation. According to a more practical Congolese one, I'd saved the equivalent of a week's worth of breakfasts – this is difficult to explain to someone who, despite a year of being cheated, is about as guarded as an incontinent chihuahua (though with the same initially frenzied reaction).
I was incensed when he demanded why I was home so early and then muttered that I was a creature of habit who should be at church. Never mind that I'd also panicked earlier and systematically gone through a list of church activities in order to discern whether I really, actually, truly, had a free night.
After some pressure on my part, he then politely offered me future homemade pizza. I froze and eyed him suspiciously. This is the standard level of confusion involved in all our interactions, but you must understand that it is all his fault – I wanted pizza, not a poisonous mixture of tomato sauce and pineapple chunks.
We ended up cooking a meal together, during which process Timbit and Butters bonded over their love of The Beatles. I watched them crooning an apparently tuneless classic and mainly failing to cut a fresh pizza with four hands, a pair of scissors, a knife, and a cooking spoon. As Timbit emphatically tried to explain the generations and genres of music they influenced, I bit my tongue to keep from gleefully returning with I don't care! They are the 60s version of Hanson! I only know three of their names, one of which probably seemed like a good idea when it was discovered on a popsicle wrapper while high. Huzzah - vive la différence!
I enjoy ruining Butters' day in this fashion; I don't know Timbit well enough yet. But I do wish I could start any conversation with white people with “I don't like The Beatles” in order to weed out those to whom this matters.
But this would be a terrible lie.
The truth is that I don't know if I like the Beatles or not – I don't think I've ever heard a full song other than Hey Jude. Can I help it if my parents scoured garage sales for Boney M. records when they were going through their part-nostalgia, part-Canadian assimilation period? Maybe this should be my small talk-destroying gambit.
The next night, Butters accused me of being shallow because I would not bear his babies due to his height. I stood by my decision at the time, but regretted it later.
“I'm sorry I said I wouldn't bear your babies. That was rude.”
“...That... was a joke.”
“I know, but I--”
“Definitely not--”
“No, I know, but--”
“--a serious offer.”
“I know, just--”
“Definitely.”
“Yeah, but I--”
“Not.”
“I was joking! I just need your help! I need you to come to a concert with me!”
“...In your room?”
“In my... No!”
Specifically, I needed him to accompany me to a concert at a church and offer his English-teaching services to a friend.
True to form, he refused and gave smug relationship advice that I hadn't requested and would never follow. In the end, though, I was glad he didn't come because I would've been wondering the whole time if he was bored, if he was hungry, if he needed to be changed...
While I enjoyed the concert, I wouldn't be me if I did have some concerns. I am once again thankful that my regular church is led by a local pastor who understands that the focus of a church is the love of God, the salvation of Christ, and new life in the Spirit.
I do have a more specific description, but as caustic spills need to be contained, I've put it in a different post.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!