It's nice to be loved.
But I sometimes wish it wouldn't manifest itself as N2O hurrying up behind me when I'm alone in my office and asking for kisses. This inexplicable behaviour has intensified since her marriage, so I've politely asked her to confine her antics to her bedroom. (Or I've wheezed this while fighting to hold her hands away from my ribs.)
She just laughs and continues attempting to fondle me.
I think it's because she knows I'm an absolute prude. She may also be trying to prepare me for marriage – she's been worried ever since I explained that my commitment to this program and my work prevents me from dating for a while (this is no loss either to me or to the dating world, believe me). But, hey, maybe she routinely demands bizous from all her girlfriends.
I've already decided that people are generally far beyond my level of understanding. One day they're recovering from a long-term relationship and suddenly they're confessing their feelings to their crush when she all she did was skip Bible study for general pining and Pan's Labyrinth.
...Anyway, I love trying to understand people – I just don't expect to ever get there. Case in point: As exhausted as I was after a longer-than-usual work week, I offered to take Butters out for a drink because his new mattress was probably developing another Butters-shaped depression, and our incredibly uncomfortable couches would add to any existing depression, not alleviate it.
“I'm resting!” he shrieked, reminding me of the days when we were foster parents to a lovely little spatula. “I've fractured my rib! I am obviously deranged! And a giant pansy!”
...Very well, he only said some of those things, but our understanding goes beyond mere words at this point. My pity for him had run out within a few minutes of hearing of his condition – he should have subsequently gone back to being himself. Which was basically reading and watching shows as he was doing, but without this... aura of moping. Since Timbit, our Janus-faced diplomat, was away, we continued in mutually incomprehensible stress – me fighting anemia-and-insomnia-induced irritation and Butters bemoaning my desire to martyr myself for random causes while dying inside and killing others on the outside.
This is entirely unfair.
Nearly everything I do is for my own benefit. I martyr myself for causes and people I like because it makes me happy and cancels out the martyrdom. If I like you and know what you want, I will attempt to move heaven and earth to get it for you. Of course, sometimes I don't know what you want because you are, unfortunately, a crazy person.
Butters used to enjoy going out. I enjoy can go out, but bars are not ideal because of the probability (much higher than you would think) of getting twirled by a tipsy Uruguayan to help him win a bet.
...Anyway, the few times I've gone to bar here, it's been out of FOMO. But if a drink would make Butters stop silently nursing his grievous war wound, I was even willing to start a tab.
Naturally, he assumed I was trying to either drive him insane or kill him - both excellent causes to which I shall devote myself forthwith. So I gave up on luring him back to all his terrible vices, folded myself onto two of our couches, and wondered how many cushion-makers worked for Satan and whether he offered a good vision plan.
Eventually, Butters and I made up over Revolver, the next Beatles* album that he recommended. And then he criticised the fact that I loved the album and wanted to listen to it again and again.
Does Satan have everyone on his payroll except me?
Another night, Butters demanded that I touch his hair in order to make some convoluted argument in support of our newly-installed shower (a bucket hooked overhead with a showerhead-tap addition – curtesy of Grandpa & Son Construction).
“Touch my hair.”
“No.”
“Touch it.”
“No.”
“Touch it.”
“No.”
“O-kay, but it's your lo--”
“No.”
“Anytime you want to--”
“No.”
I already have the tendency to be a little... over-friendly with people I'm used to, and he is already forever entwined with my memories of The Beatles; I don't want to open the door to a discussion on harassment with our coordinators and a male housemate who needs no more reason to hate me. Regardless of his (wrong) opinion, the shower system wouldn't work for me on many levels:
My walk to church on Sunday proved beyond a doubt that my happy place is in a fortress of solitude. Normally, I hit the ground running and don't stop for love or money (both of which I'm probably offered or requested) until I reach my final destination. That morning, as I was waiting for Carrottop in front of our apartment, a group of children of varying ages plopped down on the grass beside me. I was vaguely worried and crossed to the other side of the street, but the damage was already done. By the time Carrottop arrived, another group of children had joined the first, and we were surrounded.
Thinking that they wouldn't be able to keep up if I kept up my usual stride, I pulled my hair over my shoulder to keep it out of their grubby hands and ditched Carrottop. And this is how I played Pied Piper to at least fifteen determined children who ran to keep up with me through a crowded market and under the laughing eyes of half the city.
It wasn't totally unwarranted; I think the combined effect of my outfit and hair was a little overwhelming - that's what I get for listening to Pastor's wife about how short and tight a dress should be. Thankfully, the children headed to a different church, and I held on like grim death to my right to wear a dress and leave my hair down. I hadn't planned on singing in the band as the main singer had returned from her vacation, but Pastor inexplicably knew how much I loved it and encouraged me to go on up. But a conversation with a friend reminded me that I should stick to my guns.
“I'm so glad you joined the choir!”
“But you can't hear me anyway.”
“But it makes a nice picture!”
As this is, in my opinion, one of the worst reasons to join anything, anywhere – especially in church - I resolved again to quit, for real this time. So I had a fantastic last night in the band, even singing my favourite Swahili song, and now I'll go back to singing my heart out in the congregation.
Martyrdom never felt so good.
*I was wrong. So very wrong. The Beatles are amazing. I am sorry for all the years that I wasted. Furthermore, I apologise for thinking that white people were just exaggerating as they do regarding things like Hawaiian pizza. Did I mention I was wrong?
But I sometimes wish it wouldn't manifest itself as N2O hurrying up behind me when I'm alone in my office and asking for kisses. This inexplicable behaviour has intensified since her marriage, so I've politely asked her to confine her antics to her bedroom. (Or I've wheezed this while fighting to hold her hands away from my ribs.)
She just laughs and continues attempting to fondle me.
I think it's because she knows I'm an absolute prude. She may also be trying to prepare me for marriage – she's been worried ever since I explained that my commitment to this program and my work prevents me from dating for a while (this is no loss either to me or to the dating world, believe me). But, hey, maybe she routinely demands bizous from all her girlfriends.
I've already decided that people are generally far beyond my level of understanding. One day they're recovering from a long-term relationship and suddenly they're confessing their feelings to their crush when she all she did was skip Bible study for general pining and Pan's Labyrinth.
...Anyway, I love trying to understand people – I just don't expect to ever get there. Case in point: As exhausted as I was after a longer-than-usual work week, I offered to take Butters out for a drink because his new mattress was probably developing another Butters-shaped depression, and our incredibly uncomfortable couches would add to any existing depression, not alleviate it.
“I'm resting!” he shrieked, reminding me of the days when we were foster parents to a lovely little spatula. “I've fractured my rib! I am obviously deranged! And a giant pansy!”
...Very well, he only said some of those things, but our understanding goes beyond mere words at this point. My pity for him had run out within a few minutes of hearing of his condition – he should have subsequently gone back to being himself. Which was basically reading and watching shows as he was doing, but without this... aura of moping. Since Timbit, our Janus-faced diplomat, was away, we continued in mutually incomprehensible stress – me fighting anemia-and-insomnia-induced irritation and Butters bemoaning my desire to martyr myself for random causes while dying inside and killing others on the outside.
This is entirely unfair.
Nearly everything I do is for my own benefit. I martyr myself for causes and people I like because it makes me happy and cancels out the martyrdom. If I like you and know what you want, I will attempt to move heaven and earth to get it for you. Of course, sometimes I don't know what you want because you are, unfortunately, a crazy person.
Butters used to enjoy going out. I
...Anyway, the few times I've gone to bar here, it's been out of FOMO. But if a drink would make Butters stop silently nursing his grievous war wound, I was even willing to start a tab.
Naturally, he assumed I was trying to either drive him insane or kill him - both excellent causes to which I shall devote myself forthwith. So I gave up on luring him back to all his terrible vices, folded myself onto two of our couches, and wondered how many cushion-makers worked for Satan and whether he offered a good vision plan.
Eventually, Butters and I made up over Revolver, the next Beatles* album that he recommended. And then he criticised the fact that I loved the album and wanted to listen to it again and again.
Does Satan have everyone on his payroll except me?
Another night, Butters demanded that I touch his hair in order to make some convoluted argument in support of our newly-installed shower (a bucket hooked overhead with a showerhead-tap addition – curtesy of Grandpa & Son Construction).
“Touch my hair.”
“No.”
“Touch it.”
“No.”
“Touch it.”
“No.”
“O-kay, but it's your lo--”
“No.”
“Anytime you want to--”
“No.”
I already have the tendency to be a little... over-friendly with people I'm used to, and he is already forever entwined with my memories of The Beatles; I don't want to open the door to a discussion on harassment with our coordinators and a male housemate who needs no more reason to hate me. Regardless of his (wrong) opinion, the shower system wouldn't work for me on many levels:
- I have all the upper-body strength of a slug
- I have three feet of hair
- I'm scared the bucket is going to fall on my head
- I'm used to bucket baths - my main challenge for the next two months is having water in the bucket
My walk to church on Sunday proved beyond a doubt that my happy place is in a fortress of solitude. Normally, I hit the ground running and don't stop for love or money (both of which I'm probably offered or requested) until I reach my final destination. That morning, as I was waiting for Carrottop in front of our apartment, a group of children of varying ages plopped down on the grass beside me. I was vaguely worried and crossed to the other side of the street, but the damage was already done. By the time Carrottop arrived, another group of children had joined the first, and we were surrounded.
Thinking that they wouldn't be able to keep up if I kept up my usual stride, I pulled my hair over my shoulder to keep it out of their grubby hands and ditched Carrottop. And this is how I played Pied Piper to at least fifteen determined children who ran to keep up with me through a crowded market and under the laughing eyes of half the city.
It wasn't totally unwarranted; I think the combined effect of my outfit and hair was a little overwhelming - that's what I get for listening to Pastor's wife about how short and tight a dress should be. Thankfully, the children headed to a different church, and I held on like grim death to my right to wear a dress and leave my hair down. I hadn't planned on singing in the band as the main singer had returned from her vacation, but Pastor inexplicably knew how much I loved it and encouraged me to go on up. But a conversation with a friend reminded me that I should stick to my guns.
“I'm so glad you joined the choir!”
“But you can't hear me anyway.”
“But it makes a nice picture!”
As this is, in my opinion, one of the worst reasons to join anything, anywhere – especially in church - I resolved again to quit, for real this time. So I had a fantastic last night in the band, even singing my favourite Swahili song, and now I'll go back to singing my heart out in the congregation.
Martyrdom never felt so good.
*I was wrong. So very wrong. The Beatles are amazing. I am sorry for all the years that I wasted. Furthermore, I apologise for thinking that white people were just exaggerating as they do regarding things like Hawaiian pizza. Did I mention I was wrong?
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!