Tuesday, April 5, 2011

World Turning

“The basis of optimism is sheer terror.”

           Last week, I came home to what looked like the disaster debris a tornado left behind after ripping through my apartment. Mike has left, all of his things have been liberated from our apartment. He also left me a note, which I did not find until the next day. It read, “I love you. I don’t ever want to see you again.” It crushed me for a moment, when I finally did come across it, and I think I even started to cry. I cut that off very quickly and drown my sorrows in a nice huge bong rip and bought a Hulu subscription. Mike took the TV and I’m not really in the mood to escape into some reading right now. Thank god my couches are still here.
          Early this morning, I wake up and go for a walk around the neighborhood. The weather is perfect. It’s in the high seventies and sunnier than it has been in months. I end up at Whole Foods thinking I should get a snack but I buy a bottle of whisky instead. Same difference. I also bought a bouquet of yellow snap dragons. They made me smile. On my way back, I run across a stack of broken down boxes sitting outside of the vet clinic on my block. I figure I’ll be needing those soon, so I bring the car back and put the pile of cardboard in my trunk. I lug everything into the apartment and drop the cardboard in the middle of the living room where our coffee table used to be. The apartment looks like shit. There is an empty pizza box, greasy and open, sitting on the floor. Trash and a roll of garbage bags have been abandoned and left for dead on the dining room table. Chairs are askew. There are blankets, strewn and messy, on the couch. I sleep there now since the bed is gone. I could pull out the queen size bed hiding underneath the cushions, but honestly that’s too much work. Besides, sleeping against the back of the couch makes me feel like I’m sleeping against another warm body. Also, it’s easier to put a small bucket or trashcan on the side of the couch if it’s folded in.
           I managed to go to work the last couple of days. I barely remember it though. Since no one is around to judge me and I have the car to myself, I’ve been rolling joints to smoke on the way to the restaurant each morning. It’s been actually lovely to get to work, stoned as fuck, and then make myself a sweet and frothy cappuccino. When I’m there, I watch The Office on Netflix and sit on Twitter, not tweeting but just watching other people ramble about Rihanna and other banalities. I don’t have much to say. I guess I should be thankful that I have a really mellow day job answering phones at a restaurant that’s not even open during the day. Perfect job for a pothead. There’s also a bar with which I am now closely acquainted. Did you know that you can mix any alcohol with any other alcohol and it will still get you drunk? Little known cocktail fact.
          Today I have the day off. I look around, taking in the bullshit that is now my life and my apartment. Actually, this room looks a lot better without that hideous computer desk junking up the back corner. I always wanted to bookcase to be there. I move the large rustic bookcase over to its rightful place. It’s a lot easier to move now that it’s missing 75% of its books. It almost looks nice in its new home. The only problem is, the couches are weird now. They’re still in an L-shape facing the now empty entertainment center. This room would really open up more if they faced each other instead. The next thing I know, I’m smoking my third joint of the day--at noon--Fleetwood Mac is blasting and I’m rearranging all the furniture. It feels good to sweat. It feels good to reclaim this space. I start to think that I’m not actually sad at all. I made the right decision and I don’t even miss him. I am euphoric.
         I heave and waddle the trunk from the bedroom and put it between the couches, now sitting on opposite sides of the room facing each other. See, I don’t even need your stupid coffee table. Dick. I place the flowers on the brightly tiled trunk and while it’s still “our apartment,” it is starting to feel a lot better. There is nothing in the bedroom now except all of my clothing and my coats and my shoes that I have also moved in there. A giant walk in closet – every girl’s dream! I walk around in heels just to hear the sound they make on the hardwood floors. I’m stoned and I’m smoking cigarettes in the apartment. Mike and I both smoke but I was very strict about us only smoking outside. Every cigarette I have inside now feels like one exhale closer to freedom. Fleetwood Mac makes me feel like singing. Being in my own space makes me feel like dancing. I swing around with an air tambourine doing my best Stevie impression. Later tonight, I’ll start putting the furniture on craigslist. Maybe I’ll even start packing up the kitchen. No reason to sit around and wallow. This is the best thing I’ve ever done for myself!

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