Monthly Archive for April, 2004

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Wednesday morning, 2 AM. I wake up with a CONSTANT, searing pain in my gut, signaling to me that, yes, the Diverticulitis is back with a vengeance. It completely caught me by surprise, since I’ve been going out of my way to take care of my diet and not inflame it. Of course, one night of pizza gave me enough cheese to constipate me, which inflamed everything. That’s odd, too, since I’m lactose intolerant and cheese usually has the opposite…well, never mind.

I’ve been more or less laid up for the past two days, and on antibiotics for the past day. I should be laid up today, but can’t find anyone to cover my shift at the movie theater. I hope RJ will understand that he’s going to be stuck with the bigger jobs today, which shouldn’t be a problem since he doesn’t have to build or break anything today.

Pain sucks.

Everyone has a breaking point. You never know what it is until you reach it.

Tonight was mine.

I come home after a really shitty day at the movie theater (over $900.00 short of where we should have been at the end of the night) half asleep. Of course, the living room is still full of the kitchen because we have now reached the ONE MONTH point without a functional kitchen and no end in sight. Oh, Bryan has his blessed bathtub but I don’t even have a fucking microwave to heat food up in. Nor do I have any more money to buy pre-prepared food. I’m officially broke.

So I come upstairs, and I’m stumbling over stacks of comic books. Not unread ones, but ones that have already been read. They’ve now moved into the middle of the bedroom, fighting a war with Bryan’s dirty laundry which he may wash on occasion, but fuck if he’ll ever FOLD anything. I stopped folding because I’m tired of being the only one to do so. We had reached the same point with dishes.

Anyway, the comic books. Bryan insists on cataloging and sorting all his comics before storing them in long boxes. The problem? Bryan hasn’t cataloged, sorted, or boxed a comic book in THREE YEARS. I know this because he hasn’t boxed anything since the last time we went to a comic convention. I asked him to please try and make some headway with the comics, and he said he can’t do anything until after I clear out things on top of the comic boxes. Why can’t he move them?

Then, about five minutes ago, I finally snapped. The last straw hit. Trying to get some rest on the couch, I rolled over and kicked over a tray table, sending everything on it flying, and breaking our salt shaker. Tray tables have been one major source of strife between Bryan and I ever since he moved in. I hate them. Absolutely loathe them. But he has to eat in front of the TV. I can deal with that. But he abso-fucking-lutely never clears one off and puts it away. I’ve been telling him for nine fucking years that I don’t want tray tables to become permanent fixtures in this house. They are for temporary use only and should be cleared and put away as soon as you are done with one. When I say this, he fucking laughs. I’ve come very close to throwing them all out, but I know he’d just go buy new ones with money we don’t have.

I don’t know what to do any more. Bryan is hooked on a show called “Significant Others,” which is a comedy about couples in therapy. Doesn’t he realize that we are all of those couples? He treats me like shit, doesn’t give a fuck about any of my feelings, is condescending all the time, makes fun of me in front of our friends, ignores me when I ask him to do something, and generally acts like I’m supposed to be his guardian, butler, cleaning service, and banker for no pay.

A good friend of mine, someone whose counsel I trust, has been advising me to leave Bryan for some time now. There’s one major reason I don’t. The little fucker does love me. I know he does, in that sick, twisted, little version of love that he knows. But he has no clue how to show love, or make love work, or even compromise the least little bit. Yet, knowing that he really does love me makes it impossible for me to turn my back on him and break his heart. Yet he doesn’t realize he’s breaking mine. And, of course, Mr. big-shot writer and communicator me can never manage to actually tell him all this.

Anyway, I want my fucking kitchen back. I would want my life back, but I can’t have that, so right now let’s start with the kitchen and see where we can go from there.

SERIES PROPOSAL: “AMERICAN HAS-BEEN”

Wherein we search for the one-hit (or no-hit) wonder most deserving of another crack at stardom, or at least a second 15 minutes.

The field narrows down from around 64 to 16 to 8. Then has-beens are eliminated one at a time by a vote “by America.” The last one standing gets a one-album deal with Warner Brothers and a single video on VH1.

Celebrity guests will include Justin Guarini, Deborah Gibson, and that “She Bangs” guy. No, not the Asian guy. Ricky Martin. Talk about one-hit wonder. Nastiness provided by Rosie O’Donnell.