06/28/00
Obviously, the most effective way to get someone's attention is to piss them off. I can say this with some authority, given the flood of nasty, condescending, "shame on you" e-mails I've received just since yesterday. If only our elected officials garnered such a response, maybe we could get something accomplished in this country.
Allow me to respond to all of them en masse, because really, if I took the time to respond to each one, I could probably drive to Key West and back. I think it's great that X (because I don't care to drag her name through any further internet mud, not because of any deep symbolic meaning of the letter "X", mind you) has such supportive and compassionate people in her life who are willing to stand up for her. All the same, when you send me e-mail telling me how judgmental and evil and "downright skanky" (that's an actual quote) I am, you're really not doing much more than lowering yourselves to the level to which you accuse me of sinking. I took some things she said the wrong way, okay? I have a real problem with hypersensitivity--I've been told this on more than one occasion, TRUST ME. (As recently as last night, but that story will come later.) I know it's one of my many character flaws. I read slightly too much into some of the things she wrote, and rather than question them, I jumped down her throat because I'm hostile under pressure (another of my many character flaws). I'm not going to make excuses because there really aren't any to make. I was wrong. And not that it's really anyone's business, but I told her I was wrong. I admit when I've fucked up. So thank you for your interest, but really...enough, already.
One more note--isn't it only slightly hypocritical to accuse me of being overly judgmental and presumptuous, then, in the same paragraph, profess to know everything about me, like what a horribly unhappy person I must be, that I'm hateful, etcetera ad nauseum? Just a thought.
So don't expect me to spend the next several days chronicling the reasons for my rage reactions, nor justifying my responses. I call 'em like I see 'em, only I need glasses so I don't always "see 'em" so clearly. If you have a problem with something I say, more power to ya. Tell me about it. But spare me the holier-than-thou crap, would you? Or at least genuinely BE holier-than-thou.
Okay, now, where was I? Oh, yes, my pathetic life.
I attacked Jud (fuck it, I'm using real, full names from here on. If any of them don't like it, I suppose they'll just have to sue me) upon his meeting me at the field yesterday with his dogs. I told him to expect a nasty e-mail from me and then told him what it said. His account of the conversation with Megan really interested me...apparently she played it up all innocent, "gee whiz, I don't know WHAT she's really doing, I'm just going along with it, I don't know WHY she would want to break up..." Puke. Hmmm...you're an insufferable bitch, maybe? No, that couldn't be... Anyway, then I told him about the whole me-in-love-with-Zak business, and he had no idea where she came up with that, either. He did find it pretty damned funny, and when Zak showed up, joked that "maybe I should leave you two alone...give you some privacy." I threw his dog's tennis ball at him and hit him in the head (I may throw like a girl, but my aim is good). So he actually did leave about 10 minutes later, and Zak and I were alone, and nothing more happened than ever does. He did mention that "love" is overrated (I'm beginning to agree) and I threw in my belief that people should spend more time having sex and less time trying to be in love. It was nothing more than friendly conversation. Probably all it ever will be. Probably for the best.
So Megan got out of school super fucking early last night. Like, 8:00 early. Dammit. And she decides to ask me, "so what's going on? I need to know if we're just 'taking a break' like you keep saying, or if we're really breaking up, because if we are 'taking a break,' it doesn't make a whole lot of sense to go on vacation together." I'm thinking, fuck, fuck FUCK I don't need this conversation right now, but I went with it anyway.
Big fucking mistake. It turned into a going-nowhere shouting match, just like all of our other attempts at communication. I say something about how I "perceive" her actions (God I hate this social work bullshit) and she counters with "hmm...no, that's just not accurate. You're just perceiving it as ." Which just infuriates me. And again, I think most of my problem with her comes from the fact that I spent all this time at her side, even when she was more like my child than my spousal equivalent, and when I needed her more than anything else...she was nowhere to be seen. Because she just couldn't "deal with it." Again, I got to hear about my hypersensitivity and my incorrect perceptions. Again, I got to hear about how irritating my whole therapy shit was to her. Again, I got to hear about my martyr complex. Again, I got to hear about how I speak in "sweeping generalities." Again, again, again. I told her, okay, fine, let's stop kicking the dead dog...it's OVER. Which is when she played her trump card.
She said "then I think we ought to look into selling the house."
Selling the house? My home? My dream? The culmination of everything I've worked my whole life for and everything I have left? Are you fucking insane?
"What do you mean, sell the house?"
"Well, if we're not together, I don't plan to stay in Kansas City past next May (when she graduates with her MSW). And I'm not going to pay for something I don't live in. I mean, I'm sure you could find a roommate, but legally, my name would still be on it and that's not really what I want..."
No, no, no. You can't have my house. This is MY fucking house, dammit. You've robbed me of my pride, my dignity, my money, whatever self-respect I still may have had...you will NOT take my house. I could just burst into tears thinking about it. If we sold it, assuming we could even break even, I would have nothing. No money, no place to live, not much in the way of furniture, and two dogs, two cats, four birds and a fish tank. Who the hell would rent to me? And I don't want to rent, anyway. I like having my own place. I don't care if things break and grass grows and gutters fill up with shit. I love it. I like knowing that if I plant something in the yard, I'll still be able to enjoy it in a year. I like not having to worry about the landlord showing up out of the blue, or sneaking around when I'm gone, or finding out how many animals I really have. I like not sending someone an assload of money every month just for the pleasure of living in their property.
She can't do it. She just can't.
So this morning, I send one of my lawyer friends an e-mail asking what my options are. The best by far (that I can think of) is if we could work out some kind of written agreement whereby I agree to live in and keep up the property and maintain mortgage payments until I finish law school, at which point we'll sell the place (at a profit by then, I fucking hope) and go our separate ways. The only problem is whether or not I
But wait, there's more...