Archive for May, 2012

I groggily open my eyes to a squint this morning as he lumbers into bed next to me. I turn and snuggle backwards into him, but he does not respond. Heavily, I reach over and lift his arm over my body and try to rest his hand in the crook of my waist. He grumbles and rolls over and does not move. His face is smashed into the pillow and his arms angle out awkwardly. I look at him for a moment, perplexed, and realize that it is somewhat lighter outside than it had been when I went to sleep alone last night. We didn’t part Saturday night on bad terms; on the contrary, we made out in the stairwell and he promised he’d come over for homemade brunch date at noon today. So, an endearing move on his part to come early and wake up with me… Keep reading.

Just as I roll back over, he thrashes and a cascade of things topple off of his bedside table, including a cup of water and my bong, who just so happens to be synonymous with this blog. Crisis. I swiftly lift myself out of bed and glide into the closet to get a spare hand towel to wipe up the water all over the floor. As I turn to go back into the room and hear what can only be described to the most empathetic of ears as the unfortunate sound of retching.

I appear at his side with my desk’s wastebasket, only to find him slump-shouldered on his stomach, neck strained in a valiant and desperate attempt to keep his face out of the vomit all over the solar plexus of my double bed and both pillows. Deftly I navigate his head to the left with my hand and thrust the trash can into what can only be described as all of his field of vision. He looks at me, bleary eyed and wincing, and says, “I’m sorry.” I say, “Don’t worry about it. Can you walk to the bathroom or do you need a hand?”

Ultimately, after some bashful and unnecessary hiding in the water closet on the first floor, he is able to be convinced into the shower on the second. Humbly he stumbles up the stairs and I exchange trash bags, bundle up the bedding, spray disinfectant on my school’s saran wrapped mattress and take him a towel upstairs. Again, he mumbles an apology and I tell him it’s cool; he isn’t the first and he certainly won’t be the last.

Downstairs, I put on sweatpants and heave the soiled bedding into the back of the minivan. On the way back to my room, I sneak a look at the oven clock. 6:27 AM. While I decide not to address it right away, I slip the following into my mental back pocket: For how many consecutive hours does one have to have been drinking (since I left him at 1:30 AM) in order to be so drunk at 6 AM that he thinks it a good idea to walk all the way to my house, undress, climb into bed with me, and then throw up all over it?

We climb into the car together, along with my basket of regular laundry which I don’t feel bad making him pay for washing while we’re making the laundromat trip. 8 blocks away, I tell him to stay in the car while I check if the place is open yet (what with this being a small town before 7 AM) and drop the keys on the console between the two front seats. I run over to the door, it flies open at my grip, and I turn to see him shuffling towards me, carrying my full wicker basket. The car doors are closed. “Did you lock the car?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Ah. Well, there are the keys.” I point to inside the car.

We put the laundry we have into the washer (the odorous sheets and comforter remain in the now enclosed space of the minivan interior) and walk home, to my cell phone and AAA card. I decide to text my father to alert him that I am using our AAA service, with a brief explanation of laundromats, illness, and a misunderstanding of locking the keys in the car. I decide to avoid the part where the young man crawled into my bed at 6 AM on a Sunday morning (Mother’s Day, no less!) after having partied too hard; while they know that he is important in my life and do enjoy his company, the concept of entertaining even the most rudimentary conjecture that would point towards evidence of my having any sort of intimate relations (or participation in illegal activity, such as drugs, for instance) would certainly put my easily flummoxed parents in a tizzy.

The triple AAA people are charming and somewhat prophetic in how they guide me through the phone tree of customer assistance. This post is truly dedicated to Debra, the voices of the AAA call waiting commercials, Mike, and the man who rescued my keys. The man arrives, indeed, in under an hour, just like they promised he would. Even with my having given the vaguest of addresses, with the nearest intersection I could remember being three blocks away, he arrives on the scene with minutes to spare. Alas, I have stayed at the intersection and my besotted significant other is the one who is holding vigil at the laundromat and watching over the trusty fallen metal steed.

After the text “He’s here” buzzed in, I stride the three blocks only to arrive to a departing AAA trucklette and a sheepish boyfriend holding keys. I charge inside to change the wet wash over to the dryer while charging him with getting the vommie sheets. We zip over to his house quickly to pick up his laundry quarters, seeing as my stock will not cover the 14 required by the industrial washer we have stuffed my comforter and pillows into. While everything is sudsing, we sit in silence. I play Scramble. The dumpy lady with greasy orange hair and leopard leggings eyes us as she folds her laundry. We switch it into the dryer, I drop him at home and go pick up sponges (which my house has desperately needed since my housemate’s girlfriend and sister used and tossed ours after scrubbing the floor to rid it of the grime from my housemate’s senior film premiere after party … while my housemate sleeps off his hangover … they really are from the South and this feminist doesn’t like their devision of labor, to say the least) soap, tissues, allergy medication. I buy two flavors of soy milk, a new pill box, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, two kinds of cereal. I end up forgetting sponges and soap. Did I mention I’ve only had 4 hours sleep, my boyfriend threw up in my bed, AAA had to rescue my keys from my van, and I vaped in the car before going into the store?

Walmart circa 9 AM on a particular Sunday in May is full of the men of Middle America buying Mother’s Day paraphernalia; I hadn’t expected this many to have left arrangements so late. That said, we don’t buy my mom anything. We just (try to) do nice things for her.

The bedding is still damp. I drive back over to his house to get quarters (I promise: when I say small town, I mean worth driving to his house for quarters at 9 AM on Mother’s Day morning is worth it rather than to find an open establishment that could furnish me some) and pray that it is unlocked. It is and I enter without breaking to find him passed out on the futon imported from my family’s home to furnish his somewhat barren living room. I grab the abandoned quarter jar and try to rouse him with a gentle leg rub to alert him that he hasn’t been robbed; he is not to be stirred.

The laundry is now probably dry but I have returned home with my groceries and small portion of clean clothes, including my other set of sheets. I am torn between retrieving the laundry, out of necessity to not have it remain an annoyance and out of fear that it will be heisted, and leaving it be for a few hours while I pass out in my bed, having just eaten a delightful scrambled egg breakfast and smoking out of the delightfully synonymous pipe that just so miraculously survived its fall from an unbridled swat this early morning from an overzealous party boy.

I doubt, my good friend, that you can say that your morning was more outrageous than mine. If I am not correct, please speak up and in good faith, I will concede. But only after as sordid a tale.


I hope that when I look back on all this
in ten, fifteen, and plenty
I will be able to say that
[ blank ]
saved my life.

I hope that
I will not say
[ blank ] 
ruined my life.

that doesn’t mean
of course
that there weren’t shitty times
because sometimes it’s all just too much
you know?

of course you know.
I’d be delusional
if I thought I was the first –

for what?
for anything that would apply when one is so entwined in
[ blank ]

while I don’t know
if I’ll actually have a say
in whether it happens

I can hope all I want
that I’ll be the last
or the only one who matters anyway

[ blank ]
though you may not last forever
forever you will have lastingly
changed me