Tales of Wit and Charm…

AK and I never talk about our friend Tim. In fact, since his death, we haven’t spoken about him for more than a few minutes at a time. It’s too hard for both of us. We both feel guilty. Anyone who has dealt with a suicide knows this feeling all too well. While we both know we weren’t responsible for Tim’s decision, we will spend the rest of our lives questioning if we could have done more to help him.

Yesterday AK and I talked about Tim for nearly an hour. It was heartbreaking, yet beneficial for both of us. I told AK I’m scared of forgetting all the small details of Tim’s life. It’s time I start writing about him, I suppose. Writing is cathartic for me, and frankly I need to remember all the funny details of his life rather than remembering the day I found him.

Sometimes when I miss Tim so much I can’t breath I think about him in some sort of after life. Tim hated religion. He was an avid atheist and took great pleasure in arguing with everyone about his or her own personal beliefs. I picture Tim approaching the pearly gates and screaming at God for existing. I can see him saying, “God you’re driving me fucking crazy with this bullshit; I need a beer.” And then he’d challenge God to an arm wrestle; the winner would get to rule the world. Tim would, of course, lose and then accuse God of cheating. Without fail, my tears are suddenly tears of laughter as I picture the Tim vs. God scenario.

And as blasphemous as this coping mechanism may seem to some, I don’t care.  It works for me, and that’s what counts.

The apartment I rent is currently being reroofed. It’s been a nightmare since day one when the roofers accidentally punched a hole in my bedroom ceiling. It’s definitely made for an interesting week.

My friend Maddie was in my living room changing her clothes when she noticed a man on my balcony. This was disconcerting for so many reasons, but number one being that he wasn’t watching her change. If there’s going to be a strange man standing on my balcony I want him there because he’s peeking in my windows and thinking to himself, “Damn that lady looks hot for 32!”

The noise level has driven my neurotic dog under my bed in an attempt to muffle the noise level. Last night, when trying to coax her out, I noticed she’s been hoarding items under my bed for safekeeping. The stuffed animals and dog bones I understood, but the roof shingles, rusty nails and gum wrappers didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I’m a tad curious to see what other objects the valley winds may blow into my bedroom before the hole is fixed. I’m hoping for a sexy man who cleans bathrooms and pours wine, but I’m worried the only man who could fit through the hole would be Dennis Kucinich. And as much as I love a Democrat in my bedroom, I’d have to pass.

I opened the email, and contrary to the promise, I’m still worried.
Mostly about the following:

1) Who will get the Republican nomination.
2) Driving in the snow.
3) Who will get cut on the next Project Runway.
4) How I’m going to pass my math class.
5) If my bread pudding burn is going to scar.
6) Why my bank about never seems to have a surplus of cash.
7) If yellow tail shiraz is still on sale.
If Arlo is going to kick me out of life for making fun of his middle name.

You know important stuff.

I love my apartment, but have recently come to the conclusion I’m totally over it. It’s been a good little spot for me, but it’s time to move on. And move up. Only there’s a problem: I want to live the good life. Nothing fancy, but it would be nice to wash both dishes and clothing at home. My current apartment has neither a dishwasher or laundry. Paying more rent shouldn’t be a problem, but I’m in school and only working a part(ish) time job.

Thus the conundrum.

I’ve been considering taking on a roommate. I’ve not had a roomie in years (I’m not counting Daisy, as she never bothers to do any type of house work beyond her attempt to lick imaginary crumbs off the carpet.) I’ve even found a friend who is also looking for a new home. The only drawback is she’s young–fantastic, but young. She looks older than she is, and acts older than she is. Then there’s me… I look (I hope!!) younger than I am, and certainly act MUCH younger. If my calculations are correct (which they probably aren’t, I’m getting a C in math) then I figure we average out to be 26. She’s like a younger sister. In fact I had high hopes of her marrying into the family but she and Ben are “just friends.”

Will this work? Do I put my hesitations to bed and jump in? Can she deal with living the spinster life at such a young age? Will we get along? Can she handle my inherited orneriness? Am I worrying too much? Probably. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter.

I guess I’m not the only one at my house who feels their life spinning out of control:

After a late night out Pants and I went to Ruth’s this morning for brunch. I promised her it had the city’s best Bloody Mary, so to count on a wait.

What I hadn’t been counting on was seeing Captain America.

Last summer when I took him there for the first time he instantly loved it. I should have known he’d go back. I saw him about a month ago and it was awkward and hurt for days, but this was worse. Today he had his girlfriend with him. His very pretty girlfriend who makes him disgustingly happy. Sigh…

I ate my omelet, drank my Bloody Mary and tried to remain unaffected. Which, of course, didn’t work–it never does.

We didn’t acknowledge seeing one another, which almost hurt worse than being forced to smile and play nice while meeting his girlfriend.

I desperately need a city with less ex-boyfriends.