relationshipping

Reboot

Reboot

 

and reconsider.

So, I have yet to live on my own.
My first long-term relationship was with my roommate.

I remember a conversation on a couch…
“Are we going to regret this?”
“Regret what?”
“That we’ve never…dated…you know?”
“Hmm…I guess…I don’t know.  We go on dates...
“That’s not what I mean.  Will we regret never having had a proper courtship?  The dating period, having our own places, choosing— really choosing— to live together.”

I feel a little hollow and all I can articulate is, “Oh.”
Followed with, “Well, do you want to?  Live apart, I mean.  I’m sure we can find a way out of this lease, figure something out…”
But it feels like a big fat lie I’m spouting for all the effort and cash it’s going to cost.  Let’s be real.  We’re 21 years old, in Manhattan and just forked a fat wad of monies for this proper one-bedroom apartment not even a month ago.  The entire reason we’re living together is because it’s convenient and cost-effective.  Well, there’s love too.

I look at her and see concern and consternation.
Which makes me pause, doubt, rethink.

Maybe we I should seriously reconsider this.  This is a point of no return of sorts; even my pseudo-adult self knows that undoing, retreating, detaching is always more exhausting a process than getting over the shock, hurt, adjustment in the present.

“Hmm…I-I wonder if…what do you think?  For real?  I know it’d be a shit process but I don’t want you to regret this.”
We’re silent.
We’re exhausted.
We’re not even unpacked.

I roll a spliff because it’s what I do in these uncomfortable moments when heavy uncertainty clouds the air.  Getting high isn’t the goal as it’s the calm within the routine I seek.  Like ironing.

But we get high.  I look at the cat stretching in the windowpane sun squares on the hardwood floor and take in my familiar surroundings: colorful furniture we hand-painted last year, schools of soft plastic, blue Jedi goldfish gathered on ceiling corners, a beautiful, delicate orchid that we hope will make it, post-jostling move (a ‘grown-up present’ from her parents given a few months ago, her 21st birthday) and the art on the walls that comfort in their familiarity.

We’ve laid a touching foundation for our home.
We get sentimental, talk of not wanting to live apart because the love and like in the moment is worth risking cohabitation-induced regret and/or speeding up a breakup.

We show our youthful naiveté.

***

I live alone for an entire three months before a roommate enters the triplex my ex and I shared in the South.  Then I get a boyfriend and it seems the most sensible choice for him to stay with me during our crazy honeymoon phase because he lives a state away.  Our first night together is our last night apart for at least a year, when he leaves for some cowboy-Montana-ranch thing.  In the span of three years, we can count the number of nights we spend apart.  On two hands.

This boyfriend, my current ex-girlfriend and wife, and I realize our cohabitation time is coming to a definitive end in Tokyo.
I contemplate my words regarding personal space:
I need to have a place to call my own, to fill with objects of my own choosing, to maintain as I like without considering somebody else.
I have never lived alone.
I resent this inexperience.

But.

The luxury of daily emotional support from my ex/best friend/wife/roommate in spite of challenging fights and moments of high emotion is not lost on me.
Nor is the fact that I am kept alive through alcohol poisoning and nursed through a recent Dengue Fever because of her.
There is an ideological shift.

I consider my past, how my natural inclination is to share my life with the ones I love.
Cohabitation.
It’s what I do and I’m starting to think it’s the way I live my life.

 

P.S. Reader requested topics: I’m working on it!

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random love

Ha.

You know that feeling when you see someone you think you know but it’s totally not them?

Here’s my version:
“You’re almost at 6th?  Ten minutes?  Alright.”

A familiar black Honda Accord pulls to a stop in front of me, Rasta cap and dreads behind the wheel.  I open the door and slide into the passenger seat, cheerfully “Hey ma— oh SHITshitshitshit…you’re not him.”

My eyes are supersaucers and my shocked mouth can’t connect word-thoughts with my frozen brain.

I’ve just walked into a stranger’s car.
Off the street.

fuckfuckfuckfuck.

While I’m mentally oh-shitting myself, Rastaman with the most dazzling smile and reassuring voice says to me, to the beat of the happy-peace-chill music in the background, “Wachu want, baby?  Relaaax…I got wachu want.”  And it really doesn’t sound as skeezy as that reads.

Reality snap: I inhale the tell-tale, weedy-incense drug scent that permeates the car and what are the odds?!

Do I go for it?  He’s not a narc, right?  I mean, he’s in the exact same make and model as my regular dude and the fucking dreads and hat, for chrissakes.  These eerie similarities make me think paranoid thoughts like:
This is a set-up.
Why on earth would I be set-up?
I don’t buy serious quantity.
I don’t sell the shit.
Is this really just a fucking weird coincidence?
I just smoke a lot of dope.
I’m wholesome, c’mon.

While I’m exercising neuroticism, Rastaman asks me what I was going to buy.  And he proceeds to show me the most green shit I’ve seen in a while.  Nice.  Hmm…time to negotiate while I wonder about the moral code of switching dealers.  I always need a back-up and his shit is better than my regular dude’s— for the same price.  Speaking of, where the fuck is my regular guy?!  He’s super late at this point.  This is a no-brainer.

The deal is done.
He gives me his card— 007.

I exit the car and my heart starts to beatbeatpound.  I hope really hard that no one stops me.  I want my trusting instincts to prove me right.  I’m anxious, walking quickly but not too suspiciously quickly, fighting the urge to look behind me.  Surely no one’s behind me.  As I reach my block, I finally breath sweet relief and smile huge.

Because I just ditched Bugs Bunny for James Bond.

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random love, the sex

Let’s talk about sex

InpatientBut where to start?

How about one of my firsts.
I was 19 years old.

Me: Wait, what’s his name?
BFF: ***.  He’s really cool and he wants to meet you since he’s ***’s (her boyfriend’s) best friend and you’re my best friend and you happen to be in New York.
Me: Sure, why not.  I’ll see when I’m off this week.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

I know this guy likes to party, way more and harder than I do so my judgy mind expects a strung-out skeletal raver-kid who could be beautiful or with fucked up speedy teeth and bad skin who can’t stop scratching himself.

He’s actually much more wholesome-looking than I expect and quite polite but that could just be an effect of his charming English accent.  The strangest thing is how safe I feel around him and maybe it’s nothing more than my internal radar believing that if I don’t acquiesce, he won’t sex.  Either way, I trust him enough to easily “sure,” when he asks if I want to party.

His friends live in a way too fucking cool for school apartment in a doorman building and they’re already SMAAaa-shed.  Actually, considering that they haven’t left their place for almost three days, they are in that dreamy-haze state that saw wasted over 36 hours ago.  We’re just in time for nitrous rounds!  But I stick to my familiar weed and alcohol as he snorts, smokes and rapid-inhales a motley assortment until he’s blue in the face.  He stays blue-violet long enough that not only am I worried (of course I’m worried) but his friend who showed up god-knows-when is worried, until said friend takes a hit of something and disappears into his own high world.

Time suddenly morph-warp speeds as happens when drugs happen and as we’re sitting in a diner eating many plates of pierogies, I need to decide if I want to have sex with him because his friend is asking him if he needs a place to crash.  He still feels safe to me and as tends to happen when shared experiences take place, I feel close to him.  So why not?  Yeah, come back to my crappy dorm room.

He uses a condom.
I intake sharply as he decidedly fucks me.
He cums.
All in all, he’s pretty sweet and gentle.
I reach for a cigarette and quickly become lost in thought as I inhale delicious nicotine.
He joins me for a smoke- “Oh, right!”- because that’s what you do after a fuck?
He crashes, thank god.
I go to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror.

So that was that.

He didn’t say degrading things that make me feel inadequate and dirty.
I didn’t fix my eyes on a single, burning bulb, willing it to render me blind to erase what was happening.
I had no problem looking at him the next day, directly in the eyes to say, “I’ve got to go to work so you’ve got to go.”

It was devoid of any meaning.
That it was a meaningless act made it absolutely meaningful; a first of many in the realm of sex.

My first one-night stand was the first time I had sex.

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random love

Happy freedom day, America

gay freedom

from Tokyo.

Funnily and unexpectedly enough, this holiday has struck a deep chord within me.  Perhaps it took moving to a foreign country, one in which I’m a citizen, to make me think damn hard and comparatively about American things like:

change, weed, immigration, conflict, acceptance, hate, cops, motherfucking Hollywood, documentaries, fast food, abuse, Vegas, the fucking judicial system, abortion, beer, AA, puppies, capitalism, goddamn public transportation,
Planned Parenthood, traffic, swimming pools, guns, NYC, libraries,
the homeless, privilege,  infomercials, love, Prince, reality TV, the death penalty,
fucking musicals, Apple, vegans, fly fishing,  NAACP, the public, goddamn Texas, telemarketing, Sesame Street, equality, drag queens, fucking healthcare.

I could go on.  And on.

But really, it’s just this:
Love you, America.

Oh fuck, have I just become patriotic?
I’m aight with that.

Love y’all, Happy 4th, Peace.

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