So, I was at the store yesterday, examining the live plants for sale (it’s the time of year when stores stop selling them). As the 4 readers of this blog already know (special shout out to Iran and Singapore! Iran, I see you looking at my Coconut Porn, you perv!), I enjoy plants and animals tremendously. They are what I have (or had–I’m really working to change myself) instead of human friends.
Anyway, there was this beautiful dark green and purple plant on the sale rack. It was a magnificent specimen–I mean, the thing was full and leafy and symmetrical, really a beautiful plant.
I asked the lady at the counter what sort of plant it was. She said that it was a “Wandering Jew.” I know that the Jews have done (and do) a hell of a lot of wandering–those cats have really gotten around, if you know what I mean–but I felt a little uncomfortable calling a plant, even a nice plant, a Jew. Not sure why–if it was called a “Wandering Ukrainian,” I wouldn’t think twice about it. Weird. I will have to ask a Jewish person how they feel about it. Perhaps I should e-mail Philip Roth.
Anyway, the plant was $17 and she “made a special discount for me,” so I carried my new friend to my apartment for only $15.
Houston, we have a problem.
The plant is so big and heavy that there is no place for it. It eats up as much space as a bird cage, and it’s so heavy that it has to be hung from a beam. The thing is huge. It’s like the plant that ate New York. I hanged it in front of my bedroom window and it blocked out the light and the view. I hanged it beside my bedroom mirror, and it occluded my view. It’s absurd. It’s the size of a TV set. Furthermore, I have no idea how to take care of it. There are no Wandering Jews where I come from. Well, maybe two or three, but they all taught at my university.
Do I prune it? Make it smaller? I have no idea. It scares me a little bit. It looks like a badass plant, like it could kill me in my sleep.
|click to enlarge|
I am preparing to go to war with an institution whose organizational structure and political culture is not unlike that of, say, Bulgaria. I will get what I want—I will earn what I want—and I will not stop.
|Beautiful view, but oceans smell weird, and I don’t trust them. They are important for the ecosystem, however.|
|The hotel has honest-to-God functioning telephone booths. With doors, as you see. I remember them vaguely from my early childhood, but none had wooded paneling or oil artwork hanging inside. I thought this was funny, like gold-plating a tissue box.|
|Fountains are universally beloved. There must be a psychological explanation for this.|
|If I were a plant, I would be a cactus. But not one from Mexico. Definitely not.|
|Home again, Home again! Landing at the airport.|
|Look how overjoyed Parrot is to get veggies when I returned home! Parrot is so beautiful. I wish I was as beautiful as Parrot.|
Bathrobe belts make excellent ligatures (as well as other things). Especially if the fabric is soft, not terrycloth. Terrycloth can leave carpet burns. Though I am typically indifferent to the condition of my hide (the marks, as I see it, are simply the cost of doing business), I prefer to keep any abrasions off of my neck. They attract too much attention.
|Can I move in?|
I have a ton of them I’ll be editing once I get home and it’s safe (re: private). In the meantime, here are a few.
Being used by a narcissist with sociopathic tendencies has its benefits (I realize that does not exactly flatter me). Will have to run that one by my analyst.
This hotel is GORGEOUS. And I saw a real live macaw! She was magnificent. That was probably my favorite part. I got to scratch her head. If I was rich, I’d get a macaw for sure. Well, maybe not–they are awfully loud and it’s cruel to cage them (I do not believe large parrots should be kept as pets unless they are licensed, registered, and housed in an aviary, like kestrels). But I would get an eclectus. A pair of them! I will name the boy KERMIT.
Anyway, enough about parrots. You know how I am, gentle reader. I could talk about parrots all day. Moving on:
|Dressing for Dinner|
|I got to observe The Rich in their natural habitat.|
The hotel is sumptuous. The most luxurious I have ever stayed at is the Dorchester in London, but this one is pretty damn impressive.
I had a little trouble checking in, even though my reservation was pre-paid. I regarded the clerk from across the marble countertop. She was my age, pretty, with (presumably) fake diamond studs in her ears. You don’t belong here, either.
In the Surgeon’s suite. You are so skinny, I can’t believe how good you look, your face looks so beautiful…whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!
“I don’t look sick, do I?” I ask. The Surgeon sees a lot of naked people.
“No! No! Beautiful! And your hair! More red!”
My BMI this morning was 16.7.
I straddle his torso as he lays on his bed, his arms tightly restrained at the wrists. I slap the palms on my hands down onto his chest. It makes a loud noise, like a gunshot, in the room.
He grimaces; turns his face to the side.
“Do not turn your countenance from me,” I say, I command. I am serious. Serious as a heart attack. I like to see their faces. It is one of my favorite parts.
“It hurts,” he says.
I slap him across the face–not hard enough to leave a mark; he has to lecture–and grab his hair, shaking his head like a terrier shaking a rat. His eyes are closed tightly.
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
He does. And even though I know I don’t love him anymore, even though I know that a big part of him hates me, there is still an electric moment of connection. This vulnerability from him. I feel so protective and so loving. I wish that he could feel that way toward me for more than a minute or two, or an hour at most. I could have loved him so much.
I tell him something I’ve never told him before: “Nobody else in your adult life has ever seen you this way, as you are for me now.”
He whispers No.
“Tell me how much you need it.”
“I need it,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse with pain and desire.
“Say it again.”
He does. I know how difficult it is for him to have to admit anything.
“Open your mouth for me,” I say, and put my fingers into his mouth, running them across his teeth, his gums, the bumpy surface of his molars. I like to penetrate his mouth with my fingers. It feels intimate; invasive. I know he likes it. He tries to suck on my fingers.
“In ten years, you will remember this. This very moment,” I say.
“So will you,” he says.
I smile, shake my head, no. “Look at me. I accept you. I know exactly what you are, and I loved you anyway. The good and the bad; from the first to the last.”
I take myself off his body. I put my dress back on and pick up my handbag. In only takes ten, fifteen seconds.
“I knew you would leave me,” he says from the bed.
“Oh, Surgeon,” I sigh, putting on my leather jacket. “How it becomes you to speak the truth. You should do it more often. I’m here through (date). Think about what I mean to you.”
I’m sitting in my hotel room right now, crying. I don’t sob, really. My face doesn’t move much. I cry like a dude. I just leak tears. Leak leak leak.
I remind myself that I could never had done better by him. I could not have given him more. It’s not my fault that he didn’t love me.
|Hellooo, Mr. Eyepatch! Nice hands, btw. Would I were that black dog…|
|click to enlarge|
Last one for the day—hot men in discomfort, rowing! I wish they made videos of shit like this; I’d watch them all day! Sweating, straining, unhappy men rowing heavy oars! Or, even better, digging pointless holes with shovels, and then being made to fill them back up—and then dig them again! Woo-hoo! Puts a big smile on my face just thinking about it. And boy, did I ever need one.
I picked up this rolling pin at the Dollar Store the other day. What a great deal! It’s pine, but it’s got a surprising amount of heft to it, and the handles are perfectly sized. The wood is very smoothly sanded, as well. After I took it home and unwrapped it, I immediately hustled back to the store to buy several more (all of them, perhaps), but they were (alas) sold out. Can’t say I’m surprised.
In this photo you can see the holes I drilled into it for the poorly-conceived parrot playstand project (more on that debacle tomorrow), but you still get the basic idea…too bad I ruined it.
This baby has more entertainment potential than an iPad. Just think of all the awesome things you could use it for!