July 18, 2011
Moving in...
I don't know what it is about this that bugs me so much. Or, rather, I don't know where to start. There are so many things. Things that I like and things that make me want to punch myself in the face with a brick rather than have him move in with me.
The things that I like are relatively obvious or else the topic wouldn't have come up in the first place.
Or maybe it came up in the first place because I was drunk.
Well, whatever. Here it is. It's happening. All his shit is encroaching on my limited space and all I can wonder is if this it for me.
End Laura Land, begin Laura And ...
It's kinda like eating too many chunky yummy bites of garlicy mashed potatoes. Sure, you love 'em like mad when you're hungry but when someone's shoveling 'em in your face faster than you can say FUCK OFF AND LEMME CHEW, it's a little much.
Now I always say that more is more but when it comes to fear, I don't need a lot of it to feel really fucking scared, yo.
I'm talking back into a corner, shaking, with my knees against my chest sobbing kind of scared.
So here I sit. Watching him, wide eyed and immovable, fill my closet full of crap. His crap. He's loading up my living room with shazz that isn't mine. Squeezing into my rare dance session space in front of the living room windows. He's got DVDs up the wazoo and an X-Box.
The last bit of gaming I did was Super Nintendo so I figure I'm behind on the times. Which is fine with me. I personally don't fill my space with things I don't want or need or care for. Like, Brittany Spears, for example. I could care less what kind of crap she's gotten into lately. So I don't pursue it. Even when I'm REALLY bored. I'd rather clean the carpet than read an Enquirer. I'd rather shave my head and tattoo it with Swastikas than pretend to care about people I'd never even want to sort of know.
It's like when K-Dog asks me, "Do you know who this is?" when we're listening to the radio.
No. No I don't. And I don't care as long as I know I like it, hate it or once again have regained my powers of iPod ownership. For now, I just want to know that I have a roof over my head and the potential of a computer desk in my future. In that I am content. I don't need to know where Yugoslavia is in order to feel complete. I'm swimming happily in this little sea of ignorance for certain things. I just need a beer, a comfy place to sit and an outlet in which to share my highly potent thoughts...
Of course it's easy to whine about space when you don't have anything and the dude you're pretty much committing your life to has... well, damned near everything.
And that's what gets to me.
What happened to this being my restart? My do-over? My new beginning.
It's not about me.
It's about us.
And I don't know how cool I really am right now with sharing the giant container for all his shit. I want it to be mine, now, or at least ours. Not just his.
This was supposed to be my adventure. My time to make things different and better and brighter. My time to let the light shine on my head and focus on me and what I want and where I'm going in this crazy life and now I'm just worried about putting the 1500 DVDs he owns away, putting me on pause. I'm worried about how to arrange the few bits of furniture we have. I'm worried about not having a separate room in which to escape. I'm worried about the clothes that I don't have fitting in the closet space that's been overrun by Boy Shit.
I'm worried about having to do things according to another's desires.
Because, seriously, if he pisses me off, all I can think of is, "Well, I told ya so -- I told you I didn't want a 'relationship.'"
And that's not fair. But I don't like to lie or hold back so there it is.
The plain truth.
I'm rather pissed that he crashed completely into my world and made me love him with all my fucking heart.
I'm pissed, fo sho, that he had to scuddle downstairs last night to snap one off because I was too tired. I've totally had to go there, too (more than once), and like a true hypocrite, it was okay for me to do it but it drives me fucking insane to know that *I* was the one, for once, who made someone seek satisfaction elsewhere. That he had to take matters into his own hands, likely with a bit of assistance, pisses me off more smelly little people piled on a bus.
And little people on buses pisses me right the fuck off.
But now that's what I have to contend with. Things not going my way. I have to contend with responsibility and empathy. Not that I don't practice those things now but that I'll have to practice them even when I don't want to. That's the real piss in my Cheerios.
There's more. And I'll likely whine and stomp my clown-size feet about it again.
The point is I'm scared of suffocation. I'm scared of this other entity that I don't have control over. I'm scared of doing something wrong and I'm scared of fighting and I'm scared he doesn't always mean what he says and I'm scared of being older and I'm scared of looking into the face of the next fifty years. I'm scared of not adding up and I'm scared of full on committment. I'm scared of losing me.
But a decent part of me is also scared of losing him.
He's one in a million, as far as I've seen (and I've seen quite a bit).
If he can put up with my trepidation, my stubornness, my selfishness, my whims, my indecision, my "I'm like three people" tendencies, I think we're okay.
In fact, I think we're golden.
But I'm not changing for anybody this time. Not completely anyway.
I'd rather butt heads and wake with puffy eyes the next day than back down or let him off the hook altogether. I'd rather instigate than hibernate under a blanket of doubt. I'd rather we fight full on, all day fucking long, than become indifferent. Because, you know, as long as you're willing to struggle with each other, you're willing to admit to the passion rather than the defeat.
And that, to me, is worth all the free, unencumbered space in the universe.