Days till Halloween: 7
At about 4am this morning I was woken up by what I can only assume was my upstairs neighbor brutally murdering another inhabitant of our building. This is par for the course, and I had no broom with which to bang against the ceiling, so I sighed and rolled over and attempted sleep, hoping that the flimsy floors wouldn't start dripping blood onto my very nice, very clean bedding.
I am entirely convinced that I do indeed live in the American version of Hostel, only there's no price to be paid for cutting off some pretty blond American's arms, or blowtorching out some attractive Asian's eyeballs; oh no, this is purely for the love of the game. The hallways smell particularly pungent this week - fresh urine, I assume - either from someone wetting themselves in fear, or from being killed right outside my door and losing control of their bowels, as the freshly dead are so apt to do.
Oh, hey 15B. Do you mind not doing that right outside my door? Thanks!No one has attempted to break my door down with a chainsaw yet, though I don't really anticipate much of a problem with that - there are enough vagrants and spoiled college students in this city to keep the hoards busy for years. It's a never ending stream, really. I just wish that the guy above me would stop throwing his victims around, and be a little more considerate in the wee hours of the morning.
Well, at least I assume he's throwing his victims around, as there are always a lot of crashes coming from above, and a plethora of pained moaning. In all fairness, perhaps he has some bizarre sexual fetish and is enjoying a good time with a consenting partner (or he's having one hell of a good time on his own), but I'm just not sure. There are too many suspicious stains in the hallways, and too many "damn was that yet another shriek of pain?"s to rule out foul play.
To add insult to injury (perhaps literally?) it's pouring out this morning, which means I tromped to work in jaunty galoshes and tucked my hair into my collar like a... well, I suppose like a crazy person. It's unfortunate that whenever any sort of moisture comes into contact with my hair, it puffs up and then rapidly expands, often accidentally suffocating small children that get caught up in it. Since I didn't want to look like a party girl circa 1985 (nor have the blood of the innocent on my hands, that's my neighbor's job thankyouverymuch) I let myself look like a total idiot - and a semi-bald one at that. Then I proceeded to actually take the metro this morning, which meant that I spent $1.35 to go a grand total of 3 blocks, since I was tired of being wet. That's very sad.
Luckily, a strapping young man came and picked me up, and carried me across the street to my office so that I wouldn't have to endure the pouring rain any longer.
Apparently I'm a very pasty blond that works in the tropics
Well, at least I assume he's throwing his victims around, as there are always a lot of crashes coming from above, and a plethora of pained moaning. In all fairness, perhaps he has some bizarre sexual fetish and is enjoying a good time with a consenting partner (or he's having one hell of a good time on his own), but I'm just not sure. There are too many suspicious stains in the hallways, and too many "damn was that yet another shriek of pain?"s to rule out foul play.
To add insult to injury (perhaps literally?) it's pouring out this morning, which means I tromped to work in jaunty galoshes and tucked my hair into my collar like a... well, I suppose like a crazy person. It's unfortunate that whenever any sort of moisture comes into contact with my hair, it puffs up and then rapidly expands, often accidentally suffocating small children that get caught up in it. Since I didn't want to look like a party girl circa 1985 (nor have the blood of the innocent on my hands, that's my neighbor's job thankyouverymuch) I let myself look like a total idiot - and a semi-bald one at that. Then I proceeded to actually take the metro this morning, which meant that I spent $1.35 to go a grand total of 3 blocks, since I was tired of being wet. That's very sad.
Luckily, a strapping young man came and picked me up, and carried me across the street to my office so that I wouldn't have to endure the pouring rain any longer.
Apparently I'm a very pasty blond that works in the tropicsWho am I kidding? Men don't come and scoop me up and make sure that my expensive shoes don't get drowned in a puddle - they use me as their bridge and squash me into the mud so they don't have to get their expensive loafers ruined by the weather.
Since I took two poetry classes I'm an expert poet, and can express my crash-and-burn dating experience through the creative outlet of flowery language. I've written you all a haiku to explain, in detail, this phenomenon:
In between girlfriends
Fill the void like Julia
But without the perks
I know, I know, I just blew all of your minds, and most of you are still valiantly struggling to understand the meaning behind these poignant, evocative words. Let me explain:
Basically, I'm like a cheap whore. Yes, that is the hidden, sensuous meaning behind my brilliant language. Why do I say this? Because more often than not I end up with guys that imagine themselves to be high rollers, and while I put up with all the usual rigamarole, I don't paid at the end of the day. I wish I did, considering some of the things I've put up with, but unfortunately I do not. In fact, we come to the other meaning behind my poems: I rarely get any compensation whatsoever for my good deeds (or whatever you want to call them. Say what you will, I'm good at what I do.) I am in the "in-between girlfriend."
What, pray tell, is an IBG? Well, let me use an example to explain. Say you're dating this guy, and you know some of his history; he and his last girlfriend went on a few big vacations, had some fun doing trips, planned some rather extravagant outings, etc etc. Perhaps he lavished her with jewelery, out of the kindness of his heart. Who knows. Point is, he and his ex had a great time, and she was a happy girl. Now, skip your relationship part for a moment, and focus on the after - you've broken up, and he's moved on. He and his new girlfriend go on some great trips, they make big plans, he gets her heartfelt gifts, etc. Sounds good, right?
No. Why? Because as the IBG, you were granted none of these things. Okay, okay, call me a giant, materialistic bitch all you want, but then you'd (mostly) be missing the point. It's not so much taking vacations or getting pretty, shiny things (no matter how exciting those may be), it's more along the lines of as the IBG, you were expected to merely sit there and deal with all the guy's neuroses and panic attacks and crazy antics, and fight for 20 hours of the day, and then get a bit dumped on. Not literally, because that would open up whole new doors of bitterness.
But you put up with a madman, and any plans you may have made were conditional, or often times just plain out ruined entirely, like a giant A Bomb exploding on poor, unsuspecting villagers that just wanted a little consideration, damnit. While it seems the relationships before and after yours were thoughtful, considerate, and full of mutual appreciation, yours was full of towels, and jewelery initially bought for other people, and your crazy friends getting nicer presents for the same damn holiday. No lie. Or, at the very least, anything you were granted was along the lines of "well you deserved this but not that" or "whatever just shut up already."
See? Such is the plight of the IBG. I think it could be due to getting into a relationship with someone that just ended something long term, whose not ready yet for a real commitment. Or it just could be dating an asshole, but I'm trying for the benefit of the doubt here, people. At any rate, most of my dating life has been spent as the IBG, where someone just ended a loving, dedicated relationship, and needs someone easy on the eyes and cold in the heart to have a rebound with before moving onto the next loving, dedicated relationship. I guess I only have my fantastic genes and icy demeanor to blame.
Or the guys. Yeah, I'm really good at blaming others.
Since I took two poetry classes I'm an expert poet, and can express my crash-and-burn dating experience through the creative outlet of flowery language. I've written you all a haiku to explain, in detail, this phenomenon:
In between girlfriends
Fill the void like Julia
But without the perks
I know, I know, I just blew all of your minds, and most of you are still valiantly struggling to understand the meaning behind these poignant, evocative words. Let me explain:
Basically, I'm like a cheap whore. Yes, that is the hidden, sensuous meaning behind my brilliant language. Why do I say this? Because more often than not I end up with guys that imagine themselves to be high rollers, and while I put up with all the usual rigamarole, I don't paid at the end of the day. I wish I did, considering some of the things I've put up with, but unfortunately I do not. In fact, we come to the other meaning behind my poems: I rarely get any compensation whatsoever for my good deeds (or whatever you want to call them. Say what you will, I'm good at what I do.) I am in the "in-between girlfriend."
What, pray tell, is an IBG? Well, let me use an example to explain. Say you're dating this guy, and you know some of his history; he and his last girlfriend went on a few big vacations, had some fun doing trips, planned some rather extravagant outings, etc etc. Perhaps he lavished her with jewelery, out of the kindness of his heart. Who knows. Point is, he and his ex had a great time, and she was a happy girl. Now, skip your relationship part for a moment, and focus on the after - you've broken up, and he's moved on. He and his new girlfriend go on some great trips, they make big plans, he gets her heartfelt gifts, etc. Sounds good, right?
No. Why? Because as the IBG, you were granted none of these things. Okay, okay, call me a giant, materialistic bitch all you want, but then you'd (mostly) be missing the point. It's not so much taking vacations or getting pretty, shiny things (no matter how exciting those may be), it's more along the lines of as the IBG, you were expected to merely sit there and deal with all the guy's neuroses and panic attacks and crazy antics, and fight for 20 hours of the day, and then get a bit dumped on. Not literally, because that would open up whole new doors of bitterness.
But you put up with a madman, and any plans you may have made were conditional, or often times just plain out ruined entirely, like a giant A Bomb exploding on poor, unsuspecting villagers that just wanted a little consideration, damnit. While it seems the relationships before and after yours were thoughtful, considerate, and full of mutual appreciation, yours was full of towels, and jewelery initially bought for other people, and your crazy friends getting nicer presents for the same damn holiday. No lie. Or, at the very least, anything you were granted was along the lines of "well you deserved this but not that" or "whatever just shut up already."
See? Such is the plight of the IBG. I think it could be due to getting into a relationship with someone that just ended something long term, whose not ready yet for a real commitment. Or it just could be dating an asshole, but I'm trying for the benefit of the doubt here, people. At any rate, most of my dating life has been spent as the IBG, where someone just ended a loving, dedicated relationship, and needs someone easy on the eyes and cold in the heart to have a rebound with before moving onto the next loving, dedicated relationship. I guess I only have my fantastic genes and icy demeanor to blame.
Or the guys. Yeah, I'm really good at blaming others.
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