At first, I want you.
I really, really want you.
And I am just like any other stalker. Diligent. Methodical.
And lookin’ your ass up on the internet. Like every day. Studying you.
I imagine touching you. Working on you. Over and over again.
Until you come.
And then, I am embarrassed to say this. But I hate you. I really, really hate you.
You are just not what I wanted.
Such is the life of the internet shopper.
All I wanted was a cute little desk for Christmas to put my new printer on. Because serious writers have desks
that they pile shit on and never use. Right?
And it just had to have wheels.
Because on the off chance that I want to corral the herds of cat hair that will inevitably build a home underneath it – I would prefer not needing a crane or forklift to move it.
Question: Is all furniture constructed only for people who can bench press 200 pounds?
I am so over heavy furniture. I gave all of the old heavy crap away.
“Wheels! Wheels! Wheels!” is the chant that rang through my kingdom. Or teeny tiny furniture elves that will move it on my command.
I need one or the other.
Anyway, I found the perfect desk. See?
Have you climaxed yet? I will wait. It’s beautiful. Right?
At least, that is what I thought.
And then, I grew to hate it
because I clearly need a hobby and things to occupy my time…
“Ugh! It looks like a hospital gurney!” I embraced my batshit crazy self, “Who orders a hospital gurney desk?!”
I was frantic to disassemble it and return it – like pronto!
It should be easy. I put it together. I will take it apart. No worries. Right?
These are the only times that I want a boyfriend for 5 seconds.
I call him Five-Second Boyfriend.
He is allowed into my house just long enough to do shit. And in my magical land of make-believe – where everyone does what I say, conversations would go like this…
“Minion, take the desk apart,” I would decree.
And with a silent yearning to fulfill my every household need – Five-Second Boyfriend would sweat and toil right away until it was done
and then leave my house immediately.
The “right away” part is implied. Right?
This is where Real-Life Boyfriend is flawed. All requests are interpreted as – eventually.
When what I really mean is – now. Can you do this… now?
That is the difference between “now” and “eventually.” It is always “now.” “Eventually” doesn’t exist. Like cats who obey things you say don’t exist. See? [Please take notes, if necessary.]
Of course, I know it doesn’t work this way [I mean his real name is probably not Minion. It's probably Hand Servant.]
Years ago, I asked an ex Real-Life Boyfriend to take an air conditioner out of my window.
I could do it myself, but why?
He literally looked at me like I asked for a kidney.
That was going to be removed in my kitchen.
It took him forever to decide. Like two days.
“So where do you want it after I take it out,” he said unenthusiastically.
“Oh, let me get a screwdriver” I said.
“Got it. I found one in the drawer,” he answered nonchalantly.
This means he looked in a drawer. Without my permission. You only have permission to do manual labor in my house – not look in my junk drawer.
I know I am about to give you the most apathetic blow job ever [because 5 minutes a year I convince myself I actually enjoy sex] – but dude, stop touching my stuff!
Get out. No, stay. Yes, do stuff. Get out. No, stay. Yes, do stuff.
Oh, Goddess RuPaul – I am so conflicted…
Oh, screw it! Thinking is hard. Let’s have bad sex.
I like to convince myself that I look totally hot when I am on my belly with a penis in my mouth. I would like to think my bum looks taut and pert. And my hair is luscious and full like Brooke Shields in her heyday. And I am making amazing noises
that are not incredibly stupid like the penis tastes like cheesecake.
I am giving this blow job the “old college try” – which means halfhearted with minimal effort. Not an A grade, but a solid C – because C is passing.
But I still think my ass looks luscious.
And that’s gotta count for something.
And then, the worst thing ever happened.
Worse than every season of Beverly Hills Housewives. I mean awful.
“I really don’t like this,” he said matter-of-factly.
Question: Remember the good old days, when a person didn’t tell you you sucked at something while you sucked at something?
Just for the record, I really don’t like “this” either.
I mean penises are great. [Yay, penises!] But I just don’t find “this” interesting
because it doesn’t engage my clitoris, which should clearly be the focus 100% of the time.
Also, when is “this” over.
I have a super short attention span and I find myself counting the minutes after 20 seconds have elapsed. Like the end of a work day.
Ex Real-Life Boyfriend would say it’s over 2 seconds before anything shoots out of the penis like a geyser.
Which we agree should not happen anywhere near my mouth [because I will take out his kidney in my kitchen. And then, faint and die and need to go to the hospital where they resuscitate me and then pump my stomach.]
So I obsess over the gushing geyser like it’s acid that will kill me.
That is all I am thinking about during the halfhearted head… Acid. Death. Acid-y death. And whatnot.
I would trust him to extract the gushing geyser but he has already established he doesn’t understand time.
I mean the difference between “now” and “eventually.”
And time is all that matters.
So fastforward to two weeks later where I am still trying to dismantle the hospital gurney desk.
All of the screws have been stripped because I failed How To Do Incredibly Easy Stuff Like Unscrewing Screws 101.
Anyway, does that stop me? No!
I will not be beaten by a screw.
I got the desk on sale for $150 so the obvious solution is spend $100 on tools to conquer the dreaded stripped screws.
New drill. Check.
New drill bits. Check.
Special tools designed to remove stripped screws. Check.
New ratchet and ratchet bits. Check.
Literally, nothing works. And I am like Ms. Fix-it times 100.
Oh, screw it. I give up.
I buy the file cabinet in the picture too. I like the picture so I figure the answer is to buy more stuff so I can fall in love again.
Because love is about buying stuff you don’t need because you are crazy.
And love is all that matters.
I got the orange file cabinet – instead of white. Orange is funky, young, and hip. Right?
And I adore it.
Let’s ignore the fact that I have spent at least triple the price for the desk [if one factors in time, obsession, lunacy, new file cabinet, and internet research about stupid shit like screws and drill bits.]
In homeowner math [math calculated by bills I need to pay] – that’s 1 AAA bill and a winter electric/heat bill.
I did return the tools though…
That’s gotta count for something.
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