Very Merry Unbirthday

I often wonder what you'd look like. Would you have dark curls and eyes like me, or be blond and fair like my family and your dad? You'd be tall, I'm sure. Would you be sweet and calm or would you be difficult, like I was at your age? You would be an Aries, just like my mom and brother. Would you be happy, even though your life wasn't planned for? How different would my life be if you were here now? I'm much ashamed to admit that I wonder if I would regret you, or feel robbed of the life of which I dreamed.

Even though I never met you, you changed my life more than anyone ever will. I'm ashamed to admit that I don't think of you every day anymore. I wish I could tell you that I was a better person; a stronger person. I wish I could tell you I were a less selfish person. I wish I could tell you that I did what was best for you, and believe that it wasn't because it was what was best for me too. But none of that would be true. All I can tell you is that I have to have faith that someday it'll be worth it.

A very merry unbirthday, to you. To you.

Memorable Middles

When it's time to party, we will party hard. After packing. And before a 15 hour drive in a moving truck. Uhhh...maybe not such a good plan.

After a loading all my belonging on the truck, napping, and various other bed related activites, my date and I arrived at my going away party. I love parties, especially those held in my honor. You never have to look for someone to talk to or wait for a drink at a party that is held especially for you.

Walking in, I see a veritable "who's who" of the past few years in DC. I immediately spot The Roommate, sprinting towards the bar at a pace that indicates he wants to see me, quite the opposite from when we were sleeping together. Then I catch a glimpse of The Friend of A Friend sitting at the bar. He should have known the way well enough--we spent two or three nights a week at this very bar for over a year. Catching me completely by surprise, The S pops up on my left. I half expected him to be a no show, as that would have been a completely reasonable end to our relationship, but there he was. Looking all svelte to boot. A short while later, Mr. Smith comes strolling in. No one knows who he is and my friends ask me if I've slept with him. Which I have, I think? And of course I can't forget my date for the evening. Back by unpopular demand: The Sweet Boy. Assembled in one room, five men I have slept with and don't hate. At least not at the moment.

Other friends came and went but the five of them stayed with me through the end of the evening, aside from the Friend of a Friend, who bizarrely disappeared in between bars. I guess that's how it's always been, and in many ways, these men have been closest to me over the years. My best friends, who've all seen me naked.

Low lights from the evening included making out with The Roommate at the second bar. He's been kind enough not to bring it up. The Sweet Boy inexplicably walked home while The S, always the sober one, drove me. I depantsed as soon as I walked in the door at home, as is my custom when I've had more than 3 margaritas. The S compliment the emerald green lace thong I'd chosen just for this occassion. Shortly there after, The Sweet Boy stumbled in and we proceeded to go to bed. The S said his goodbyes, and in a style I've always loved, casually asked if we wanted to have a threesome. The Sweet Boy laughingly declined, clearly thinking he was joking. I gave him a knowing smile before my head hit the pillow on my last night in the District.

There's no need for me to search for meaning in the night, or any other night that preceeded it. Neither beginnings or ends, all those life defining moments are merely middles.

Loose Ends

If you want to destroy my sweater, pull this thread as I walk away.

Clearly not a very sturdy sweater. Nor is it a very sturdy analogy, but it'll do in a pinch. It's amazing to me that a person as anal retentive and organized as myself could possibly have any loose ends in a move half way across the country. I meticulously planned every detail of this move, including making an IKEA home model of my new apartment and printing out all the DMV forms I will need someday in the future and directions to every possible place I could need to go in this foreign land. Somehow though, something managed to slip through the cracks. Or someone rather.

Whether he didn't believe I was actually moving or whether he just didn't care, I can't say. I can say that the Ex-Boyfriend (who, as it turns out, is even more disengenous than Disengenuous ever proved be) made no small effort towards moving out of our shared apartment. When I decided to move, I told him he could sign a new lease with the landlord if he wanted. Two months later, he was "still thinking about it." Yeah, and I'm still thinking about what I ever saw in you. Despite three days notice, when I sold the dresser, he hadn't even bothered to empty out his clothes. A clutter heap of clothes replaced the dresser with no discerment as to what was clean and what was dirty. Three weeks before the big move, I again reminded him to either sign a new lease or plan to move. Still, nothing happened. Clothes came and went from the heap on a daily basis, but other than that, everything reminded precisely has he had left it. Then the TV disappeared. Hooray--he's moving! Oh no, just kidding. He moved the TV upstairs when the roommate's crazy girlfriend smashed his. It's nice to know that he's found a platonic relationship worth putting effort into after he so bizarrely stopped putting effort into ours.

Four days before I planned to leave, he still had not moved a single item. Again, I calmly reminded him that he needed to have his stuff gone as MY lease was over and he did not have a lease for that residence. Radio silence. Fine, if you won't listen to reason, than you'll listen to me rant like a rapid Chihauhau. I sent him an email that essentially said, "Frankly, I think you possess a responsibility level close to that of a three toed sloth and I don't trust that you're going to move out once I leave so get the fuck out before I go. Otherwise I'll have to take your stuff to your mom's and tell on you."

The response I got confounded me. "So I don't get to stay for the rest of the days I paid for?" Seriously? No, you don't get shit. You get to pay me $53 (the per diem for those days) as an asshole tax. I respond that if I need to give him the per diem, then fine but he still has to be gone. This is non-negotiable.

The day before the move, as I scrambled to finish my enormous to do list, I ran into him in the apartment. He appeared to be packing (sort of). He said he couldn't make it to my going away party, hugged me and said, "For what it's worth, thank you." What the fuck does that mean?

Though perplexing, crisis seemingly was averted. Even Saturday morning, as I loaded last minute items in my moving truck, he appeared to be making steps towards moving out. Foolishly, I trusted that this would continue when I was no longer looking. That was about as wise as leaving a briefcase full of money on the sidewalk and expecting no one to steal it. Sure enough, I get a phone call from the upstairs tenants. He is still squatting in the basement. It's Tuesday.

MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!!!

Wisconsin cowers before the depravity of my cussing. I call him and say, "how'd the move go?" Radio silence again. This man should never be a DJ. "Oh, um, I'm still there." Pardon? My head nearly explodes. I basically just hang up on him and call the landlord. Between the two of us essentially threatening legal action, it still takes him three more full days to move some clothes, a couch and an entertainment center. All of which arrived at the apartment in his car. And this whole fucking fiasco cost me $150 in per diem for the extra days he squatted there. While infuriating, I would have paid a lot more to never, ever have to deal with his douche baggery a day longer.

The next time I live with someone, I better have a big fucking diamond on my finger that I can sell when he eventually turns out to be a childish jackass.