So, there was this guy, right? His name was… well, I think his name was like, Albert, or Joey. Something weird like that. The kind of name that feels like maybe it crawled out of a New York City alleyway dumpster. Sure, some might disagree. Some might say,” Hey! Joey is a fine name!” or,” My grandfather’s name was Albert and he was a great man!”, but that isn’t going to change the fact that I wholeheartedly believe that Joeys and Alberts are birthed from alley-dumpsters during the most humid months of the year. You can keep your facts. I’ve got intuition, pal.
So anyway, Joey, or Albert, his name really isn’t that important. He was just some dude. He lived on the third floor of the apartment building you see on 10th Street. It’s the big building with the green molding, all of the window screens are peeling and turning a weird sickly yellow. That one! You know the one I’m talking about. I really hate that building. I mean, it looks like it’s judging you and every choice you’ve ever made while it has the gall to stand there clashing in an outfit made of a pale green and pukey yellow. I find pretentious people upsetting, and pretentious buildings even more so. Well, one day, I think it was last week, Jobert, or Albey, kinda lost his mind. Rumor has it he was in his apartment listening to some talk radio show host prattle on about how the illuminati are running the show and that their plan is to turn everyone gay. I guess the lizard overlords believe that homosexuality is the key to bringing the birthrate to its knees. Some shit like that. Anyway, he was getting himself pretty worked up in there. I guess his neighbors heard him screaming about ‘lizard people’ and ‘reptilian homos’ and throwing things around his apartment. He went pretty berserk. Long story short, he went down to the local gas station, bought a canister and filled it up. He went home, and doused his entire apartment, lit a cigarette and waited for something to catch fire. I guess he figured the fumes would be enough to light the place up. The guy really wasn’t all there to begin with. After hours of puffing away on cigarette after cigarette and getting sick on gas fumes, he went into another rage and threw himself out of his window. He only lived on the third floor so… he didn’t die, but he is definitely in a coma now. I know, pretty twisted, yeah? Well, my mom’s friend Tracy lives in the unit next door to his. I guess the fumes got so bad, they won’t come out of the floor or the walls and she was feeling really sick. Somehow my mom convinced me to let her stay here with me. “Oh, but Pollyanne! You live so close, and I know Tracy and her four cats would make for great company. You live all alone in that studio. In such a bad neighborhood, might I add? I worry about your well-being. It will only be for a couple of weeks until the landlord can get a cleaner into their building and take care of that horrible smell. Now be a good girl and pick Tracy up at 7pm. I love you! *click*” Yeah, so, I guess Tracy… and Chompers… and Frisky… and Dublin… and Jack… are all coming to stay with me for the next couple of weeks. I really don’t know how I am going to fit everyone into my cramped little apartment. The place barely houses me. And I don’t have a working stove, so I really hope Tracy and her cohorts are keen on some bodega food, because that’s what’s for dinner. And lunch. And breakfast. Although, really only dinner, because I don’t have much time for any of the other meals of the day. Tracy has been friends with my mother since they were 12. Though, I don’t know if I would call their relationship “friendly” as much as I would call it horrible. They never agree on anything, and when they do, it’s usually as an attempt to outdo one another. I honestly don’t understand why they continue to meet up for brunch if the only purpose is to try to convince each other that the other one is leading a slightly more miserable life. If you ask me, they are both pretty fucked. Tracy lives in that shitty building on 10th street with like-minded dullards, and my mom hangs out with Tracy. Birds of a feather or something like that. If there is one thing I do take solace in, it’s that fall is right around the corner. That means that the weather will cool down, the leaves will start changing colors, and the humidity will start to ease up. That also means amazing thunderstorms. The prospect of all the gaiety that the change of the season will bring is exciting, but really, I think I’m more in this for the cooler weather. My air conditioner has been broken for weeks. I’ve considered calling the landlord to have them fix it, but that sounds like a lot of work. First you got to get up the nerve to actually make the phone call. Then you’ve got to do some dreadful small talk so that you don’t seem like a complete asshole. Then comes the fun part where you ask Sheldon to do the simplest task of maintaining the building he rents out and it’s like he is doing you the favor of accommodating you with basic amenities. Afterward, he struts around like he’s some sort of god and feels indignant if you don’t agree. I don’t know what it is about owning a penis that makes grown ass men act like ungrateful little boys. Mom’s always asking me why I don’t have a boyfriend, and the truth is, I’ve never really felt much attraction to anyone or anything, but even less do I feel attracted to the ego-baggage that comes with dick ownership. I’ve had one boyfriend throughout my entire life. He was okay. We dated from when I was 16 to 19. He didn’t have any unchecked luggage that I knew of. Though I would say we were more passively congenial than we were in love. And when he shipped out of state to go to college, it seemed practical to end our partnership. We didn’t stay in touch. Not because of any feelings of resentment or anything. It was more just a lack of convenience to do so. Personally, I don’t really care if Tracy and her brood stay with me or not. I just don’t want to feel obligated to take care of anyone. So long as they are self-sustaining and don’t ask for much, they can stay forever. That cool weather better come soon though. I don’t want to hear any bitching and I am not calling Sheldon to ask for any “favors”. It’s almost 6:30pm and I suppose I better prepare for Tracy’s arrival before I go and pick her and her fur balls up. Keeping a journal is something I’ve never considered doing before my therapist recommended it, so I can’t make any promises that I will be consistent. So, see ya next time, or goodbye forever. We’ll see how I feel tomorrow. Sincerely or some shit, Pollyanne Morgana Applewood
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorHeather Jacobs is a creative professional with over a decade's worth of experience in content creation. Her skills range from, but are not limited to, creative, copy, instructional, and technical writing. Archives
January 2021
Categories |