"What's the worst?" he asks, soundng like a shrink in a Lifetime movie.
"The worst," I repeat slowly, thinking about it, kind of tasting it. The worst tastes like garlic. "The worst is that I don't really think they give a shit that I live here too. And why should they? Why should they give a shit? They've got everything they need: shelter, a toilet, food to eat, a shower to fuck in, a computer to download porn onto, a TV to watch..." Peter nods. "The worst is that, when I come home half the time, they don't ask how I am or where I've been. They could care less about what happens to me or what I'm feeling or where I go... As long as they've got a place to fuck... All they ever do is fight or fuck..."
(I can hear him thinking, "that's all we ever did when I lived here," but it isn't quite true, because sometimes we watched Twin Peaks together. He cuts himself off before he says it.)
I can tell he'd like me to shut up so we can work on the Vagina Monologues, but I can't help it at this point. "The worst is that when I come home, the dishes aren't done, my food is gone, and Jeff's stupid toaster-cover is on MY toaster, like he fucking owns the place. He doesn't do shit around the house except fight or fuck, and the WORST is that he won't even talk to me. Just bums off of me... I don't care that they don't have jobs, except that if they're not going to give me any money, they could at least do the damned dishes. With what they owe me, I could hire a maid to do the dishes, but they can't even do that much. Nor can they flush the toilet and clean the hair out of the bathtub when they shave. It's not just the little stuff, but what the little stuff means. Like... Like that they don't care. As long as they get what they want, which is to fight and fuck and have a place to do it in and food to eat, they don't give a shit about me. They take for granted everything I do for them. They complain about my messiness when I'm working 40 hours a week and they're sitting home watching TV and running up the electric bill they're not paying, not to mention leaving dishes all over the kitchen..."
"I see..." Peter's thumbing through my script, toying with the plastic blue flower I stuck in my folder. I know he's kind of edgy and doesn't want to hear it, but I seriously can't stop. "You knew this was gonna happen, Carebear. You know how he is."
And so my mind goes back almost a year to when Jeff kicked me out of his dorm room for the night so that he could fuck some cute blonde kid. The night Jeff let me wander the streets until 6 in the morning and then expected me to feel sorry for him the next day when he told me the kid didn't have sex with him. Yeah, I know how he is. I didn't feel sorry for him then and I know I shouldn't now... I like Jeff, but... But I'm starting not to... I'm actually starting to get that frustrated feeling of actual DISlike for him again...
"Yeah, Peter, I know, but..." And then I hesitate again, KNOWING I should shut up...
"I just wish..." Pause. "I just wish they CARED a little bit, like it mattered to them that the person who's taking care of them has had a bad day, or wants some private time, or wants to use her own bathroom. They don't even THINK about it. I'd understand if they were in the bathroom for awhile and thought I wasn't home, or came out and said, "sorry we were in there for so long," but they don't care HOW I feel about it because they know I won't kick them out..."
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" I swear, Peter's gonna kill me if I don't solve my crisis and start working on this show.
"I think I've got to ask them to leave. But they won't have anyplace to go..."
"Well..."
"You're right. I have to. I have to have somebody here who actually cares whether I live or die, not just whether I bring home food from my mom's house."
And you know, that was what I DID love about living with Peter... For as much as we fought, and as violently as we fought, and for as much as we ignored each other, I always knew, deep down, that we fought BECAUSE we cared about each other. That we fought intensely because we loved intensely. Oh, there were reasons for the fights, but they were harsh and they hurt because I loved him and he loved me.
Peter and I aren't ready to deal with each other on terms like that again, at least not yet and maybe not for a long time, if ever... But gahd I loved knowing I was more to him than a TV and a shower to fuck in and a refrigerator with basically nothing in it anyway. I was a LOT more than that.
I even miss the way he used to hurt me, the words he used to fling my way... I miss hurting. I miss feeling anything. I don't feel much of anything now, except disgust that I put up with leeches.
I feel as though I've done something horribly wrong, like I'm a terrible person to live with, because Peter and I failed miserably at being housemates. And Jeff and I are failing even more so. I could care less about Jeff's boyfriend, because Jeff was the one who told him to go right ahead and move in. What IS it about me? What am I doing so wrong that I can't get my housemates to act like fucking civilized human beings? Peter's a great person and a very responsible one when he really tries; why was he such a slacker when he was living with me? Why has Jeff stopped talking to me except to tell me about his job? Why won't his boyfriend talk to me at all?
What do I DO to people that turns them into slackers and assholes?
I'd really like it if I could find a fucking normal person out there to live with.
Guys, if you're reading this, start looking for another place to stay. It's nothing you can specifically fix: you can't fix this by doing the dishes faithfully every night or learning to flush the mother-fucking toilet. The only way to fix the situation is to have some respect for me, which you don't, and respect doesn't just happen -- you either have it or you don't. And you don't, so start calling your other friends and begging for somebody else to take you in and support your fighting/fucking habit. That's all you need from me, and I suspect you can find another place to get it. If not, you can go to the YMCA.
Anybody looking for a place to stay?
Anybody with a job and an ability to acknowledge my existence once in awhile?
Anybody even SEMI-normal?
~Helena*
"Helena, how do you get yourself into this? I can't believe they took that cake I gave you -- I gave that to you because you're LOSING WEIGHT and I wanted to help, not because I wanted to feed the little neighborhood homeless kids. You know they'd be homeless without the goodness of your heart? Do THEY know that? You know, there's a place for people like that. It's called the YMCA. They let bums go there." --my mother, being opinionated after she gave me half a cake on Mother's Day and Jeff devoured it while I was working