…never lived in a 200 square foot studio apartment. Seriously, ya’ll…shit is not okay in the merry land of gay love. I mean it’s definitely not that bad, okay it’s that bad. But not that that bad. It’s definitely not good, though.
I don’t even know where to start. I actually started two other blogs that were complete and utter bullshit because it’s so raw and open and real when I discuss my relationship here. But, it’s what I do. It’s real lesbian life-with all of the real tears, anger, fears and frustrations. Minus the make up artist, wardrobe assistants and amazing homes you find in your average L Word Episode. Shit has hiteth the faneth.
I don’t even know how it happened, really. We had a really amazing weekend. We planted our heirloom tomatoes, tended our herbs, biked through Brooklyn, ran into friends in Prospect Park…all was fine.
Yesterday, in Prospect Park on a blanket with organic pale ale, black berries, and raw cheeses she made the face. That face she makes when she’s thinking about something that she’s not yet ready to discuss. But that something is causing her to think, to ponder. She’s thinking and pondering and it’s effecting her. She’s making the face.
“What’s wrong” I ask
“Nothing” she lies
“Yes, something’s wrong, Mirs. Don’t lie to me, tell me what it is.”
It sounds super cliche doesn’t it? It sound super lesbian, “I know you’re hiding from me, tell me what it is. I can feel you feeling something. I know you’re thinking about something, tell me.”
So she finally talks and it’s about the apartment and all of the shit every where.
Let’s fast forward to 10AM that day. She woke up in what my mother has always said, ” A piss-poor mood.” So piss-poor the moment I left the house, which was more like escaping the death trap of exaggerated sighs and slammed doors, I phoned my mother. I got her voice mail and left her a frantic message once again comparing the love of my life, the woman that I want to marry, the person who completes me to my father.
There is a reason that you shouldn’t EVER need someone to complete you- and this is it. They’ll be your father. Besides the fact that you should find yourself completely whole before getting into a committed relationship with anyone and therefore be a “complete” person who just needs a partner. Don’t fret-I’m complete on my own. Keep reading. It gets better.
So Mom doesn’t pick up and I find myself walking the 3 blocks to the L train talking to her answering machine as though I’m having a real conversation with her, the person. I’m rambling on about how Mirs is more and more like a horrible hybrid of them both with every passing day, how she’s not only a completely neurotic clean freak like she is also a complete bipolar, with crazy mood swings that seem to come out of no where, like my father.
The train pulled into the station and I sat down with an audible sigh and crossed my arms over my chest and sulked.
Who does she think she is? Why would she want me to live there when she’s so clearly miserable. Her shit is every where, EVERY WHERE and my shit is crammed into the tiniest corner in the whole fucking place. What the fuck? What more can I do? Why, oh why did I move out of my peaceful escape in Harlem!?
I was on the train not only escaping her wrath but to find a clothes rack to put my shit. I got off of the train at 14th street and walked to Home Depot first. We needed more organic Potting Soil for our last heirloom tomato.
…TO BE CONTINUED