Of course I didn’t drop her off at the airport. How could I? She’s the one with a job that will still be there for her after leaving for three months. When I leave work for more than three minutes I have to worry about my seat being sold to the lowest bidder. That’s how telemarketing with drug addicts works.
Really, I wanted to drop her off but driving to LAX at 9AM is a death wish on a man’s psyche; There just isn’t enough alcohol in the world to get me to drive there. Or weed— don’t forget about the pot, that shit is important.
The last thing she said to me before she left. She said it to me yesterday, she said, “Charlie, you’re failing the world if you’re trying to make everyone in it happy”. That made not taking her to the airport easy. And a bit harder for her since she was relying on me for that ride, but still.
Oh yeah: Katy. Her name is Katy. And she is going to Argentina as a gift to herself because nobody would buy it for her. I wish I could— I really do. I’d give my left arm to send whoever I wanted to Argentina whenever I wanted. Orange County would be a quieter place, I tells ya.
Tonight was great. Jeremy lost his job at the dry ice factory so he invited us over to his place to drink super cold beers and play with dry ice. Dry ice shenanigans are a great replacement for girlfriends, let me tell you. And beer? Well, it’s cold as frozen winter shit because you replaced your girlfriend with a tub of dry ice. I named the tub Jeremy gave me “Katy 2”.
Bryan, Jaye, Jeff, and Krisandra came over to Jeremy’s too. I’ll get around to describing them later unlike Katy because she’s not going to be around and they will. Jeff did ask me tonight, before unsuccessfully swallowing an entire beer bottle whole, that he was worried for me now that Katy was gone.
“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” I told him, “that’s what her weight is for.”
“It sounds like she was trying to break up with you,” he said. Asshole.
“No, I know what it sounds like to be broken up with. This wasn’t that.”
“Oh, and what does it sound like?”
“I don’t know, actually. But my heart didn’t sink like it normally does when I’m broken up with.”
“Anything else, Charlie?”
“Wouldn’t it be crazy if facebook knew that I masturbate to profile pictures?”
“She broke up with you.”
Me and Katy have broken up a couple times before. Three times, actually, if you’re counting the next one.
Last time I broke up with her. And the first time? That was me too.
I’ll probably be the responsible party for the next one, too. Katy made me promise, though, that I wouldn’t ever break up with her again. Is that fair? Is it Stockholm Syndrome at this point?
Not that I’m planning a break-up. I just think it’s inevitable when it comes to Katy and Me.
It would be easier to understand if you knew that she says the break-ups were “[my] fault”.
That was fun:
Me: You’re just waiting for the next best thing to come along.
Her: I can’t believe you’d say that.
Me: You won’t break up with me. You can’t.
Katy: Oh my God.
Me: You couldn’t. I bet you couldn’t break up with me.
And then she did. But that was on me and you know it. She wouldn’t have done it with my righteous words of encouragement.
Now that I think about it: that didn’t even happen. Maybe next time.
I arrived at my dark and quiet apartment— the one I call home. Apartment J. It smells like cats. I don’t have cats but the previous tenants did. They catted up the place, I’ll tell ya. Cat piss-stained walls, floors, refrigerator. Just a goddamned kitty massacre.
It being dark, I assumed Chaz— my roommate— wasn’t home. And— based on the lack of crying sounds— neither was his girlfriend. She doesn’t live with us but she is over enough that she should start paying for rent. That and the weed she smokes; she’s a moocher, I’ll tell ya.
(When Torrey isn’t crying she is smoking weed— and she’s usually out of it. She’ll start with an ounce on Saturday and be out by Sunday night. Then Chaz and I smoke her out the rest of Sunday night. And she tells us, “It’s okay, I’m going to go on a break this week to build up my tolerance” and then smokes all our weed throughout the week until her parents give her money on Friday night.)
I’m out of weed. I could either call Aaron 4— my fourth concurrent drug dealer named Aaron— or I could…Ah, a missed call from Todd. I think that’s my fourtieth concurrent missed call from Todd.
Must be time to go to bed, then. Not without checking Facebook however. Honk honk.