The Other Boleyn Girlfriend

I can’t tell you where I work but I can tell you that it’s a place that serves ice cream, the employees— myself included— must sing birthday songs to children, and domestic terrorists should really give it a shot— if you know what I mean. And I mean it.

Remember how I said that if Amanda was pregnant then the kid better be black or there’s no kid at all? Well, first of all: there isn’t going to be a kid. Fuck dramatic tension— she tested negative on three tests (one from the dollar store and two from CVS. Oh, and a popsicle stick, just for kicks.)

So I brought up the whole “black kid or no kid” thing again because I hate kids. Especially the ugly ones. And at my job? Yep: I sing birthday songs to kids. Even the ugly ones.

They don’t even deserve it— nobody loves ugly kids so why should we celebrate their birthdays? Fuck that. As a society we shouldn’t celebrate ugly kids’ birthdays. Instead, we should save all the celebrations from all their birthdays for their funerals. Just throw the biggest party on the day they die or something— not even bother with the funeral. I don’t know; it’s never too soon to bury a dead, unloved child. Or adult.

This all may seem a little harsh but this wasn’t what I expected my life to end up like.

Anyways: this is an excellent job to show up drunk for. Here’s the key: you pound four, five, seven shots, get in the car, and hightail it to work. My record is five minutes. It’s great because your blood alcohol content isn’t actually, you know, high when you’re speeding your way to Satan’s den. Fucking swell, you know? And I do this six days a week. Sometimes ten.

One of my favorite co-workers— it’s like having a favorite person in a gulag slowly filling with water— is my roommate Drew. I don’t know all that much about Drew, although he did recently pick up a DUI. Or he was slapped down with one. I don’t know, I don’t get pulled over when I’m drunk driving. Drew was telling me about it today at work because this isn’t the kind of shit you save for home.

“The cops pulled me over again last night,” he says in between birthday celebrations for a pair of kids that should have been on American Horror Story last season. “They pulled me over,” he says, “and they told me it was too dark to be riding my bike without lights.”

“Did you get a ticket?” I said.

“No— they gave me a ride home,” he said.

“Sounds like a good deal,” I said.

“Hardly. Where were those pigs when I was drunk and needed a ride home from the bar?”

“Giving you a DUI.”

Drew didn’t talk to me for the rest of the shift. Probably because he’s jealous that he’s been pulled over twice in the last month and that I’ve never been pulled over. It’s nice.

Anyways, the point I was trying to make is that my girlfriend isn’t pregnant and she’s still my girlfriend.

Maybe I should tell you about the people I surround myself with. You know, my co-workers. Associate employee contemporaries, if you will.

Starting with Kelly Gallagher is the best, probably because he killed himself a month ago so you never have to hear about him again. That’s it; there’s no joke: the man shot himself in his backyard.

And you already know about Drew, my roommate with the DUI— you know him just as well as I do at this point.

Then there’s Jenna. Or Jennifer. Or both of them. See, Jenna is a fat girl. And so is Jennifer. And on my first day of work a year ago I mixed the two of them up.

Jenna (or, Jennifer) goes “You’re mistaking me for Jennifer (or, Jenna)”— and the look in her eyes when I did that… it was the look Asian people get when you call them “Taro”— know what I mean?

Of course, there’s Miles. Miles is the dumbest person I’ve met on this planet, newborns notwithstanding. Miles is the reason white people are looked down upon on Tumblr. Seriously, he’s dumber than a shoe.

Miles once asked me if it was snowing. I was in front of a window. He was outside. In the snow.

Miles is probably my most special co-worker. He has had the job at the ice cream palace longer than anybody else— probably combined, too— including the founder, his wife, and all the extra paid time he got for molesting small children on the clock on their birthdays. What a gift!

Miles once asked me how far away North Korea was from the sun. I told him to Google it. He did an image search that came up with zero results.

Miles is also a big fan of fighting. Don’t know why he hasn’t been fired but since I’ve been here he has tried to fight me twice and everybody else mostly twice.

I remember one of the days that he pushed me.

“Why do you have to be so smart all the time?” he said.

“What’s the alternative?”

“See, there you go again, acting all smart using big words. Fucking smart ass.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“What, smart ass?”

“You don’t know what ‘alternative’ means?”

“What’s the alternative to being a smart ass, smart ass?” he says in a mocking, condescending tone.

“Being a dumb ass.”

“Did you just call me a fucking dumbass?”

“Lookit! He finally put two and two together. That’s four, by the way—”

And then I remember paramedics and no assault report being filed because ruffling the animals is apparently against zoo rules.

But let us not forget Aaron. Now, we tried to give my co-worker Aaron the benefit of the doubt when he was new with his anger issues because he used to be in the Army. We all figured that he was suffering from the PTSD people in the Army get when they find out they’re not good enough to join the Marines, Navy, Airforce, or the workforce.

But then we realized that Aaron is just a shitty person.

Aaron had this theory, and like, don’t get me wrong: if you told me his theory and you threw in a couple chuckles and smiled— you know, threw in a few jokes, you’d think he was just having a good laugh. But he wasn’t. His theory was this: He get one. “One” being a kill. Because he actually does have PTSD from whatever the Army did to him, he is granted at lease one (1) civilian rage kill (CRK) with virtually zero (0) long-standing repercussions (LSR’s).

I have to get going. I’m going to try to break up with Amanda over the phone and she’s calling right now. Wish me luck.

Girlfriend, Interrupted

This was supposed to be easy; I was going to break up with my girlfriend, write a blog about it, and maybe smoke an egregious amount of clinical-grade marijuana. You know, The Good Stuff™.

Lets address point number two: “Write a blog about [breaking up with my girlfirend]”: That didn’t quite work out the way I wanted it to. And not just because I couldn’t quite go through with point number one (break up with my girlfriend).

What happened? After dinner— the dinner where I was supposed to sever the emotional and physical connection with Amanda over creme brulee— I went home and got high. Egregiously high (which is point number three).

My roommate, Drew, was watching something on Netflix— probably Dr. Who or Sherlock or whatever hip shit is available— when I figured I would eat a coconut. Coconuts are always out of season in the High Sierras, but I was high in the Sierras and they only cost a dollar regardless of the season. So I bought a few coconuts.

Butcher knives weren’t on sale but I’m sure you can understand why our kitchen had one of those. Or even thirty.

This wasn’t my first time chopping up a cocunt coconut with a butcher knife whilst being higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite. It wasn’t my third time either, but still. And it’s like, the hospital workers knew I was blitzed when I showed up with my left pointer finger (or “trigger finger” if you’re playing the home game) hanging on by a thread. They’re professionals; they’ve seen some shit.

But I’ve never seen so much blood in person. That’s mostly because when my mom died all the blood was building up in her internal organs and not on her hospital bed, but I digress.

You have to make a phone call when you go to the hospital. Not because you’re worried about your family wondering about where you are— mine still lives in Orange County so they don’t actively worry where I am. But you wanted to be dramatic. So I called Amanda.

“Baby, I’m at the hospital,” I said.

“Oh my God, is everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I just almost chopped off my trigger finger with a butcher knife.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It was a coconut that did it to me. Everything’s going to be fine— thanks for asking— the doctors said they’ll be able to get it back on.”

“I’m on my way right now.”

“No, please don’t come.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite,” I didn’t say.

Oh yeah. Breaking up with Amanda. Yeah. That didn’t work out. I mean, things didn’t— Amanda and I didn’t break up. Things didn’t work out for me. Things are still working out for us. On paper.

At least the creme brulee was good, although it was unmarred by (ex)girlfriend tears. Which is a crying shame. Or a non-crying shame if you’ve made it this far. I know I haven’t.

What happened was, well, I ordered the creme brulee. At least that went according to plan.

“We’ll split the creme brulee,” I said, knowing full well that she’d be crying so much from the breaking up thing that she’d be having none of it.

“Great, that’ll be out for you shortly,” the server— waitress, if you willsaid. I grabbed a hold of Amanda’s hand and squeezed. This was my last planned sign of affection.

“There’s no way I can enjoy this creme brulee without going right now,” she said. She pulled her hand away and headed for whatever corner the restaurant kept its bathroom in. Now’s when I wished that smoking indoors was still legal. Now’s when I wished that I still smoked. On paper. I still smoke, but Amanda doesn’t know that and you better not fucking tell her I swear to God.

Part of the problem with this whole bathroom dalliance of Amanda’s was that this was the time I was supposed to be breaking up up with her. This was supposed to be the time for me to break up with her. This was supposed to be an important moment for the both of us. Instead, it was a moment where I pined for menthols and she was crapping.

I was going to at least be half-way decent when she came back; I was gonna wait for her to put her napkin back on her lap, maybe take a sip or two of her water, and then I would lay down the heart-break. But no, Amanda hadn’t even sat down and she was already dominating the conversation at the table:

“I want to take a pregnancy test,” she started with. She pulled herself back into the table and takes one of those sips and doesn’t even bother with the napkin. Goddamn heathen. This was supposed to be the prelude to the end of our relationship— now? Bad manners showmanship, if that’s even a thing. Maybe it is for hippies, I don’t know.

“Okay,” I said, “How come?”

“I feel weird, you know?” she says.

“No, I don’t. What’s going on?”

“Well, I just went to the bathroom and it was really hard for me to go pee,” she says.

“Go on,” I say, taking a sip of Diet Coke. I decided against getting wine that night because it seemed a little too expensive for a break up. At least, I thought it was a little too expensive for this break-up. Wine is for my future black girlfriend. Diet Coke is for Amanda.

“And when I did go pee it kinda burned a little.”

“So it sounds like you’ve got a UTI.”

“That’s impossible.”

“So’s being pregnant.”

“You’re right. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well I have to worry about it now. If one of us is worried about you being pregnant then we both have to worry about you being pregnant.”

“Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk about it, Charlie.”

“I’d agree with you if you weren’t the one who brought it up.”

“I texted you before dinner and you said nothing about it. You didn’t even reply. You never reply to my texts.”

And, gee wilikers— the bitch was right. I pulled out my phone and saw four missed texts from Amanda— all of them from between 3:51pm and 3:56pm on that Thursday. Shit.

Why didn’t I notice the texts? Because I’m the sucker who bought a Windows Phone. Goddamn, what a mistake. Just like Amanda. Wait, no— that’s a terrible thing to say; that could be my kid inside her. Our kid inside her. Or nothing— just a side-effect of being a vegetarian, you know what I mean? I hope you don’t because even I don’t know what I meant by that; it just seemed like the right thing to say.

Our kid.That feels weird to say. Gosh, I really hope the kid is black— if there is a kid, I mean. This is confusing. I don’t want the kid to be black, actually, and not because it won’t be mine— no. See, I’ve actually always wanted a black kid. For me it’s black kid or no kid at all. Part of the fun of having a black kid is you can tell them how scary the world is and it’s considered “good parenting”. You’re doing the kid a favor. It doesn’t work the same way for white kids— or a kid with autism, regardless of race.

So, no: I did not break up with Amanda. She totally cock-blocked my maneuver except it was a cock-block that keeps the pussy coming. Not that I need it; not to say I’m gay but maybe I’m asexual…which is not to say I don’t fuck— it’s to say I can reproduce without the need for a sexual partner.

Although Amanda would be proof against that.

We shouldn’t have made it past Valentine’s Day. Or Mother’s Day.

Gone Girlfriend

Breaking up with her over a nice dinner is the best thing to do. Hear me out on this: we’re both dressed classy, there’s some wine, and it’s a Thursday night at the third nicest place in town. Sure, I could take her to the first or even the second nicest place in town but I may need those restaurants for future break-ups.

Amanda’s a nice girl so the last thing I can do for her is take her to some place we’ll both remember as “a nice time”.

It’s just that I don’t love her anymore. See, a couple of weeks ago we were in some post-coital position on my queen-sized bed and we were doing the typical sweet nothings whispering. And then she said something that made me wish for our relationship to land like a bad 9/11 joke— or an airplane on 9/11 for that matter:

“It’s just us against the world, Charlie,” she said.

And then I agreed with her— I don’t know why. The next sentence out of my mouth should have been “It’s over” or “I’m not into team sports”. Instead, I said, “I know baby. Just you and me.”

What a crock of shit, right? Us against the world? Come on. My friends don’t approve of her, sure, and neither do my parents. But those cunts are hardly “the world”. The whole “us against the world” comment would make me think that her friends and her parents don’t like me. I know better, though, because she has no friends and her parents are dead.

That conversation ruffled my feathers. The next morning she made me breakfast as if she didn’t know she had unwittingly ended the best thing going for her in her life. Me? I just wanted to get out of the house.

“Lets go see that new Ben Affleck movie,” I said. “I think it’s still in theaters.”

“He didn’t kill his wife,” Amanda said.

Right,” I said, winking. “He didn’t kill his wife.”

“No. He seriously doesn’t kill her; it’s all a rouse.”

“Exactly. I want to see how he gets away with it.”

“There’s nothing to get away with,” Amanda says. She sounds pretty angry, but she’s still making me breakfast so I haven’t completely offended her sensibilities. She continues: “He didn’t kill his wife.”

“I catch your drift.”

“I don’t think you do. Anyways, I was hoping we could…”

Don’t remember what she said after that. What I do remember is I didn’t get to see the movie where Ben Affleck totally gets away with killing his totally hot wife.

What I do remember isn’t something she said but something terrible she did: Amanda made me ride to whatever it is we did on her motorcycle. I say it’s “terrible” even though one of my dreams was to have a girlfriend who rides a motorcycle. Until I met Amanda.

First of all: We live in a mountain town where it snows between November and April. Amanda seems to think this is the perfect place to ride her motorcycle around. She also claims to be a bad driver. She also thinks it’s cute to be a bad driver.

Being a bad driver is not cute. Being a supermodel in overalls, picking flowers with kittens, and blowing bubbles is cute. Pigtails are cute. Rabbits. Rabbit ears are cute. Being scraped off the side of the road is not cute— regardless of the involvement of pigtails, overalls, bunny ears, and the other Reader Rabbit memorabilia.

The last straw was— is— her memory. Amanda’s memory was— is— at best, the kind of memory you could ask of a geriatric gold fish. She can’t remember how we met. She doesn’t know my birthday. She doesn’t remember—or know— her favorite food items.

No, really. One time she asked me what her favorite food was. I thought it was a test, you know? This was before I realized her brain had more static than a radio. This was also before I realized I’m a terrible writer.

“What’s my favorite food?” she asked as we left a local sushi joint. Even though we just had sushi I knew that wasn’t the answer.

“Pizza,” I said.

Really?” she said.

“Yeah. Is— was— that the wrong answer?”

“No, I guess not. I didn’t know the answer, actually— so I was asking you.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

“Where did you park?”

“We took your motorcycle here.”

Amanda’s memory was— is— so poor that she even regularly forgets her rights and lefts. This sort of thing would make planning where our friends and family sit at our wedding an almost impossible task. Luckily, as I said before, she has no friends and her family is dead. The only impossible task that comes out of her directional forgetfulness is driving. And elevators, I guess. Those are ups and downs but it still may be difficult for her.

Yes, she was the first girl— or woman, rather, that I was giving serious thoughts to marry. Or at least accidentally impregnate and then later marry. Because Amanda was— and is— extremely attractive. We’re talking tall, skinny, a quarter Chinese, and breasts. She’s a solid 9/10— that one point subtracted because she’s a vegetarian who eats fish.

This break-up would have happened sooner but her birthday is in early December, Christmas just happened, and I wanted to have a guilt-free New Year. Now’s the time to get moving— lest we start talking about Valentine’s Day plans.

Reservations are at seven. I’m assuming it’ll all be over by 8:30, although I’ll probably take some extra time with the dessert of creme brulee whilst she’s crying in the bathroom. Then I’ll take her home, take myself home, and maybe catch up on some Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m like, 86 episodes in thanks to Amanda; it’s her favorite show.