Day Forty-One (2).

Katy broke up with me. I should have known this was going to happen— there were so many hints, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t have chugged that bottle of tussen and smoked three bowls before I went over to her place.

Maybe it was the table settings. There were only five— enough for Katy, her mom, her dad, her sister Avery, and their little dog too.

Maybe it was the fact she didn’t get me anything from Argentina. Not even a t-shirt.

Maybe it was her off-hand comment about having a penis.

“I’ve never noticed this picture,” I said. She was leading me up to her room— my hopes were for the blowjob— when I saw a picture of a naked toddler on the wall.

“Who is that?”

“Oh,” she said, “That’s me when I was a little boy.”

That sound you heard was the bass being dropped.

“You were a little boy?”

“It’s nothing , don’t worry about it.”

She got into her room and I closed the door behind me. Blowjob time. Katy sat down on her bed and caught me up on her trip to Argentina. It was largely boring.

“But there’s something I need to tell you,” she said.

“You’re going to suck me off, right?”

“No, not that. Not that at all, Charlie.”

I was floored. No blowjob? I’ve been waiting for the Katy Special for forty days. Something was amiss.

“We need to talk.”

Oh. Shit.

“Not this again,” I said.

“What, again?”

“Nothing.”

“I went on a date in Argentina.”

“I knew that.”

“We kissed.”

The sound you just heard was the bass being picked back up and dropped again. Fuck. Katy cheated on me.

She began to explain that she was sent on a date— and she didn’t know it was a date— while in Argentina. Katy’s grandmother had set her up with an Argentinian guy because, apparently, her grandmother had not been informed that she had a boyfriend. By choice.

“Was it Alan Thickhole?” I asked, imagining the man had bought a ticket to Argentina just to swoop on my girl.

“Who? No, not Alan— wait, how do you know…?”

“I read your text messages.”

“You asshole!” she cried out. “Those are private!”

“You shouldn’t have left your phone on the table at Patsy’s then,” I said. I get it, by the way: I’m an asshole. But this is between me and my girlfriend so stay out of it. Ex-girlfriend, I mean. This is between me and my ex-girlfriend. Stay out of it.

Katy got up off her bed. “It’s over.”

“You’re not breaking up with me.”

“Oh I am. It’s over, Charlie. And I’m calling it for once. Not you.”

Which is bullshit, by the way. It’s always about me, all the time. But what she said next rocked me to my rotten core.

Katy, as you know, seems to inflate like a balloon when she gets angry. I mean, she gets dilapidated-barn size. And with her red hair she really does look like a dilapidated barn. The only problem with that simile is that it’s very hard to push a dilapidated barn down a hill— but Katy, not so much.

Anyways, she wasn’t growing large like she was angry. In fact, she seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with each and every word she said. I hadn’t noticed this before tonight.

Oh yes, I forgot: The next thing she said to me rocked me to my rotten core. Forgot to tell you what that was. Sorry about that.

“I’ve been reading your blog.”

What.

“And I know you fucked one of the Mexican girls from the Panda Express.”

What.

I started at Katy like a bull in a china shop: “I didn’t make love to a Mexican girl from the Panda Express.”

“So that’s what it is now,” she said, “It wasn’t making love. You were just fucking.”

“Of course it wasn’t making love. And we didn’t— we didn’t fuck either.”

“That’s not what your blog says.”

“That’s not what my blog says. Have you been talking to Chaz or something?”

“Are you trying to imply I’ve been fucking Chaz?”

“How ridiculous is that?”

“Well you just implied Alan Thickhole drove to Argentina for a date with me.”

“I never said he drove to Argentina. If anything he flew there.”

“That’s fucking preposterous, Charlie.”

Katy was shrinking quickly. She was now the size of a chihuahua and her voice was beginning to to sound like a small cartoon chipmunk’s. I knew things were going nowhere, so I decided to bring the ball back to my court.

“You had a penis?”

“We’re broken up. I don’t have to tell you about the penis.”

“I think I deserve to know about the penis.”

“It was my penis, not yours.”

“And?” It felt like there was an “and” that should have gone in there.

“And that’s between me and my boyfriend.”

What.

“I’m dating Alan Thickhole, Charlie.”

“No fucking way. You’re dating me.”

“Not anymore. We just broke up.”

“You just broke up with me?”

“And now I’m dating Alan Thickhole.”

“Tell me about the penis.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything about my penis.”

“It’s not like having a tail. This is having a penis.”

Katy was now smaller than the indian in the cupboard. I picked her up off her bed and placed her in my palm.

“I could flush you down the toilet,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“And your voice has gotten so tiny, too.”

“Charlie, are you high?”

“So small.”

“You’re fucking buttered.”

“Who—” I said, “Who the hell says buttered?”

“You’re being an asshole now.”

“Do I look like a goddamn piece of toast to you?” I checked my arms to make sure that wasn’t the case. No, I was not a piece of bread.

“I can’t do this anymore Charlie,” she said. “Put me down.”

So I put her down.

“Open the door.”

So I opened the door.

“And go fuck yourself off a cliff.”

So I went ahead and did that. I left her up in her room, tinier than the penis she used to have. Actually, I just walked down the stairs and told her mom that the food smelled great.

“Staying for dinner?” she said.

“Nah, Katy and I just broke up,” I said.

“I could see that coming from a mile away.”

“Let alone 3,000 of them, right?”

“Right, Charlie.”

“Is Avery home?”

“Stay away from my daughter.”

And that was that. Katy later texted me telling me how much of a dick face I was and I texted her saying, well… this is between me and my ex-girlfriend. Stay out of it.

Day Forty-One.

So it’s dinner with Katy tonight. First time seeing each other since she got back. She’s planned dinner for 7pm tonight and welcomed me over at 6:30pm. The text:

Katy: Dinner’s at 7, so get here thirty minutes ahead of time. thx

And practically nothing else. So mysterious— but that just means she’s probably going to do something special for me. Maybe give me a blowjob while her parents are home or something.

Going to do my best not to bring up anything involving Morgan. I mean, it shouldn’t be hard to not say “Hey, I cheated on you,” but then again, I’m Charlie Brown; I make the easiest things in the world hard— sobriety notwithstanding.

I’m excited, though. Anxious, yes, but extremely excited. After all, I haven’t seen Katy in, oh I don’t know, 41 days. And she was supposed be gone for 90 but apparently Argentina has become so unsafe for such a hot young thing like her to hang ‘round that she got an early ticket back to these here United States.

Dinner’s going to be at her place. She told me we’re having steak— steak, I can’t believe it. I mean, we’re probably not having nine steaks like Chaz did for me on Mexican Mother’s Day…but what can I expect?

You know what I can expect? A gift from Argentina. I’ve been looking forward to this for quite a while now. I wonder what she got me. Hopefully some black market boner pills— not that I need them or anything; it would just be fun to take a few boner pills and call in a sick day at work because of my untamed erection. Like I said, I like making things hard.

Speaking of the office: you may be wondering what happened to Susan. Honestly, she hasn’t shown up to work since the incident where she tried to practically rape me. And I think this is an OK time to say that she practically raped me. Or tried raping me. Not that Katy is going to ever hear about that.

I’ll tell her about Phil, though. She deserves to know my involvement in his death, even though my involvement was, at best, minimal.

God, I wish Phil was still alive, though. I could have sold him some of the boner pills and then maybe he would have died from those instead of my last bottle of Robitussen. The man could have died of a hard dick instead of being surrounded by hundreds of plastic ones. That would have been the respectable way to go, Phil— God rest your filthy soul.

Man, I can’t wait to see her breasts again, too. May not be able to see them tonight but there’s always tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that day, too. And my phone, too— I forgot I have a picture of her tits somewhere on there. Lemme— just give me a second.

Yep. Still good.

shit.

Shit. Oh shit. Katy’s coming back home on Sunday. I got a text from her this morning.

She knows. She has to know I cheated on her.

Oh shit. Shit man. That’s all I can think about right now. Shit. Don’t you think it’s all shit— made the banner on my cell phone say shit because that’s all I ever say when I pull out that piece of shit shit unlock now press start to unlock shit— it’s all shit shit shit— bull-fucking your mother shit— all of it is dog shit. Buckets of shit painted on shit tasting like dog shit gas shitty mileage shitty jetta no money for gas or shit or money for wiping my ass when I shit so maybe I’ll just fill up a bathtub with horse shit and laser shooting shit that I can tattoo on my shit together just to make sense of all the shit raining down upon the shitforest canopy that houses all the creepy butt-fucking monkeys I’d seriously rather pick up donkey shit with my mouth for less than minimum wage just to leave y shitting job. Quite shitting literally. I hate it I hate it I hate it.

Shit, Katy, again. Shit shit shit shit shit I hate it I hate it I hate it getting pulled over by a shitty cop city cop chop shop can’t just find that registration Officer Cunt Popsicle I mean it fuck you and your shit catering job face I hate my obnoxious face and the shitty mirror image I’m stuck with bullshitting your bullshit and

Nobody but Katy can help me with my shit but that’s good and gone because her shit is good and better than my shit because I’m a shitty cheater

I have to tell somebody.

I mean it fuck you she’s the shit I care about mostly because our cats are shit ain’t shit to love because they crap all over the hallways walk down and Katy is allergic to them but I don’t get to say my shit because I’m a wreckless wreckful reckless back of the most pungent shit ever removed from an ass as cavernous and rank as they come just some cold shit getting fried up for breakfast but I’m just shitting you because I didn’t eat breakfast I didn’t eat lunch I didn’t do dinner and it’s cold my nutsack must have withdrawn up to my liver that shit can’t filter shit for shit since I drank too much in high school and early college and now my stingy ass can’t even pull himself together for the girl he loves because he’s trapped under his shit and in the the person the shit starts to take a personality of its own until all I all I all I until all I really want to fucking know is what is going on and does a bear fucking shit in the woods or not?

Day Thirty-Six.

I broke down today and told Chaz everything; that I’m moving; that Phil died; that I don’t know how to properly use semi-colons.

Everything is better now. He forgives me.

“You can make it up to me,” he said, “by finding us a new drug dealer…”

Nobody but Chaz knows I was there. And you. And I didn’t kill him or anything. I think.

Todd’s calling me. Hold on. Maybe Todd deals drugs now. Not worth picking up the phone to find out, though.

Okay, anyways: Phil died but my mind keeps going to other places. Like, this one time Katy and I were having sex and I called her a whore.

“You whore,” I said.

It wasn’t dirty sex or anything, but Katy was being a whore.

“Don’t—” she said, “don’t call me a whore. I’m not a whore.” I pulled out.

“Dude, you’re having sex with me. Right now.”

“But that doesn’t make me a whore.”

“You were being a whore.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were blowing me not 30 minutes ago.”

“So what,” she said.

“So what,” I said, “So what is that you blew me to the song ‘Caress Me Down’”

Katy wasn’t having any of it. So much for sex the rest of the night— Katy wasn’t much of a slut.

“Baby, I didn’t mean—” she still wasn’t looking at me. “Hey, roll over, slut”. Katy rolled herself back over to look at me.

“Don’t call me a slut, either.”

“You were being one, though.”

“What?”

“It’s just dirty talk, baby girl.”

“What? No, I couldn’t hear you.”

“It’s just baby talk, dirty girl.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“I’m making a website about us.”

And then I keep going back to that Alan Thickhole guy. The skeleton in Katy’s closet. Maybe this is the reason I break up with her— I thought it was going to be about the facial hair. That was what this blog was about, originally: it was about how my girlfriend grows better facial hair than me.

“You would never write about that,” she said.

Fine, your next boyfriend can tell you about the mustache, I figured. I only first realized the facial hair thing when my blowjob had a little tickle to it. It was like getting blown by a Super Mario Brother.

Every girlfriend, January is the ringer month for them. Christmas happened and fate has always brought me Libras so by January 1…I’m poor. My last girlfriend said it came out of nowhere. Bitch, I wrote this joke two girlfriends ago.

And she asked me “how long have you feeling this way” and when it comes out of nowhere you never want to answer that question— neither the truth nor a lie will save your poor ass now— you can’t pay rent and your new home just became this corner.

And I just told her, to minimize the damage, “uh, a month or so ago” even though I’d been considering it since my first tickle-me Elmo blowjob. They hate that because even though you tell them something close to the truth you now become a sort of criminal mastermind. To them you planned out every last “I love you”, every kiss, and every conversation you’ve had in the last month like some sort of movie villain.

“Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?” Oh god, I hate hearing that. Followed by “I would have done anything for you. Anything for us.” What is this bullshit. Anything for me? I’ve got three things I don’t want to bring up in this break-up conversation that you won’t do for us:

1) Birth control

2) Anal

“And what’s the third thing?” they say in my head.

“The threesome with your best friend.”

Oh shit, did I say that out loud.

“You didn’t just say that.”

“You asked! I shouldn’t have told you, but those things are awesome. And if it means breaking up with you and rolling the dice with a gutter-snipe or two then so be it.”

I’m friends with none of my exes.

None of them date men anymore either— or boys in my case— that’s fucking the truest thing I’ve put on this website. When I told my therapist this he suggested it had to do with my mom or something. Doctor, don’t suggest Freudian shit in this day and age; you’re a fool. I know I’m pretty much claiming to be the foreman of the magic lesbian factor, but pretty much everybody knows that whole wanting to fuck your mom and kill your dad thing is bullshit. Right?

Day Twenty-Nine

Nearly a week without my own pot supply.. Moved onto Robitussen. Going through a bottle of this shit a night.

And Susan messaged me again today. She wants me to bring the computer to her place tomorrow— not just to give it to her at work. So it sounds like she wants to bang. You know, besides the part where she clearly wants to bang me.

Today’s message on our work’s instant messaging system was awkward:

Do u want 2 C me naked?

I mean, I responded “yes”, but I can just check out Susan’s laptop any time I want if I want to see her naked. And I’m starting to get the feeling that Susan is either retarded or very horny because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her computer.

Still haven’t told Katy about Susan. What’s weird is that Katy knows I have a blog but she hasn’t asked to see it or anything. Sometimes I send her the drafts of what I’m writing to see if there’s anything wrong with my phrasing…but she never asks for my blog’s location on the web.

I mean, I’ve been smart about which blogs I send her— sometimes I send her things I’m not going to post, like this:

St. Patrick’s Day is stupid. I don’t think anybody knows what it’s about. Every year people give me a different reason or fun fact about what St. Patrick’s Day is really like or how they really do it in Ireland. They always tell me it’s another reason to drink or it’s another reason to celebrate Irish culture through drinking or how it’s another reason to look at all the idiots who think that Irish culture is about drinking. Personally, it was a terrifying day on the road because it is a Sunday and everybody has work tomorrow so they’s alls gots themselves all blotto-like during the dey thime; it wasn’t like I could hide from the drunks on the road because they were going to be asleep at night.

But then I was reminded of something my therapist once told me: “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

And that I did. At the local Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart is a fantastic place but it’s really hard to maneuver when you’re high as an Indian kite. The chief issue is concentration—all of those bright lights are designed to fuck with consumers and confuse them when they’re making their purchasing decisions. They end up taking more time in front of items trying to decide which model they want—the pricier one or the cheaper one. The more time they spend in front of the pricier one the higher chance they will buy it. Also, the bright lights make it hard to focus on just one item; you are likely to purchase other items that become unintentional souvenirs of your Wal-Mart visit because your eyes don’t have an easy place to rest in a store that isn’t a number trying to sell you something for “cheap”.

All of this makes Wal-Mart one of the more confusing places to be walking around high already, but on St. Patrick’s day the place reminded me of an orphanage that also doubles as the city pound that can’t afford separate cages for the animals and children.

Actually, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

There was a commercial on the television today for the Spicy McChicken sandwich at McDonald’s for only $1.00. In my area we haven’t had Spicy McChickens before, thus I’ve never had one because I am a hermit. Now, I don’t trust commercials but I had been a rampaging McChicken and McDouble pervert only six (6) days prior.

Well, the Spicy McChicken was actually a dollar but I didn’t spend just a dollar because I got two Spicy McChickens, a McDouble with no onions, and California State sales tax. It was like three (3) dollars.

I didn’t just go into Wal-Mart earlier all high-like just for fun, by the way. I needed a bike helmet so I could go biking. Forgot I had one on the balcony for three years. Or, was it two on the balcony for five? Division was supposed to make this easier to remember. Get back to me on the details—I’ve got two bikes, OK?

I want to go biking so I need to buy a helmet or I will get hit by a car and die. Getting hit by a car is not an option but dying is. Buy a helmet, motherfucker. You’d do it if your dick was on your forehead. But that imaginary dick on your forehead isn’t so easy to imagine if your brain can’t will it because of cerebelleus-rhectioid damage, and your skull can only do so much to a Cadillac’s grill. For itself.

Again, buy a helmet.

The night will be ending, I guess, after Katy signs onto Skype and tells me about her day. We promised to talk at 10:00pm her time and it’s…10:30pm our time. My time.

Hm. Will get back to you on that, imaginary readers. I imagine you guys with imaginary dicks on your foreheads. But I have to imagine the dicks on your foreheads for you because you didn’t heed my warnings about buying helmets earlier and now you’re stuck, as a vegetable, reading this. It’s not easy imagining all of these dicks on your foreheads but I’ll do it if I have to. To prove this point. To prove any point.

I think I had like, 30 cigarettes today.

__________________________________

And this shit doesn’t bother her at all, apparently. Or worry her. Maybe I’m with the wrong person.

aaron

Aaron4 hasn’t returned my calls in three days. I’ve drank all the beer and smoked most of the weed. Chaz let me nig a few bowls but now he’s running low, too. We don’t know what to do. I mean, if Aaron4 was going on vacation he’d tell me, right? And you’d think he would text or email me his new number if that changed. Do drug dealers even have business email? I’ve never seen one, come to think of it.

Groupon for weed would be great, too. I’d murder a person to see groupon for pot— Groupot, if you will. Hell, I’d murder somebody to see groupons for murdering somebody who could make groupons for weed a thing. Maybe there’s a kickstarter just for me out there.

And now all I want to do is talk to Katy. I’m getting worried about her and the things she could be doing with that rockin’ body of hers.

She was already signed on Skype when I finally got my laptop set up. Her most recent status update on Facebook was, by the way, “tired of all the mexican food in Argentina”. Katy worries me sometimes.

We were having some incredible sex in her car once and she whispered into my ear, “I want you to cum inside me” and I was like

“Sweety, I’m wearing a condom. Do you want me to, uh, cum through it or…” And taking off the condom was going to be so unsexy in the back seat of a dark car that it would have involved me being in the unsexy position of having to pull the condom off of my uncircumsized penis as if it were some kind of diseased leach and then disposing of it and then getting back into the moment where she’s interested in me coming inside of her.

Katy started today’s Skype session in a familiar way: I couldn’t see a goddamn fucking goddamn thing.

“Take the sheet of paper away from the camera and just tell me what it says,” I said. Katy’s visage flooded my bandwidth.

“It’s a wedding invite,” she beamed.

“Who’s getting married?” I asked.

“Sure you want to know?”

“Sure you want to hear about my Saturday?”

“What?”

“Nothing— just tell me.”

“It’s your ex,” she said, “Your ex-girlfriend Samantha.” This was indeed news. Sam was my ex-girlfriend, sure, but she was also— or is also— friends with Katy. They have nicknames for eachother. Even Katy and I don’t have those for each other. This was serious.

“I’m so happy for her,” I lied. What a slut. How dare she find true love before me? “Who, I said, “Who is the lucky guy?”

“Some guy named Sam. I think he was her rebound from you.”

Seriously? Who rebounds to marriage? And she’s been dating her rebound for five years? And her rebound has the same name as her? Come on. That’s not fair at all.

“Good for her,” I said. So happy for her. Just tickled. Glad somebody finally wanted to lock it down with Milk-Breath. She, by the way, had milk-breath. That’s why I we broke up. I mean, that’s why I broke up with her.

Update: In a fit of relative sobriety I let Katy know I’m moving to Truckee.

“I’m moving to Truckee, I think,” I said. I knew but let her think I was only thinking of it.

“What’s a truckee?” she said.

“Cold place in Northern California.”

“Why?”

“My parents called me today,” I lied, “and offered to send me to college up there.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah, I really wanna do this,” I lied again.

“Good for you,” she said, starting to balloon up like her old self.

“We’ll find a way to work this out,” I continued to lie.

“Sure we will. This will just turn out to be another adventure.”

“Yes, an adventure where I go somewhere and you stay in the same place doing the same things every single day.”

“What?”

“Day in, day out.”

“No, I didn’t hear you.”

“Good.”

And that was that.

Day Twenty-One

Haven’t been out of the house since Crack-Fest 2014. It was a one-day thing buy my mind is still reeling. I mean, man, I could get a lot of shit done smoking crack. I didn’t get a lot of things done but still, it’s the crack-thought that counts, right?

It made me wonder why stepping on a crack is such a big deal for your mother’s back. What is the correlation between stepping on cracks and my mother’s spinal column? Instead of “step on a crack and break your mother’s back” it should be “knock your mother’s picture over and break your mother’s back”. That makes much more sense to me. I knock my mother’s picture over at least twice a day— sometimes on accident— and nothing bad ever happens to her. Then again, bad things don’t happen to people who are already dead.

Katy and I got in a fight over Skype yesterday. It wasn’t much of a fight, though, since I’m the only one thinking we got in a fight in the first place. She told me she went on a “kinda date” with some guy. The girl said she didn’t even know it was a date until the guy went in for a kiss.

“He doesn’t even speak English, Charlie; don’t worry,” she told me. So I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t worry so well that my internet accidentally turned itself off by itself and we never finished the conversation. That’s how we do passive aggression around here.

So what if he doesn’t even speak English? I consider that cheating. It is cheating so far as I’m concerned. Who the fuck goes on a date with another person when you’re already dating Charlie Brown? Not the future Katy Brown, that’s who.

Morgan’s throwing a party tonight. Going to go to that and see what’s up. Burn off some steam and try to forget all of this. I’m out of weed again too, so maybe somebody can smoke me out while I’m there.

Ugh. Carl is texting me. And Todd called again.

Day Fifteen.

I miss the way she used to walk— or hobble if she was in a bad mood. I miss her eyes, should she ever look into mine again, I would be a happy man. Boy. Man.

And that puss.

One time she asked me what my ultimate sexual fantasy was. It was awkward because, for one, I lied to her about it.

Me: In a giant robot. I want to have sex in a giant robot.

Katy: With one or in one?

Me: In one. Like a giant EVA unit from End of Evangelion.

Katy: What’s End of Evangelion?

Me: The movie version of one of my favorite TV shows. We talked about it on the way here.

Katy: You talked about it. And anyways, sex in a giant robot would be impossible. I’m talking about a fantasy we can live out in this hotel room.

Me: This is a non-smoking room, though.

Really, my fantasy was to bang her and her sister together— and if that wasn’t doable then I wanted to have a threesome with her and her best friend, Jaye. “And I can drink as much as I want and pass out while you and Jaye still have sex with me. And each other,” I never said.

What would you have done? Giant robots seems like it would be the go-to answer for me.

You know what’s weird is I can remember my lie but I can’t remember Katy’s sexual fantasy. I didn’t even ask her, come to think of it. But she definitely didn’t say “have a threesome”. She didn’t even ask if that’s what I wanted.

“Lets do the teacher fantasy,” she’d say.

“Only if you’re teaching special ed,” I’d say.

So we did that.

I knew signing onto Skype to talk to Katy was going to be a tense disaster. Son of a bitch, let me explain. I know you’ll let me explain. Here:

“Charlie,” she said, “I got my first piece of mail here in Argentina!”

“That’s exciting,” I said. I always tell Katy things are exciting because that’s the only synonym I know for “stupid”.

“They got they address right and everything. It’s from our old high school,” she beamed.

“Our high school mailed mailed you? What are they asking for, donations?”

“No, check this out, it’s actual physical mail.” Katy unfolded a white sheet of paper and held it up to the camera.

“I can’t see it, sweety, you’re—,” she held the paper closer, “you’re covering the camera with the sheet, Katy.”

“Look at it,” she whined. Katy didn’t understand I was going to have a hell of a time trying to read 12 pt. font text through a webcam. I decided to give it to her straight.

“Listen to me: tell me what it says. There is not a kind bone in my body capable of explaining the technological limits of reading 12 pt. text over Skype.” Katy pulled the paper away and set it down in front of her. She looked…shit, she was starting to get fat. Getting fat meant getting angry. Hives, too.

“Fine, you fucking jerk,” she shot back, “It says I’m invited to our high school reunion in June.”

“Really?” I said, “Not that I care about our high school reunion but how come you’re invited and I’m not?”

“Who says you’re not invited?” she said.

“Katy, you’re in Argentina and you didn’t even change your address and the invitation still made it to you in April. I live six miles away.”

“Maybe yours is late in the mail, Charlie. Maybe Chaz accidentally picked it up.” Preposterous. Chaz, my roommate, would never have picked up my mail because he has little hands.

“Sure, Katy. Little Handy Andy stole my high school reunion invitation.”

“Why are you being such a dick tonight?” she said. Her face was now a yin-yang symbol but instead of evil and good it was hives and not-hives.

“Because we went to the same high school, Katy.”

“That’s no reason to be such a twat,” she said.

“Katy, you’re breaking out in hives.”

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

“You know you break out in hives and seem fatter to me when you’re angry.”

“That’s so fucking insensitive, Charlie, I can’t believe you would actually say that to me.”

Maybe it was insensitive. Maybe it wasn’t. All I knew was that Katy and I hadn’t been in a fight like this since the last time I broke up with her.

Day —Minus Two Hundred and One.

“You’re breaking up with me?”

You could just smell the finality in the air — and even the tears streaming down her cheeks if you were a dog.

“It’s not— Katy, I’ve made my decision.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Can’t you smell the finality, baby?”

“I’m not some sort of dog, Charlie,” she said.

“Actually,” I asked her, “What is that smell?”

“Buffalo wings,” she whimpered. “I got you your fucking goddamn favorite food for dinner.” She didn’t whimper that out, actually. At least she wasn’t breaking out in hives. Tears of pain, sure, but no hives.

The rumble of thunder in the distance elicited a quizzical look from her for just a moment before her face began to contort back into a wretched look of a look. She began wailing. We were still standing in the same places we had been when I told her “[I] couldn’t do [this] anymore”.

All of this was terribly awkward. This, after all, was the second time I had broken up with Katy.

Day Minus Nine Hundred and Eighty Two.

“How can you do this to me?” she asked.

“I have to, Katy. I’m my own person—as are you. We’re just going down different paths in our life.”

“That doesn’t even make sense. I thought you loved me, Charlie,” Katy said, taking her hands off the wheel to wipe away a tear. Christ, I forgot, she was driving—this shouldn’t have happened when she was driving. What are plans fucking for, Charlie? For getting them right, not for forgetting them, alright? Fuck.

.

.

.

Actually we can get back to that one later. Focus, Reader:

Katy backed away from me and retreated further into the living room, collapsing on her couch. “Great, it’s going to start raining,” she said. “Perfect day.”

“It’s not going to rain, Katy. It’s August in Southern California; It was sunny as all fuck when I got here. It sounds like a helicopter.”

“You’re fucking crazy” she asserted—and not for the first time.

“Don’t call me crazy. Look, out the window, it’s not raining outside.”

“I can’t look out the window!” she screamed.

“Maybe it looks like it’s raining to you because of all the tears.”

Katy took a deep breath and then threw the pillow at me. “You told me you loved me!”

She was starting to get fat. Still, no hives.

“You told me you loved me!” she repeated, turning up the heat.

“Katy, it’s just that you don’t listen to me. Like this helicopter thing, for instance. It’s not raining outside. You can’t see that because you’re crying; everything looks like it’s raining to you. And it’s a goddamn helicopter!”

“What are you even saying?” Katy screamed. A surge of hives made themselves apparent on her newly-embiggened arms. The girl wasn’t yelling because she couldn’t understand me, either: her house was now shaking from the helicopter.I shouldn’t have done this at her house, I thought. Goddamn plans, Charlie. Goddamn plans.

“It’s thunder, Charlie, not a helicopter!” she screeched. I distinctively heard the sound of windows shattering upstairs.

“Holy shit!” I called, “the windows upstairs must have exploded or something.”

“That was lightening, Charlie” Katy continued, her hives now covered the visible majority of her visible skin. She stood up and shook her hands at me, raising her voice over the whirl of the SWAT team that was apparently storming the second level of her house. “How long have you been lying to me?”

Of course, I hadn’t been lying to Katy about being in love with her. At least, not for too long. Maybe a week or so. But she wasn’t willing to hear that.

“I haven’t been lying to you, Katy. I loved you for a long time. But this is getting to be too much for me.” Another window crashing punctuated my sentence.

“I planned my life around you!”

“Katy, I think that this is a conversation that definitely needs to happen!” I yelled to her, “but I am about 99% sure that a SWAT team is going to rush this downstairs area in about—”

Katy interrupted me—”You’re fucking crazy, Charlie. You’re right: we are done!”

That proved to be the last time Katy would interrupt me— at least until we got back together 48 days later. It was almost too late when I saw the lasers train themselves on Katie gigantic and massive titties.

“Abbot and Costello!”

“What!?”

“They have lasers pointed at your tits! Duck!”

“I can’t feel them!” she cried back.

“There is not a kind bone in my—” I stopped for a second. The SWAT team should have killed us both by now. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to argue about inability to understand physics.

“DUCK!” I screamed. And Katy, God bless her heart, actually tried ducking. Case in point: Katy tried to duck and knocked herself out with her tits.

That left me off the hook. So I ran as fast as I could out of her house before I could get shot or get knocked out by titties.

We’re perfect for each other.

______________________________

“I didn’t read it,” Katy told me. She knows about the blog.

“Is it because of the break up stuff?”

“I’m sure readers will like it. And I even thought the fighting part was funny. But I don’t like going back to our break ups,” Katy said to me. No hives or anything, but she sure sounded like she’d been shot in the tits.

“It’s not real though,” I said.

“And I don’t appreciate you calling my breasts ‘Frank Zappas’, either.”

“I called them Abbot and Costellos.”

“What thefuck is that even supposed to mean?” she said. And, again, the hives started coming out.

“It was like, the first thing that came up on Google when I was looking for synonyms for breasts. I’m not a fucking genius or anything, Katy.” She was starting to get on my nerves. This was, after all, the fourth fight we had gotten into in this blog post.

“I’m going to do you a favor,” I told her,” You’re starting to break out in the hives again. Every time you break out in hives it reminds me of our break up. So stop breaking out in hives: It’s unattractive.”

“Tons of people find hives attractive, Charlie.”

“Then go join a hive hive—er, a hive colony or something. You’re more than welcome to google the subject.”

“I hope they forgot about your invitation to the high school reunion, Charlie, I really hope they did.”

“You’re going to regret saying that, I swear to God.”

“This is the third time you’ve mentioned God in this blog post, Charlie. And the dialogue is starting to get repetitive and even more nonsensical by the syllable”

Things started getting really hazy because I couldn’t remember when I was actually having this conversation with Katy. In fact, I’m pretty sure that we didn’t even have this conversation so much as text it to each other and then I tried to turn it into something that actually happened.

Day Ten (2).

I miss a lot of things about Katy. I miss Katy, for one. I miss the way she used to laugh— although I missed that long before she left; she stopped laughing weeks ago.

I miss her smile— another thing she didn’t do often around me.

I miss…the sex. We’d whisper sweet nothings into each others’ ears:

“Beggars can’t be chooser,” we’d whisper, together.

“I’m going to quit shaving my armpits,” she’d whisper.

“Why would you do that?” I’d whisper-ask.

“It’s an artificial social construct and I don’t want to be held down anymore.”

“Your armpits are a decision we should both make together.”

“The both of us? Fuck that, it’s my body,” she said.

Katy began to get larger, in my very own arms, no less. She always seemed to gain weight when she was angry at me. “Stop getting angry,” I said, “Nothing sexually or emotionally helpful comes from it.”

Katy seemed to shed off a bit of her jiggle almost immediately— especially from her chin area. I petted her slowly to calm her down some more.

“That’s a good— good baby, what an inspiring feminist she is,” and she fell asleep like how an angry cat would. “Let’s bang and talk about it in the morning.”

So that’s what we did. We banged and didn’t talk about it in the morning.

This whole Katy going out of town thing has been about a lot of firsts. For the first time in years, for instance, I get three paychecks in the same month. What luck!

So for the first time in three years I decided to stay in on a Thursday night and not spend any money. And for the first time in ever I decided to do my taxes— and actually did them. And I owe the government $201. What luck!

While doing my taxes I called Katy on Skype to see how she was doing and her tits. The call rang for thirty (30) seconds until it finally picked up. It was a difficult thirty seconds— she could have been finishing a guy off for all I knew.

An old lady answered. She had wrinkles and did not look happy.“Katy,” I exclaimed, “What happened to your face? We are breaking up, holy shit, what has Argentina done to you?”

“Hola Charlie,” Katy’s voice said from off-screen. Everything was coming together. “That’s my—,” she started, but I cut her off.

“It’s your grandmother!” I exclaimed. Thank goodness, that was a close one.

“No,” her grandmother said. Her face got older and angrier looking, “You do not call me Grandma . You call me Blanca.”

“Really? You want me to call you White? Like, White Lady? Grandma Pelota, como se dice ‘that’s doritos locos’ en espanol?” I asked.

Katy pushed her Blanca aside and took the center of the screen.

“Hey love,” she said.

“It’s so good to see you sweety,” I said. “It’s been ten whole days.”

“Did you notice anything different about me?” she asked.

To be honest, I was just going to say she lost weight but I hadn’t noticed that…I figured maybe I wasn’t able to tell because of the camera or something. So I told her that.

“No,” she shot back, “I dyed my hair.”

“Katy, I love you but I can’t tell on Skype. You dyed your hair right before you left; I’m not going to be able to tell the difference on Skype,” I calmly asserted.

“We need to talk,” she said.

Oh no, I thought. Do we? “Do we?” I asked.

“Yes, we haven’t talked to each other in nine days. We need to at least talk to each other.”

“Well if that’s your rationale then OK; We don’t have to talk. We should talk. But that’s still subjective—we should talk because it would be good for our relationship. Now whether or not our relationship is good for us is a matter of objectivity as well. So for our own selves, should we talk to each other?”

“I can’t hear you,” Katy said, looking down, “You’re breaking up.”

“I know, I’m trying to,” I said.

We talked in circles like this for about an hour before we told each other that we loved each other and good night. She kept mentioning how sad I looked and I told her how it had to do with me missing her. But that was only half true—actually, it was about 13% true; I was 86% unhappy because of my taxes, 13% unhappy because she was gone, and 1% unhappy with my upbringings as usual because fuck you dad.

Day Ten.

This happened a few weeks ago.

Katy was telling me some story that only served to remind me she wasn’t pretty enough to marry. Somebody could marry her, I thought, but this shit isn’t going to be worth it. Such a boring shit piece, this story was.

That’s not to say I wasn’t paying attention. Basically, the story was about how a friend from her UCLA days texted her so they could catch up on life over some coffee, as if one coffee cup could be enough. “And he never shows up!” she says. “Who instigates a meet-up and then bails on it?”

“Serial rapists,” I told her, in my head. I didn’t say anything aloud because her story was so incriminatingly boring I was starting to think about killing myself under the Indiana Jones pinball table when she wasn’t looking.

Still,” I said, “Who wants to kill themselves at Patsy’s?”

What?” she said. Oops. Must have let part of my suicidal slip.

“Nothing. That guy is a dick,” I said, not knowing it was a guy who had texted her. “Nobody stands up my Katy and gets away with it but me and serial rapists.”

Katy laughed at that because she thought I was making a joke— as if I’d ever do that.

“Yeah, she’s a bitch I guess,” she said.

We both ordered a couple more drinks and watched Bryan reintroduce himself to everybody he already met at the bar. Bryan didn’t have the best memory unless the subject was money or tattoos— which are difficult to forget because they are permanent.

Katy had to piss, I remember. “I have to piss,” she said, I remember. Bryan had left. And Katy had left her phone on the table. Obviously, she was hiding something. But what? I had to know.

First place I looked through was her texts. Don’t know what I was looking for, but I was determined to find it. I love secrets and I was hungry for more. Some secrets to sober me up, ya know?

And what do I find? She’s the one that texted him first. Alan Thickhole was his name. I’m all about changing names on this blog but not Mr. Thickhole’s.

She texted him first.

She texted him first.

It’s not that big of a deal on the outset…but she shouldn’t have had to lie about it.

I want to find Alan Thickhole and I want to know if he’s more attractive than me. I want to know who he is. And there are like, 30 Alan Thickholes on Facebook so it’s hard to tell which ones are the ones she’s trying to bang. So far it’s looking like 30 Alan Thickholes are the ones she wants to bone, though. I’m gorgeous but these guys are beast-men. Fucking lumberjack attractive. And black. Most Alan Thickholes are black.

Day Two (2).

No response from Katy yet. I mean, we’ve texted but she hasn’t had time for Skype. So it’s not that I don’t know she’s safe, it’s that I can’t be sure she hasn’t been fucking Argentine men for 24 straight hours and I’ll know once I look inter her eyes.

Bryan and Jeremy want to take me out to bars so that I can “wingman” for the two of them. They think I’d make an excellent wingman but it’s really difficult to wingman for a guy with a girlfriend and a 27 year old with his virginity. Nobody wants to date somebody who isn’t single and another dude who always has been.

Katy’s been the first girl I’ve dated that couldn’t be compared to a dilapidated barn. In fact, the only time Katy seems fat is when she’s being a complete bitch. Like right now, the bitch.

Listen— I don’t plan on cheating on Katy unless I’m sure that she’s cheating on me or planning to cheat on me. And right now it seems like no face-to-face contact in over 24 hours is groundwork for cheating.

I’ve read some of her texts and she likes going out to coffee with old classmates of hers I’ve never met or even heard of before. Male classmates. She solicits them first, too. It’s like she’s trying to hop ship but won’t do it til she finds one better than my partially capsized schooner.Our partially capsized schooner.

To be frank: I don’t trust her. Maybe she shouldn’t trust me either. After all, I went to the supermarket today and was approached by seven different women and ended up getting all their phone numbers. And usually I’d dress up like a Safeway employee to do that but this time I was in my civvies.

Kind of a dick thing but at least I haven’t been fucking Argentine dudes for 24 hours. I have reason to believe she’s not above doing that— one of her friends told her to sleep with Argentine dudes or else she would be disappointed in her. She said this in front of me.

Katy didn’t say she would. But she also didn’t say she wouldn’t. The whore. What am I supposed to think?

Maybe it’s time to hop ship, myself. Suck off some Argentine dudes. I mean— chicks. Suck off some Argentine chicks.