I have no other explanation for this period of months since Meat Halo (where I left off) where I’ve run around like a mad woman in a demented dash to scare up a “mate”. I haven’t written in so long that I kind of forgot who I talked to here in my word cave. Lately, I feel like I’m coming off a bender until I realize strangers around me are also behaving more rabid. On two separate occasions I’ve even witnessed random acts of public vomiting.
The first was outside our apartment a couple weeks ago while my roommate and I waited meekly for our ride to Nerd Nite[sic]. One of our dear neighbors, a lady if you can refer to her as such, spewed a perfect cherub fountain stream of puke while opening her car door. Surprisingly, her passenger wasn’t alarmed in the slightest. Together they climbed inside the vehicle shutting opposite doors in unison and drove away.
The second was on my birthday run around Lady Bird Lake last Saturday.
Sometimes I like to jog just behind someone who looks like they know what they’re doing. I judge this based solely on their matching exercise attire and chiseled physique. While I know this makes me sound like a shallow alien, for all you know that could be accurate. This specimen in particular looked like a milk chocolate covered Bodyworlds Exhibit. I could see literally every muscle on her frame and I was intrigued (read: hungry)! We must have just hit the two-mile mark over the wooden bridge when she made quite a hasty departure to the right and blew chunks through her hand, in between her outstretched fingers, and directly into the forest. I know it’s hard not to read this next part in a Forrest Gump voice, but I just kept on running. Before you say I should have stopped, I’ll let you know she later lapped me and then some. She’s fine, okay. She does it all the time!
As I was saying about that series of relationships, they didn’t end with Meat Halo. There have been a couple more worth sharing, but each sort of deserve their own time in the sun… like a dying grape becoming a newborn raisin.
Here are some things Meat Halo may or may not be privy to:
The evening before he departed on the train, his brother, mother, and I stood together shooting the poop in the parking lot outside my home. The conversation ended with a round of hugs and when his mother got to me she whispered into my ear, “You should have dated my other son!” Only it was more of a gravelly voice at regular volume than something spoken softly with very little vocal cord vibration to prevent being overheard. I don’t know why, but I expected something more discrete from someone who had just farted on me in public a few days before. Neither brother gave me a visually disturbed clue that they noticed what was told , so I never said anything except to a few friends and now the entire Internet…nternet…ternet…net.
Yeah, it’s hard to type in echoes.
I’ve had some wine, so I just in poor taste typed and deleted the next sentence, “I’m a bit of a pussy lover…” remembering quickly that my dad reads this and for that reason I have a difficult time writing what I could never say out loud with him in the same room. What I meant to say is that, “I love cats…” I have a cat named Mr. Bill. Proof!
Meat Halo wasn’t able to bring his cat, a fluffy white snow demon named Gibby, with him to NYC initially, so I agreed to foster her until his brother (the one their mother thought I should have dated) was able to deliver her a couple months later. This was all fine and dandy until we split up a couple weeks later. Then the cat’s sixth Hellraiser sense kicked in, and she began puking (more puking!) and crapping (!) from one end of the apartment to the other. I could not deal and neither could Mr. Bill, so I arranged to have Brother retrieve her.
Sounds easy enough, right? Step one: Pick up cat. Step two: Remove cat from premises.
So Brother arrived to do just that. That evening, I opened my front door wide enough to see that their sister was in tow, too. Awesome. And before I thought there couldn’t possibly be a more awkward number of his family members crammed into my home I nearly close the door on their mother. Gibby was agitated at the mere sight of them and KNOWINGLY bolted to the tippy-top of our Ikea bookcase. The Swedish designed the thing to house flimsy, boiled down paperbacks, not to also serve as a protective beast fortress. It teetered to-and-fro and gave life to the potted, fake plant on top. Plant scooted closer and closer to the edge as their mother stood below telling the cat how simply rude she was being. Good point. Talk her down. I also thought she was being rude, but I guess I’m just not that confrontational.
Naturally, this never worked.
Eventually, his brother and sister swatted her down and she ran directly into my bedroom and onto my bed. They tried covering her with my blankets while I stared on in horror, frozen in the doorway. She then whizzed a steady stream of kitty tinkle all over the damn place and howled into the night like a hairy, possessed lawn sprinkler.
It was then that I heard his mother say, “Brother, take off your belt!” “Mom, WHAT?!” “TAKE OFF YOUR BELT!” And then he actually began to take off his belt to I don’t know, wrangle it?! I finally came to my senses and told everyone to get the FUDGE out of my apartment and that we could try a new tactic another time. “EVERYONE KEEP YOUR BELTS AND YOUR PANTS ON, PLEASE! I NEED TO GO TO SLEEP!”
I hope that was the first and last time I have to tell someone to literally keep their pants on.
I kept Gibby safe and sound for the next few days until just Brother came back. I’m not kidding, he walked through my door this time with a GIANT NET and a GIANT CAGE I can only assume was meant for Sasquatch quarantine. Harpoon nowhere to be found, hrmph. Thankfully, by that time my roommate and I had already cornered her politely behind the toilet and tackled her (gently) into the cat carrier with the help of our magical, humane woman powers.
Up Next: How I almost moved to Baltimore to live with a guy who wanted to marry me in the Peabody Library while I dressed as a banana and he wore a gorilla suit.