A Mushy Post About That Old Man

I’ve been thinking that the one thing Sarcastro needs is a good, slightly-demeaning nickname–like Mr. Snappy Pants or Buggles or Ned. Something that will annoy him upon hearing it, but that he’ll still answer to. “Hey, Nickel-Slots” or “Can you give me a ride, Horseradish?” But I can’t quite come up with something that I like that really fits the bill.

Which is a shame, because he’s getting all mellow and sage-like lately and it bugs the shit out of me when he sits across from me and says these wise things and I’m left with no choice but to take it and ponder it when really I want to say something snappy that will knock him off balance.

Ah, folks, let’s remember the good old days when all our conversations would go something like this:

“Sister, you suck.”

“You wish.”

“You wish I wish.”

“Suck my butt, fucktard.”

“Nice. Real nice.”

But now, he sits across from me and says things like, “We need to be as fearless in our lives as we are in our writing.”

I’ll tell you the main difference between me and Sarcastro–I mean, aside from the fact that he’s the one with the cute dimples and I’m the one with the fabulous tits. Sarcastro is always putting the finishing touches on his having figured you out. By the time he opens his mouth to tell you something, he’s already given it a lot of thought.

Me, I’m putting together a fourth of the puzzle and shouting out to whoever will listen “Look, it’s a basket. The puzzle makes a basket.” And Sarcastro comes along, rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, a basket of kittens. You totally missed the kittens.”*

Does that make sense? As a metaphor, it’s probably shitty.

But my point is that when Sarcastro says something in all seriousness about needing to be more fearless in real life, a girl cannot help but take that to heart a little bit.

And, frankly, this girl doesn’t want to take it to heart. I’d really rather believe that I’m doing enough and that I’m doing it bravely enough and if the world doesn’t love me back, tough shit for it.

I was talking to Divalicious** the other day about that tendency to repeat those same shitty patterns with men, even though you know they’re shitty, because they’re familiar and how hard it is, once you’re used to shittiness, to break free of that, because being around men that treat you well and care about you feels so fucking strange and scary.

And I was like, yeah, at least once every other week, I decide that I’m not going to be friends with Sarcastro any more, because I cannot stand that he likes me and insists that I treat myself well. It makes me so uncomfortable when he insists that I stop being a dumbass about myself that I just about can’t stand it.

And here he is talking about how I need to be more fearless and I’m like god damn, man, the bravest thing I do every day is to believe that I deserve a friend like you.

I don’t tell him that.

Well, I just did. But not to his face.

You know what I mean.

Anyway, he’s right. It’s really not enough that my idea of bravery is having one close male friend and leaving the house occasionally. I mean, let’s be honest, there are two reasons why I’ve not pushed the car thing with the Butcher: 1. Aw, fuck it, let’s not go into one. March is for being happy*** and thinking about the fucked up things my parents say to me and my fucked up responses to them is not happy fodder. and 2. because if I don’t have a car, it’s understandable that I never leave my house.

Anyway, I’m exhausted and I’ve got to go to bed, but my thought is that if March is for being happy, maybe I’ll devote April to being brave. I’ll have to think about what terrifies me, so I can decide what can be overcome. I’m telling you right up front, though, that those fucking wooden stairs outside my office are right out. I will never be that fearless.

*I should, for my own sake, point out though that another big difference between us is that he can be kind of obtuse and will often not realize that the puzzle is not supposed to have a giant hole in the middle. Okay, obviously, this metaphor is too flimsy, but I’m tired and it’s just going to have to work.
**Divalicious lives over the bridge from me and she reads Tiny Cat Pants and asked me to be in The Vagina Monologues.
***And for the state taking steps to insert itself in my cooter…

5 thoughts on “A Mushy Post About That Old Man

  1. I like this journey (is that the right word?) you are on.
    Horseradish makes you internalize a lot, doesn’t he? About a year ago someone told me that I sabotage myself much more than anyone else does harm to me.
    If I wasn’t so adamantly against guns, I would have shot him because the truth tends to suck it.

  2. All right. Horseradish is definitely not going to work, because I need something I can say with a straight face and when I read you refering to him that way, I about choked on my Diet Dr Pepper.

  3. Here’s your solution B. When he makes one of these wise pronouncements, thank him by kissing him on the forehead.

    That way you thank him and call him a fucktard at the same time.

  4. W.! You are brilliant! What a fabulous idea!

    Though, I bet if I started doing that, he’d stop paying for beers right quick.

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