Is xerocs the dumbest man alive?

[xerocs]

Where do I begin?

Well, by this stage of the relationship I am discouraged… I may very well be the stupidest man alive for staying with you for this long. Friday I drove an hour after work so that I could come to see you in the studio… Where I waited for 5 hours watching you chit chat with your friends and draw pictures. After you finished work we went home where I cleaned the apartment once again and made dinner. We argued I am sure and then went to sleep. Either way I am sure that it was an uneventful evening, which is just fine by me. We need some quality time considering that I will be spending the following week working twelve-hour shifts and I will not be able to come and see you every night. Saturday was great as usual. You woke up at the crack of noon complaining of lack of sleep once again. I know how you feel. I wake every morning at 0530 and drive an hour out of my way so that I can get to work. I wouldn’t have to wake so early if I just stayed at my house, but then if I did that I would never see you. Not that it would bother you if you never saw me, I mean shit I am just the man you supposedly love. It’s not like I am the skin diseased bitch that you talk bad about behind her back that you call everyday to come spend time with you while I am at work. So you wake late in the day and proceed to get ready for work, which you have to hurry because you only have four hours to get ten minutes down the road. You invite your friends (yes the one with the skin disease too) over to spend time with us at the pool. I would invite my friends but you told me that they are not allowed to go in the pool because they don’t live in the apartment. We spend a countless number of hours, and by we I mean you, talking with your friends in a language that I don’t understand. Occasionally I pick up a word or two but usually only when it has something bad to do with me.

At two thirty you are out the door headed to work and I am sat watching TV in a language I don’t understand trying to drink a beer with the one friend I have left. At the time of this writing he was my friend at least, but I have managed to alienate myself in a vain attempt to make you happy. You ask if I can drive you to work, sure why not, “Jesse I will be right back”. We argue on the way to work about god knows what and I drop you off. Jesse leaves and I head for the studio to once again spend my off time watching you draw pictures and ignore me.

After work you come home long enough to change your clothes into something revealing and head out to the club with your single friends. I am sat watching TV in a language I don’t understand. That is where I stay until about six in the morning when two things occur to me. One, the dog has to pee and two it is six in the morning and you still haven’t come home from the club. At about seven you roll in tired and smelling like alcohol. Am I surprised? Not Really. Do I say anything other than “did you enjoy yourself?” No. I just let it roll off my feathers like water and go to sleep. By the way, when it is 90 degrees at night and you come home at seven in the morning smelling like stale cigarettes and cheap rum, don’t try to cuddle with me.

So you wake at the crack of 2 pm, rush to get ready for work again and ask me if I can drive you. Sure. I spend a few hours that day cleaning the house again. Why is it that your clothes can never make it to the hamper? How is it that you have to try on every article of clothing you own and some of mine before deciding to wear the same thing to work everyday? OK, so I decide while I am cleaning that we could go running that night and maybe after spend some quality time together. After all it is Sunday and I have to work at six the next morning and I won’t see you all week. I send you a message on your Nokia saying that we should do this and you reply with, “that sounds like a great idea.” So I get ready and go to meet you at the studio. Upon arrival I learn that my idea was so great that you have invited your friends to join us and we get to bring the dog. Great. I only have to count to 7,000 this time to calm down. I wander around the beach shops for a while, where I find a nice book of paper and a 20 dollar pen. I buy them thinking that maybe a nice poem would make you feel good. God knows I have been the biggest asshole to you lately. I go back to the studio, sit at a table in the Bacan right in front of the studio so you can see what I am doing and order a glass of red wine. I start to write when you come outside… I think that I am finally going to get some attention. You ask to see me pen and proceed to write in my book, a letter that makes no sense nonetheless. Shortly after, your friends join us with the age-old question, how do you write the cursive alphabet? Yes, ever since third grade I have sat around with other great minds and discussed these elusive hieroglyphics. As you and your friends (yes, the one with the skin disease too) discuss, in a language that I can’t understand, how to make the different 23 letters in your alphabet, you eyeball my paper, then you take it… and my pen. You begin passing it around and everyone has a turn making his or her retarded ideas come to life. After this little round of idiocies you grant me the privilege of judging. I tell you that the s and the z are wrong. Guess what I just did? That is write I started an argument in which the basis of our relationship is questioned. I leave for a nice relaxing counting session. At 10,000 and after deciding I was right about the S and the Z, I feel better. When I get back to the shop you ask me what is wrong. Nothing. You press, “you are quiet, there must be something wrong.” Some things are better left unsaid. “You can tell me anything…” Ge, I feel like we haven’t spent a whole lot of time together this weekend and I just want some quality time with you… “Oh, you are throwing this in my face again? I need my space…”

Yes Ge, I love you, how could I not. You are the one I want to spend my days with. I repeat these words that somehow slip from mouth everyday and I think to myself, “I must be the stupidest man alive.”