Life Worth Living

Or, the Obligatory Roommate Rant Part 2.

Bitch, can you stop drinking my expensive coffee drinks? You’ve had more than I have already, and I specifically put only one in to cool in the fridge so you wouldn’t drink it, because I thought you were more decent than that, and I specifically put in the flavor that I like better but have never had because you’ve taken all of those. Also, you just had a dinner in which I bought every single ingredient except the cooking oil, and this morning your breakfast was also mine. And you haven’t spent a cent on the food we’ve cooked in the last three weeks. I’m not a person prone to confrontation, violent or not, but I would really like nothing more than to punch you right now.

You know what? It makes me feel better that it’s an obligatory roommate rant. It casts the illusion that everyone who’s ever lived with a parasite another person has grievances. Heck, she probably has grievances against me. Heck, the bitch better have grievances against me. I refuse to be the only one suffering here.

I know it’s bad to post while you’re angry; you only end up looking back at it and wincing. Yet I’ve wanted to say this for so long.

I’m tired of her eating my food. Really, I’m tired of it. I’ve had this problem before, but before it didn’t matter so much because before she had food too. I know it’s not her fault that she had too much work to go back to SJ this weekend to restock, but does she really have to drink my Starbucks too? Without asking? Those things are two bucks a pop if you buy them seperately in stores, girl! And she opened my Cinnamon Toast Crunch this morning. Opened the box and ate some. I hadn’t even had any yet and she’s already enjoyed a bowlful.

My veggies, my noodles, my juice, my sausages. My parents’ money. They are under no obligation to pay for my roommate too; I saw how much that trip to Costco cost. Damn you, Rosemary, at least ask before you dive into the luxuries. I watched Barney and Sesame Street when I was young, I know that we should all hold hands and share, but really. This feels like it’s going too far. She spent not a dime on food this last week and she’s still getting fed out of my parents’ pocket. It doesn’t feel fair. I’m tired of this. I’m so tired of this. AT LEAST ASK.

But that’s okay, because you know what? Next time we go back, she’s buying the food. I’ll buy myself chips, and I’ll bring the noodles like I always do. But cookies? Juice? Cereal? Uh-uh. If it means I wont be able to enjoy those luxuries either, well, I dont need to be eating so much junk anyway. When the tabs even out, I’ll start contributing again.

(This post also about The Barista and JT. It’s pretty messy)

Today I did something that I’d been meaning to do for the longest time now: I reached out to Prince.

It’s long overdue. I’ve been moaning forever about how I missed him and missed hanging out with him and about how I’m sorry it had to “end” the way it did. So coming back from my daily Starbucks run this afternoon I pulled out my cell and snapped a blurry picture of the top half of a car and sent it to him along with the words, “What car is this? I’m off of classes, hang out with me please?”

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I’m sitting here in my big comfy chair in front of the TV, nursing a sore throat and decidedly not doing any more of the massive amounts of reading I still have left to do, because I know that I haven’t been running off steam so much as pure fear of falling behind on the reading since after dinner. It feels like I’ve been fighting a battle; reading and reading and trying to cram all these pages of interesting and boring (at the same time, isn’t that a concept? A paradox?) when all I really want to do is go to sleep. And I know I’m just hanging on by a thread and my attention is so frayed that I’m really only getting one of every three sentences into my head. So that’s when I decide, you know what, I can keep reading but it’s only going to get worse from here and it might be better just to put this off until tomorrow, when I stand a better chance of actually understanding what’s on the page. So I’m just going to relax the rest of tonight.

You know what’s not helping? This darned sore throat I’m getting…and it’d be a lot easier to deal with if it’s very presence didn’t indicate a cold brewing. I’ve been sick enough times to know that my cold symptoms usually manifest first as a nasty sore throat before progressing to the sniffles, the coughing, etc. And this sore throat is pretty vicious; it’s not looking good.

I’m fairly certain that I got this cold, flu, whatever, from Roommate. She’s been sniffing and coughing and generally just being very gross (I’m sorry. I’m an unsympathetic bitch, I know) and the whole time I’ve been thinking “this better not get me sick too. I mean it. I better not get sick from you. Bitch, get away from me.” And now I’m sitting here and my throat just screams every time I swallow and when I get up I’m tired and dizzy on top of it all and I just want to slap her because of it. I know she didn’t mean to do it and I know it’s not her fault, but I can’t help it when my point-the-blame finger comes out to play. Yesterday night I started getting those delirious fever dreams that are just NOT, not fun and I knew I was probably in for a rough week.

Fuck, this better be gone by tomorrow. I dont know that I can get through this coming week riding on a cold.

Though I may not always agree with them, heck, agree with them most of the time, and though sometimes I may wish some very bad things for them (to my credit, this hasn’t happened since I was maybe 16), I have always liked my father and my little brother. I think that if there weren’t blood ties binding us together and making me love them in a subjective manner, I would still think they’re decent, likeable people.

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Not to get all poetic here, because god knows sometimes I can’t stand poetry, but life pitches balls at you. Sometimes they’re slow and easy to figure out, sometimes they’re hard and fast, sometimes they’re low, sometimes they’re high, and sometimes it’s a curveball. You can choose to hit them or to not hit them, and then you can choose how hard you want to hit them, and where you want to hit them, and sometimes it’s not an easy choice.

Abandoning the metaphor here, because I think I’ve drawn it out longer than made sense. The point is, there are choices, and sometimes it’s clear which is the right decision.

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I’m back in the US, back in California…but does my place still stand? And if it does, how long will it stand? How does it stand–firm, tall, and strong? Or weak and vulnerable to every gust of wind?

I’ve come to realise that when you are in danger of being replaced, that when someone (multiple someones) are threatening your place in a third someone’s life…one of the worst things you can do is sulk and threaten and wait for him to come back to you and reassure you that you are irreplaceable. You have to keep strong and prove to him that you deserve; that position, and that you deserve the title of best friend. You have to laugh it off and shrug as if you believed you could never be pushed aside for someone else. As if you didn’t feel threatened. As if you trusted in your relationship. You have to show him that you are better than the usurpers and you have to pretend not to be the jealous, petty bitch you really are and that you dont mind that there are other people in his life.

But I do mind. I do feel threatened. And in the end, I really am a jealous, petty bitch. I’m frightened. I’m frightened because it’s not my birthday party he’s going to and that it’s not me he’ll be working with and seeing every day and that it’s not my face beaming at him when he flips his cell-phone open. How can I assert my position miles away in Berkeley? How can I have a chance when it’s not me he’ll be seeing every day? I’m frightened, and I’m unsure, and it’s hard to laugh and pretend when I really do doubt.

He loves me most of all, I have to believe. I’m the one that makes him laugh. I’m the one that can read his mind, finish his sentences. Many people can understand his sense of humor, but I’m the only one that can make the jokes with him. …Right? Right? But if he’s changed, and decides that something else is funnier, then where do I stand? If Roommate can be pushed away, she that was so close to him…who am I to say that I can hold my place? But I’m different, right? I’m better…right? Right?

No. No. It will do no good worrying. And it would do ever worse pining and just thinking of it. I have to keep laughing and pretending. And to pretend I have to believe. And in the end, I’ll look back on this post and laugh at myself for ever consider the possibility. I know that I’m better than those three girls put together. They’re a harem. I’m the true gold, the true best friend. I can stand. I can. I can.