Following class this afternoon, I romped back to the apartment, where an insane three-minute message from Charlotte awaited me. She'd called from work, and just talked and talked and talked, in a half-mad state resulting from intense worry and mind-numbing boredom (her term at her summer job is almost over, and they've run out of things for her to do, so all she can do is look busy all day). I actually meant to save it and play it whenever I needed to hear her soliloquy, but my latent hatred for Bell caused me to press the "7" key (which deletes voice mail messages), and away it went, before I could think about my rashness. Charlotte is bound for North Carolina tomorrow afternoon to visit a friend and erstwhile lover, and she was in a frenzy to prepare. She dropped her pet rat, Cupid, off at my apartment this afternoon following work, for me to watch for the next ten days. I'm a little nervous, on account of my terror that she'll inexplicably die while Charlotte's away, and then I'll be this innocent man believed to be a murderer, who can never find justice just like on The Fugitive. Charlotte was a little concerned that she would be a bother, but I think the prospect of rodentia is quite delightful. At this point, anything is better than cats.

Presently, her plate is full. In two weeks, she starts a whole new job. Part of the deal involves getting her own, expenses paid, apartment, which she must move into quite soon. So, before she left, she wanted to get it properly cleaned, an extensive process which I've been helping out with.

I've been questioning my eagerness to kneel and scrub things for hours on end with no particular reward awaiting me, and I'd like to chalk it up to my own natural capacity for superhuman goodness. Certainly I don't believe there are any other reasons. But of course, I'm such her bitch.

I think it has to do with my own recent moving experience, and while Charlotte's moved far many more times than I have, hers is occurring under a similar level of change and stress to my own, and I desperately want to make it happier for her than my own move was. This is Charlotte's first real place all to her own -- no roommates, no live-in landlord, nothing of the sort at all; just her, the plants, and masturbation. So in a way the experience is comparable to my own, who does have roommates, but who has never had to live away from home at all. I do admit as well, that while she has one gem of an apartment, it was pretty yicky at first. Whoever lived there originally was some sort of chain smoking, Blue-drinking, non-cleaning organ bank, and the first thing you noticed when walking in the door was the stale smell of thousands of cigarettes, trapped in everything. Plus he was of the bachelor-type sort, so of course the fridge needed a proper job, just like the stove, the bathroom, the windows, the cupboards, and everything else.

Last night we were there for six hours.

It was a good feeling to help her out like that. Afterwards, we just parked our butts on the couch (there is some half-decent new but generic furniture kicking around, plus cable and television no less), flipped through sitcoms and Law and Order, and enjoyed the pine-fresh scent everywhere. Charlotte was immediately brightened, and felt so much better about her new digs. The expression on her face was beautiful. You have to understand, that from my perspective, she was moving into a palace, but from hers, there is just a lot that needs to be done. And it's way easier to deal with chores when they don't belong to you, I find. If Charlotte had tried to tackle it by herself, she either would have ended up miserable and bored, or would have sat on the couch watching TV all that time, and it was this that was in my mind when I volunteered my services. I mean, when I tidy up my place, it's hardly fun, but I felt really, really good about helping a friend out with her own labours. I actually blew my evening classes two nights in a row just to be helpful.

We also had the opportunity to laugh and babble, which I cherished. Finally things feel comfortable between us, and I treasured the moment, being able to run around, and cooperate, and inhale the cleanser fumes and laugh hysterically over things that may or may not actually have been funny.

I confess to feeling still a twinge of affection towards her, but largely it has been replaced by the love that I'd have for any dear friend. This is at least as much a relief to me as her.
Tonight we steam-cleaned the carpets, or at least, that's what she did, while I tackled the lofty heights of Mount Refrigerator. As we finished up, and watched a wicked-awesome episode of Star Trek: Voyageur (I'm a whore for science fiction, after all), the delight and peace within her was wonderful to see. She'd been so nervous and fretful, and finally, with a reasonably spic-and-span sort of situation going, the apartment became hers. Her space, her refuge, her place to shed dead skin cells. No one else's, and no trace of anyone else remained.

It was on the way home though, freshly hugged goodnight and feeling pretty good about myself and my newly-dyed hair, that I ran into Phil.

Phil, my ex-girlfriend.

There's a story to why my ex-girlfriend's pseudonym is Phil. You can either search for it in the Classic Snivel, send me some e-mail, or try to guess a creative answer. I'd actually like to hear them, if you have them.

The encounter wasn't really an encounter as such. Just a sighting. We were on opposite sides of the street, and I noticed her, and she noticed me. She was with a young gentleman, though, and turned the corner, even as I strained to see if my fears were true in the darkness. And I'm not even sure why, but it just hurt more than anything to see her again. Everything came back to me.

I guess I've explained something of our past to you, but certainly the problem with such recounting is that inevitably all anyone can see is the aftermath -- the hurt, the bittersweet memories, and they pick up a feeling of blame. But from my perspective, I see more and more clearly the entire past. I think about things like our silly first kiss, or the evening walks, laughing and talking, or the endless stream of e-mail and phone calls -- just everything. I remember what it was like to tempt her into staying in bed with me by rubbing her back as she sat up to get dressed and head back to Carleton, and I remember fondling her genitals as she lay back and blushed, because she thought they were ugly.

I remember the way she'd hold me.

And I remembered it all sort of at once tonight, just seeing her, walking beside someone else, maybe not even noticing me, looking tall and happy and beautiful, in a way I hadn't seen in several years. Maybe she didn't see me at all. Usually we both look hurt and afraid when we're mutually aware of one another, as if the flood of conflicting feelings just makes us both want to run away and forget.
I tried to imagine what she was doing, and how she's been feeling, and what the next year holds for her... but I also wondered if she ever missed me, or what she thought when something reminded her of the time she had with me. Does she feel regret, or bitterness? She blamed herself for the end once, but three years does a lot for perspective, and maybe now only the bad things remain for her. Like how naive and needy I was, and how this affected our romance. It's possible, of course, that she feels the same as I do. I mean, I've gone ahead with my life, and become a bigger and happier and even "better" person than I was before, but I remember touching her sweet face and making her laugh.

Oftentimes it's easy to get stuck on the feelings of hurt and abadoned betrayal, but she did a lot of sweet things, too. I think, if we'd just decided to be friends, back when I had to choose between her and Lucretia, that we might even still be close now. Granted, I'll never know.

Part of me hopes someday we'll just chance to meet, start talking, and be friends anew. I doubt that's very realistic, or even forgivably naive, but sometimes I still hope. I don't think I ever stop caring for people I once loved. This of course creates much of my inner unhappiness and melancholy, but it also makes me Rob.

Sometimes that's even not too shabby a thing to be.

S e p t e m b e r 9

I find myself also at the pivot of a lifestyle dilemma. You see, just yesterday I was debating on whether or not to leave, but now I'm debating on whether or not to stay, if you can imagine a difference. I'm beginning to really warm up to so many things here, and there are some dandy folks hereabouts (including my wacky upstairs neighbors, Caira and Mefisto, names changed as ever (tee hee), whom I see ever so much of on account of Caira's voracious needs for attention and general willingness to put up with my ingratiating politeness and guilt in exchange for a cool hangout pad to sit and smoke and converse in), and while I still feel that ultimately this won't be "for me," I don't know how long I should stay before heading into the sunset. Certainly I don't want to give anyone the impression that I feel bitter towards anyone or the house at all, even if I do hate some things. The cats, at least, have lessened, with increasing order and cleanliness descending upon the house as people settle into their rooms and confine their beasties. So I think I've stopped sneezing, at least so much.

There is also the community-like feeling, as if I were in a dorm or residence off at some school. I don't know, or necessarily even like everyone here, but the people I do know and like I consider to be more than adequate. This morning, Broken and I left small bouquets of roses at the doors of all those we cherish in this house, which brought much unexpected cheer to a number of people who were otherwise feeling very tired, ill, and grouchy.

Bah. "Damn indecisiveness -- getting on my damn nerves."

S e p t e m b e r 8

I believe it was somewhere in the middle of 0-year calculus (an introductory course for simpletons such as myself, who only barely squeaked through grade thirteen algebra/geometry, and opted, out of a sense of fear and self-preservation, to avoid any further such mathematical embarassments) on Thursday that I truly reached a moment of clarity.
I hate my new apartment.
Yes, that was it exactly. There I was, sitting, taking notes, and pondering my situation, thinking... "Hmmm... there's a definite feeling here -- something I just can't quite place. Now... what could it be? Oh... it's coming to me.. yes.. I can feel it! It's hate! Hate for something! I hate... I hate... I hate my... apartment! Yes, that's it! I hate my apartment. Wow, do I ever!"

Admittedly, the cheeriness is something that I've only managed to add in retrospect. At the time it was moderately depressing to realize that I hate a place I've managed to sink ("invest") $650 into, and knowing that this sum has me contractually obliged to more or less live there for the next month and a half. The move came about last Monday. I spent the day fretting around the house, packing up the last of my belongings, and wistully noting the time tick by. My cousin, who has a big shiny red truck, had happily offered to help me move, and had established that he'd be by bright and early, but in actual fact didn't arrive until around five in the evening. And I suppose this would have made a lot of people impatient. Strangely enough, not me. Every free moment in the house I've made my home for the past three years, was something to treasure miserably. I guess part of this was that I was afraid I'd hate living in my new place -- fortunately, now that I know how much I hate it, I'm coping a lot better.

We've managed to get a tremendous percentage of my belongings unpacked so far, which has gone great distances towards allowing me to feel at home in a place which, for whatever may be the feelings I have, will be my home for the next little while. So at least my room looks really nice. It's still terribly cluttered with boxes and detritus, but my shelves are up and filled with the shiny knickknacks and memories I so prize, and more and more posters are finding homes on the walls all the time. I've been burning a vast quanitity of incense as well, for a number of reasons. Partially I'm just not keen on the heritage of my room. While none of the actual sex happened in my room, I know there were a whole lot of cigarettes and erections. When I washed my drapes, the water from the rinse cycles was tarry brown, and the drapes were white, which they most assuredly were not previously. Not even off-white. So by burning incense, I feel (in an almost pagan way, but more accurately in the way that our "pine fresh" society dictates, if it smells good, it must be clean!) like I'm purifying and cleansing the air. And also, the room still faintly smells of paint, so having the windows open, the fan whirring (I bought my very own fan, I'm happy to say. My first small appliance.. next stop... larger small appliances...), and incense smoldering away makes me feel better about the fumes.

The last issue I have comes from the cats.
Of which there are ten.

Which is, I feel safe saying, rather a lot.
Most of the cats belong to two people, who live on the second floor, a guy and his girlfriend. Immediately, he was dubbed "no shirt guy," on account of the fact that while, most of us learned his name when we met him, absolutely everybody could see that he just never put one on. Which is hardly a contemptible act or anything, and in fact he's quite nice. He borrowed my screwdriver, bantered about my pathetic devotion to Star Wars (his girlfriend feels much the same way about it, apparently), and returned said screwdriver the very next day. So.. all is well, really. But he does have a lot of cats, between himself and his girlfriend. Not all of them by any means, but a significant percentage, say maybe half. Unfortunately, the second floor needs some new carpets laid down and a tub installed before they can all unpack their belongings, which presently are stored in God's Living Room downstairs, and include things like litter boxes. So, until all this happens, a massive quantity of cats, and cat litter, get stored on the first floor -- which I should say is my floor -- for the next unspecified period of time.

Let me tell you now -- this stinks, and in all possible permutations of that word. I'm not sure how many cats in one house equals a health violation, but I'm sure we're close. Even me, who can have my sister's affectionate kitties climb onto my chest and rub their big wet faces against my mouth and suffer nary a sniffle, is now quite allergic to his own room. I like cats. I like one cat, two cats -- maybe, even three cats. But not ten cats. No. Not ten.

My delicious friend Clorinda sent me a care package in the mail this week, utterly filled with housewarming goodness -- all the essentials, like Pop Rocks. I love Pop Rocks. I even wrote a story that stars Pop Rocks. They made a rainy Tuesday quite entertaining, and proved to me (with their delivery) that my new address actually works. She also sent me this fantastic toy frog that goes on wheels. You put it on the ground, pull it backwards, let it go and watch it tear. Amazing. Clorinda is well aware of my frog obsession, and pampers it. She sent me a purple froggie jet ball that has an esteemed home on my display shelves (those who have seen my shelves understand the significance of something earning a home there, for everything that exists on my shelves is the result of a happy memory that I display promininently for all visitors to goggle at), and frog stationary that is cut out into the green shape of a very happy-looking frog, which she pointed out to me (and then I looked at it again and said "Oooooohhhhhh!" in sudden dawning) looks very much like a masturbating frog. His tongue lolls out and everything. She also sent me a clever button "I dress this way to bother you," which I must find an appropriate home for; stickers, stickers, stickers! and a whole mess of excellent incense, which to my regret remains unburned, since I cannot find a single one of my incense burners (perhaps still packed in the ever-dwindling pile of boxes, but I fear I may have to root through my garbage as they may have found a fate in crumpled-up newspaper as I unpacked candles), and I've had to rely exclusively on those dratted cones instead.

I owe lots to Clorinda, and it must be said that I really haven't painted enough wonders of her in these Snivels, in considerable imbalance to the role she plays in my life. Granted, we've never physically met, but we've been excellent friends for almost exactly a year now (I must delve into my e-mail and figure out when first contact was made), and she's really been supportive and put up with tons of my crap, even though she receives little in return. She actually is among the esteemed people I love, though, and with luck I shall be able to fly down this year (and she will be able to fly up here at some point afterwards) to spend some time with her, convince family and friends that I'm not just some insane (if fiendishly clever, for constructing such a harmless-seeming life for myself) net person, and spend absolutely hours just making her happy.

Because these are magic hands.

I've fortunately never been bored yet. This is both unhealthy and pleasant, since while normally I would go out and have fun just to go out and have fun, I'm now out romping and socializing just to get out of the house, or at least to avoid being alone, where I would most certainly begin to dwell upon my thoughts of doom. My room exists at a point conveniently close enough to the front door that visitors need only drop by and make wavy motions and friendly calls to attact my attention. My friend Tara does this several times daily, and Charlotte has now been making a habit of this as well, since I do live ridiculously close to her work and major veins of travel. Yesterday morning, in fact, she dropped by after a night of atypical carousing and drinking, disheveled and bleary, but perky. The only awkward aspect of this was that I was quite naked when she showed up, and Broken let her in, so the three of us communed and chatted, me all the while hiding under blankets, yet revealing this or that as I moved... which I confess only really bothers me because of my discomfort with my own body. As Charlotte pointed out, she had seen naked boys before.

Classes seem to be going well. I am still terribly lonely without any real means to communicate with the outside world, but I guess the issues really bothering me surround my friend Lilith, with whom I have decided I must make real efforts to contact, since the silence between us has begun to drive me to miserable distraction. It's not even imposed for any real reason... we just forget to talk. But I expect right now we're both lonely, and better that I say I tried to have our friendship work out, even if it doesn't, than to do nothing and complain about what never happened.

Proactive. My new buzzword. At the end of the month, I begin my epic househunt once again; possibly with the company of Broken -- who is appealing to the goons at Carleton for a student loan, and would make a dandy roommate, if only she can afford to escape her home and family -- and possibly without. In the meantime, though, I just really want a phone, and cable. I missed all but the last fifteen minutes of a smashing season premiere of a much-missed science fiction treat yesterday, and without a regular dose of such space battles, I fear not even frequent heaps of screaming sex could save me from insanity.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

Return to days past for more Classic Drivel.

Back to Purple People Eater Town.