Sunday, December 20, 2009

As I Had Tried to Explain Multiple Times to Eileen

By nate stone.

Scenario One:
As I had tried to explain multiple times to Eileen, my ex-girlfriend, I have never been one for conversation. Having been born with the rudimentary brain stem of a komodo dragon, I was prone to violent fits of rage and urinating in corners to mark territory. Our typical conversations were generally something like this:

EILEEN: How was your day today?
ME: Rarrgh. Mmmph.
EILEEN: Every day it’s “rarrgh mmmph” with you. Is it that painful to talk to me?
ME: BLLARCH! Rrrmphrgh. [soft, crisp sound of my chewing the laquered pine of the end table]
EILEEN: Well, if that’s how you feel about it. Why is it so hard to open up to me? Is it some sort of macho-dominance thing?
ME: Grgglmpfsh.
EILEEN: It’s like I don’t know you anymore.
ME: I think we should see other people.

Luckily for me, Eileen was usually distracted by a large puddle of fresh urine in the middle of her fresh laundry or slowly creeping darkly up the side of a new pair of thigh-high alligator skin boots before the fight became serious. This is how our relationship lasted for a year and a half: she would become angry at my guttural exclamations or my tendency to sweat profusely while sunning on top of her silk delicates, and then forget about it while spending the next hour desperately trying to avoid piss-stains on the top of her Scandinavian-designed modernist kitchen table. Now that was love.

Scenario Two:

As I had tried to explain multiple times to Eileen, my ex-girlfriend, I have never been one for conversation. Having developed Tourette’s Syndrome and a rare form of narcolepsy triggered by Scandinavian furniture, I was prone to spouting horrifying streams of obscenities and then falling into REM sleep at the sight of an Ikea catalog. Our typical conversations were generally something like this:

EILEEN: How was your day today?
ME: Fuckshit. Bitch cock ramsucker.
EILEEN: Every day it’s “Fuckshit bitch cock ramsucker” with you. Is it that painful to talk to me?
ME: TIT LICKER! Groin-pull bastard fuck!
EILEEN: Well, if that’s how you feel about it. Why is it so hard to open up to me? Is it some sort of macho-dominance thing?
ME: Suckshitcocksucker.
EILEEN: It’s like I don’t know you anymore.
ME: I think we should see other people.

Luckily for me, Eileen was an obsessed devotee of Scandinavian furniture, and it was usually a only a matter of seconds before I would spot the spare, clean lines of some new coffee table she had just brought into the apartment and instantaneously fall into a deep sleep before the fight became serious. This is how our relationship lasted for a year and a half: she would become angry at my casual obscene references to her mother’s anatomy during some high-profile work party, and then forget about it while riding in the ambulance with me after I had split my skull open after falling, unconscious, on the modernist corner of a Vërgënsøøten bookshelf. Now that was love.

Scenario Three:
As I had tried to explain multiple times to Eileen, my ex-girlfriend, I have never been one for conversation. Having been born without vocal cords, or, for that matter, a functional intestinal tract, I was typically silent and/or in the midst of tremendous stomach pain. Our typical conversations were generally something like this:

EILEEN: How was your day today?
ME: -
EILEEN: Every day it’s “I was born with vocal cords, or, for that matter, a functional intestinal tract” with you. Is it that painful to talk to me?
ME: -
EILEEN: Well, if that’s how you feel about it. Why is it so hard to open up to me? Is it some sort of macho-dominance thing?
ME: -
EILEEN: It’s like I don’t know you anymore.
ME: [Writing on dry-erase board hung around my neck] I think we should see other people.

Luckily for me, Eileen was usually distracted by my bowels exploding like Mount Vesuvius across her Scandinavian-designed corner set which functioned as both wet-bar and bidet before the fight became serious. This is how our relationship lasted for a year and a half: she would become angry at my bowels leaking their half-digested contents across her Spartan, modernist black-and-chrome house, and then become even angrier when I wouldn’t talk to her about it. Now that was love.

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