Manifest stupidity

I was awakened by an itch in my hair that turned out to be a cockroach scurrying across my scalp. This apartment has thousands of cockroaches, but now there's one less and I have roach guts and roach legs in my hair.

Then I had to pee into an empty jar of yesterday's applesauce, because Terry is in the bathroom, and whenever she's in there she's in there for an hour, so this is the perfect time to take a dump on her.

Terry, Pike's girlfriend, is one of the dumbest non-retarded people I've ever met. She babbles at him all the time, till he tells her to shut up or fuck off. Sometimes she babbles at me, and I simply can't make sense of whatever she's talking about. She uses words, one or two syllables max, strings them together into what sounds like sentences but my 7th-grade English teacher would shoot her dead and call it self-defense. While I struggle to decode what she's just said, she's already saying something else that needs decoding, and each utterance seems unrelated to anything that preceded it.

When she first showed up in this otherwise OK-ish apartment, I thought Pike was a putz for yelling at her so much. As time goes by, though, and she's always here, always babbling, never making sense, I wonder why he doesn't yell at her more. Her manifest stupidity is astounding. What Pike is constantly pissed about is that she's constantly brain dead.

As I was typing this, she emerged from the john and started whining to Pike about her social worker, or whomever has decided that she no longer qualifies for general assistance. He'd been asleep, though, so now he's yelling at her, "I was asleep God damn it," and she's apologizing, I think, but it's the angriest apology ever and I hate that woman.

When she's not being yelled at by Pike for doing something dumb, she's clouding up some other misunderstanding — "Ooooh," she says slowly, "I thought blah was blah blah. I didn't know blah was blah blah blah." I've heard her say variations on that so many times, I swear it doesn't even matter what's blah blah and what's blah blah blah. Whatever's what, she gets it wrong every time.

She asked me yesterday if they were hiring at the shop where I hand out flyers, and actually, they are — but I like LeeAnn and Stevi too much to tell Terry the truth. She's been out of work for as long as I've known her, which is only a few weeks but too long already. She often tells long, incoherent tales of job-hunting, but she's always here so I don't know when these tales could possibly take place, and anyway, who'd hire a woman like Terry?

Now Pike is yelling at her about something else stupid she said or did, and I hate it when he yells at her, hate it when she yells at him, but this is the soundtrack of life at the Mierda apartment. I'm putting the plugs back into my ears and going back to bed.

♦ ♦ ♦

Seems queer that I'll be working at a sex publisher on Monday. Like, what do I know about sex? I've given up on pursuing romance, and from my behavior any observer would think I'm asexual. In reality, maybe I'm solosexual — I'm my only sexual partner.

I'm almost completely ignorant of anything sexual. My parents never talked to us (or probably each other) about that sinful subject, so I didn't learn anything from them except "Don't." Sex Ed in school was mostly designed to obfuscate, not enlighten, so I didn't learn much there. What little I've learned came from reading Playboy, jerking off with Bruno in junior high, or from the rare and mostly unsatisfied ladies who've allowed me close enough to unhook a bra. To this day, I have only a vague notion what and where a clitoris might be.

I'm a fountain of sexual misinformation, but in reading through the issue of Black Sheets Bill gave me, I've found cause to beat off thrice, and  even if something goes horribly wrong on Monday and Bill instantly fires my ass, I'd recommend Black Sheets. It's about sex, whether you're gay, bi- or tri-sexual, hetero like me, whatever, you'll and find something in it to simmer your stew. I say, send seven bucks and a signed statement that you're 21 (even if you're not) to ██████, San Francisco CA 94131.

From Pathetic Life #11
Saturday, April 8, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

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  1. >When she's not being yelled at by Pike for doing something dumb, she's clouding up some other misunderstanding — "Ooooh," she says slowly, "I thought blah was blah blah. I didn't know blah was blah blah blah."

    I just want to say that I specifically remember reading this sentence in the original zine. Something about the construction of the "blah"s really stuck with me.

    1. It stuck with me too, obviously. It was like a song where the lyrics changed but the tune was always the same, and she sang that song two or four times daily.


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