Day Thirty-One.

I have to tell you about yesterday.

Could I cheat on Katy? If I had a superpower, I would choose the ability to break up with my girlfriend. Second choice? The ability to cheat on her.

I returned Susan’s computer to her today at work and she gave me profuse thanks— and then an invite to her place.

“For what?” I said.

“Have a couple drinks and maybe watch a movie.”

Red flag: Susan’s in Alcoholics Anonymous. This wasn’t an invite to enjoy a film with her: this was an invite for a bonafide boning session. And you know me: I said yes.

“I don’t don’t know where you live, though,” I said.

“Well you can follow me or I can drive,” she said.

“How about you drive,” I said, “at least I can sober up a bit on the ride back,” I didn’t say, but figured it was implied.

“Bangin,” she didn’t say, as well.

“I know,” I also didn’t say. There were a lot of things I didn’t say today, come to think of it.

After work I met Susan in the parking lot and hopped into her beat up 89 Ford Tempo. Here we go, I thought. I’m going to bang a woman 30 years older than me who drives a car a year older than me. This is how your relationship with Katy falls apart, ever so conveniently. I had a huge boner, though, so I didn’t want to argue with it. This is the respectable way to go about this, I thought.

She didn’t live far from work— or under a bridge as I had hoped. Her place was a first floor apartment in a gated complex— stucco walls on the outside and white linoleum walls on the inside. The second I stepped inside her place I knew the mood was set.

Susan poured me a rum and coke. She actually poured three and I looked for a possible roommate or hostage but realized that one rum and coke was for me and the other two were for her. Damn, I thought, I’m the one that’s going to have to excavate ancient pussy right now. Get me another one too.

“Why don’t you pick a movie for us to watch,” she said, gliding toward what seemed to be her room. “Do that while I change into something more naked,” I think she said. Susan pointed toward a stack of VHS tapes she was using as a makeshift hybrid coffee table/ashtray. She went down a long dark hallway— one too dark for 3:50 PM.

“Well shit,” I said to nobody in particular. I picked a movie off the top of the stack— Cast Awayfeaturing Tom Hanks. A sure winner, no doubt. But when I picked up Cast Away I noticed something peculiar: All of the tapes comprising this table were Cast Away featuring Tom Hanks. And this wasn’t just a makeshift table/ashtray: the couch and, indeed, the entire apartment seemed to be a makeshift ashtray. The entire place was coated with a thick layer of ash.

I popped the tape into the DVD player and waited on the couch, finishing my drank in nearly three gargantuan gulps. What was taking this old woman so long, Christ. “I could have masturbated at least twice by now,” I said aloud. Almost as if on cue, Susan made herself less scarce— and immediately more scary.

She was in a black nightie that pushed her tits up and made it seem like her roast beef hung low. Yep: I could see her pussy. From down the hallway.

“Hey big boy,” she said.

“Really, Susan?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m five-seven.”

“You sure know how to turn on the ladies,” she said, walking closer to me all sultry-like.

“The sun is still up,” I said as she finally reached a nose’s length away from me. She put a finger on my chest.

“I want to fuck you,” she said.

“I want to fuck you too, Susan.”

“Then fuck me,” she said. “Fuck me, Charlie. Fuck me.”

“Fuck you, Susan,” I said. “I have a girlfriend.”

Susan grabbed my right hand and put it on her vagina. It was warm, like a can of Dr. Pepper left out in the sun too long— but not nearly as enticing.

“Feel it,” she said.

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice,” I said.

“Don’t you want to ride this pussy?” she cooed.

“I hate horse-rides, Susan.”

“God, baby, you’re turning me on so much right now.”

“When you call me a baby it makes me want to shit in a diaper.”

Susan pushed me away onto her couch. Ash broke my fall. It was then I realized that Susan didn’t actually have a couch— she had a makeshift couch made out Cast Away featuring Tom Hanks videotapes.

She got on her knees.

“Just hold still, Charlie.”

She started to undo my belt. You’re going to just let this happen, Charlie? I thought. Do something. My pants were coming off but Susan’s head was still down. Her back was horizontal, so I did what any guy in this situation would do: I used her head as a coaster.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t spill my drink.”

“What?”

Please don’t spill my drink.”

Susan might have had a perplexed look on her face, but I wasn’t sure because she was facing down. She was actually trying not to spill my drink.

“Don’t move,” I said. “Keep balancing this, Indian woman.”

“Is this a game to you?” said.

“Yes.”

“God, I’m horny.”

“Good. Now just hold that thought.”

I scooched over to the side of the “couch” and re-did my belt. And then I made my way to the front door.

“That’s a good little indian.”

She didn’t say anything as I opened the door.

“Bye, Susan.”

Susan moved her head to look at me. My drink spilled all over her and the floor.

“What the fuck, Charlie.”

“What the fuck indeed; I told you not to move and now you’ve spilled my drink.”

“I thought we were playing a game.”

“Play stupid games and win stupid prizes, Susan.”

Her face scrunched up. “I don’t get it.”

“What’s there to get?”

“Why are you doing this to me.”

“Please don’t show up to work tomorrow,” I said.

“It’s my job.”

“Don’t show up.”

I opened the door and walked out, but before slamming it I mentioned one more thing:

“I didn’t fix your computer because it wasn’t broken in the first place. The only thing wrong with it was the pictures of you.” Then I slammed the door and ran all the way back to work,Cast Away in hand.

Listen, I want pussy but I don’t want any of that mummified shit. If I’m going to cheat on Katy then I’m going to do it the right way and not with Boris Karloff’s last living fuck-buddy.

So I went home and made a sandwich. It was pastrami. And, for once, I couldn’t hear Torrie crying. Sweet silence, punctuated by Tom Hanks screaming at a goddamn volleyball.

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Day Twenty-Nine

Nearly a week without my own pot supply.. Moved onto Robitussen. Going through a bottle of this shit a night.

And Susan messaged me again today. She wants me to bring the computer to her place tomorrow— not just to give it to her at work. So it sounds like she wants to bang. You know, besides the part where she clearly wants to bang me.

Today’s message on our work’s instant messaging system was awkward:

Do u want 2 C me naked?

I mean, I responded “yes”, but I can just check out Susan’s laptop any time I want if I want to see her naked. And I’m starting to get the feeling that Susan is either retarded or very horny because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her computer.

Still haven’t told Katy about Susan. What’s weird is that Katy knows I have a blog but she hasn’t asked to see it or anything. Sometimes I send her the drafts of what I’m writing to see if there’s anything wrong with my phrasing…but she never asks for my blog’s location on the web.

I mean, I’ve been smart about which blogs I send her— sometimes I send her things I’m not going to post, like this:

St. Patrick’s Day is stupid. I don’t think anybody knows what it’s about. Every year people give me a different reason or fun fact about what St. Patrick’s Day is really like or how they really do it in Ireland. They always tell me it’s another reason to drink or it’s another reason to celebrate Irish culture through drinking or how it’s another reason to look at all the idiots who think that Irish culture is about drinking. Personally, it was a terrifying day on the road because it is a Sunday and everybody has work tomorrow so they’s alls gots themselves all blotto-like during the dey thime; it wasn’t like I could hide from the drunks on the road because they were going to be asleep at night.

But then I was reminded of something my therapist once told me: “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

And that I did. At the local Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart is a fantastic place but it’s really hard to maneuver when you’re high as an Indian kite. The chief issue is concentration—all of those bright lights are designed to fuck with consumers and confuse them when they’re making their purchasing decisions. They end up taking more time in front of items trying to decide which model they want—the pricier one or the cheaper one. The more time they spend in front of the pricier one the higher chance they will buy it. Also, the bright lights make it hard to focus on just one item; you are likely to purchase other items that become unintentional souvenirs of your Wal-Mart visit because your eyes don’t have an easy place to rest in a store that isn’t a number trying to sell you something for “cheap”.

All of this makes Wal-Mart one of the more confusing places to be walking around high already, but on St. Patrick’s day the place reminded me of an orphanage that also doubles as the city pound that can’t afford separate cages for the animals and children.

Actually, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

There was a commercial on the television today for the Spicy McChicken sandwich at McDonald’s for only $1.00. In my area we haven’t had Spicy McChickens before, thus I’ve never had one because I am a hermit. Now, I don’t trust commercials but I had been a rampaging McChicken and McDouble pervert only six (6) days prior.

Well, the Spicy McChicken was actually a dollar but I didn’t spend just a dollar because I got two Spicy McChickens, a McDouble with no onions, and California State sales tax. It was like three (3) dollars.

I didn’t just go into Wal-Mart earlier all high-like just for fun, by the way. I needed a bike helmet so I could go biking. Forgot I had one on the balcony for three years. Or, was it two on the balcony for five? Division was supposed to make this easier to remember. Get back to me on the details—I’ve got two bikes, OK?

I want to go biking so I need to buy a helmet or I will get hit by a car and die. Getting hit by a car is not an option but dying is. Buy a helmet, motherfucker. You’d do it if your dick was on your forehead. But that imaginary dick on your forehead isn’t so easy to imagine if your brain can’t will it because of cerebelleus-rhectioid damage, and your skull can only do so much to a Cadillac’s grill. For itself.

Again, buy a helmet.

The night will be ending, I guess, after Katy signs onto Skype and tells me about her day. We promised to talk at 10:00pm her time and it’s…10:30pm our time. My time.

Hm. Will get back to you on that, imaginary readers. I imagine you guys with imaginary dicks on your foreheads. But I have to imagine the dicks on your foreheads for you because you didn’t heed my warnings about buying helmets earlier and now you’re stuck, as a vegetable, reading this. It’s not easy imagining all of these dicks on your foreheads but I’ll do it if I have to. To prove this point. To prove any point.

I think I had like, 30 cigarettes today.

__________________________________

And this shit doesn’t bother her at all, apparently. Or worry her. Maybe I’m with the wrong person.

Day Fourteen.

Susan bothered me about fixing her computer again today. Guess I should really get on that. And check out this weird conversation we had over work chat:

Mon 11:29 AM SueB29: What do u mean cheese?

Mon 11:29 AM AManIsMorissette: Never mind it was a joke

Mon 11:29 AM SueB29: Your so funny chuck

Mon 11:30 AM AManIsMorissette: thank you, but I found that joke on my facebook feed

Mon 11:31 AM SueB29: Wanna bang?

Mon 11:32 AM(AManIsMorissette has signed off)

That’s right: I didn’t respond. But I’m an idiot because I still saw Susan around the office twice after her invite; after all, we work in the same building. And sit next to each other. And we eat lunch together.

Anyways, I think she wants to bang. Guess I should really get on that. But she’s like, 30 years older than me. It’s an opportunity some people would tell me not to pass up but I’ve got Katy— even if she is 3,000 miles away.

I mean…nah.