Monday, May 09, 2005

"If this was two years ago, I'd fuck your brains out."

I discovered Cuisiniere had only left a bunch of twisted messages on M. Biologique's answering machine and did not actually talk to him that night for he had not returned from planting wildlife until two days ago. Whew!

I tricked M. Biologique into coming out for coffee yesterday so I could vent to him about everything he's done to me. I told him he couldn't just "tie up loose ends" whenever it served him. I called him a "pathological pussyfooter". I accused him of being an asshole.

He admitted to being "rash" the day I headed home and apologized, but he "honestly didn't know what to say" at the time; he didn't want me to expect love letters during the summer. ("It was like having a girlfriend!") I said that's because he didn't set boundaries; my odd behaviour was a direct result of that. I tested him, I explained, to observe his reaction in order to determine what those boundaries were because he was frustratingly indecisive.

"Look, Lily." He leaned back in his chair. "In my mind, I'm not in Montreal anymore. I just want to be with the trees. I don't want to care, it's too much for my brain to handle."

This war of words lasted a few hours. It went surprisingly well considering he confessed to not having any social skills: wasn't used to gracious formalities.

"I refuse to see this friendship go," I concluded. "I've put too much time and effort into this alternative arrangement. It might seem dysfunctional [to everyone else], but we must adjust to make this work."

The mess is technically cleared - "technically" because though he and I agreed to be honest with each other from then on, I couldn't bear to go as far as to confirm his suspicions of my heart. I couldn't risk losing my convenient comforter - a man at once capable of taking me to the highest of highs and lowest of lows. (He was really understanding of my plight when I told him about Cuisiniere and asked me if I had fun, at least. I told him I felt guilty feeling pleasure at all.)

We need healthy time away from each other, but I'm the lone shattered party.


M. Biologique led me over the mountain and into Hippie Utopia (again). I predictably lost him in the crowd and left a few hours later after:

1. Receiving a marriage proposal from a 60-year-old, Pakistani government officer that became way too scary when it dawned on me that he was being serious:

"I pay you $50. You come see me. You promise me, you will! I will make sacrifices for you. You like spicy food? I cook for you! [...] I give you gold. My nephew love me like a father, I take money from him!"

2. Some mumble-mouth wanksta tried grabbing my face after following me down a beaten path:

"I like you, baby. I like you a lot. Come with me."

3. A mishmash of 10 to 12 stowaways hooted and hollered for me to acknowledge them after I escaped above mumble-mouth:

"Parlez-vous francais? Oui? Nee how mah? You have time to talk?"


On the metro ride to M. Biologique's to end our friendship (he was rude, I was rude, he refused to let go even when I told him, "I got the hint" - which I don't, dear readers, because why else would I still be thinking like a psycho bitch?), the carriage car behind mine was blasting music, partying for four stops before the hormonally-raging men were kicked out, ripping doo rags from each other's heads while trying hard to look ghetto-fabulous in pink T-shirts the size of my grandmother's nightgown.


Those who emote are just as remote.

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