Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Venting: Asian-style

I'm going to pull a Virginia Woolf here and just spray it.

My defenses were wavering, it had been a while since I heard anything from M. Biologique, not counting a chain mail or two. So his memory had begun to soften up. Did he do nice things for me? Well, no. But what about those times when he ...? Doesn't count. Biggest asshole ever. Oh, give him another shot and set his reputation free. I guess if you put it that way ...

Then today, I remembered why I left that cock-riding bastard and not a moment too soon! He hasn't changed a bit! I was on the phone with NorIda discussing an ethical dilemma I had over my next newspaper article. It wasn't as simple as gratuities in exchange for PR because using Kidder's checklist, I came up with a range of compromises. "I'm not obligated to do any favours for [the hairdresser]. He's going to have to agree to my terms, or no mention of him at all!" I said dramatically in the cafe.

M. Biologique caught sight of me from the mezzanine and sauntered over. I waved politely and gently nudged him away, and he returned to his hackey sacking. (Sunny skies are to hippies as rain are to worms.) I click-clacked towards him in my Janet-Leigh-in-Psycho outfit (shirtdress, nipped waist, round-toe pumps) after my conversation with NorIda ended.

"What's up?" he gruffed.

I told him about my problem with being a journalist. That, to stay impartial, I better be prepared to fork over money for a good haircut from the master because the master has other plans for me.

M. Biologique didn't respond with anything relevant and instead, removed the lid off my food container and dipped his fingers into it, helping himself to sizeable portions. He then proceeded to run after his sack (story of his life). "Anyone who pays for a haircut is stupid," he remarked upon returning.

I looked at him wearily through my Jackie O shades. "That's because not everyone has a fucking girlfriend to do it for them."

He chuckled. "I cut my own hair."

"No you don't."

"Oh Lily, don't call my girlfriend that. But yeah, I don't," he laughed.

"It's true. Not everyone has a fucking girlfriend to do shit for them like you."

"She's not my fucking girlfriend."

"No, she's not. She's just the girl you happen to fuck. Besides, I'm not talking about her. I'm talking about all girlfriends. That's what they do, no?"

He grinned and tried to poke my sunglasses with his index finger. "Why do you wear those big things? Who are you? Janis Joplin?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Why are you touching me? Who are you?" I said, backing away. "A molester?"

Needless to say, the putrid emotions I had all but suppressed came pouring out like a broken septic tank. And although I consider myself rather patient, it is unacceptable to start up another conversation while you're in the middle of one then come back to me as if nothing happened. That ADD. It kills me. Hilarious. Remind me why I haven't put a nail gun to my head? I couldn't make him work with me. He was worse than a wall. It was like pleading for my vagina to open up. "Hey, Susan. Let bygones be bygones. We can really make it work this time." Hell no! He wasn't going to have any of that. Dysfunction isn't just a word for premature ejaculation, it's a lifestyle. His girlfriend can fry up her dumpster-dove chicken, give him E. coli, then shove her head up his va-jay-jay for all I care. What is an older, grown-ass woman doing with a magpie anyway? I hope he shits pearls.

Who the hell does he think he is, eating my food, thinking he can censor me, being a fucking pain in the backdoor? Oh, I doubted myself, to be sure. You know, gave him credit where credit wasn't due. And what the fuck is with him acting all nonchalant and distant when he's seen with me around school, but does a schizo switcheroo when he pops by on occasion? It better be because my beauty attracts suspicion and unwanted gossip, or he's just a fucking loser (who feels more Jewish when he abstains from ham. I've got news! God hates you). "I've been doing some silk screening lately." Is that what kids today do to stay edgy? What a useless pastime. It's a skill easier to acquire than a bad lay by a grazing farm animal. I fucking hate this guy. It's cold turkey from here on out. Absolutely no freakin' contact with him ever, ever again (not that it's going to be hard. Pun intended)! I wish he stays unhappy, that prick on a stick. If he isn't out to con me, he's out to con women who iron on enough dreads to rein him in! And boy does he have big ears. It's like Will Smith driving a DeLorean. So the Jewfro was there for vanity purposes and your other half hacked it off? Boohoo! That's what happens when you change your style icon from Diana Ross to ninjas.

I am now 120% certain that my decision to drop that smelly sack of New Mexican manure was the best thing I ever did! Motherfucker needs an anvil dropped on his head or something. Or a call from a cult. Maybe they can spare a dashiki to wear, so he'd look like he grew a pair.

Ah, nothing like a good catharsis! Anger, subsiding ... Need for medical attention ... gone.

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