Operation Dog Crate

Oh, dearest of all chronicles that ever existed. I've let you be for a mere month and twenty days. What a month and twenty days will bear can truly shock a person, lest that person be me. Which leads me to ask... am I a person? Or maybe I'm just a blob. Maybe I'm a mixture of both and heaven only knows if that's true or if it even matters, really. What a contemplative ex I am. So... It's March 25th and it's about 2:40am and I'm at work. Yes... I have a day job. I am at my day job. You see, I work in a fancy little accounting office in a fancy medium-sized auto dealership that's part of a fancy large corporation. I try to steer clear of using the internet resources for my own amusement and merely because I'm fully aware of my own uncanny sense of humor and even more so aware of the tech support brigade that probably sits there and does nothing but reads my e-mails or looks at all the overly-clever things that I like to fancy up for my own amusement.

Maybe I don't belong here... who knows? I'm creative, sure. I probably am not the perfect image of your average office worker with my 4" stillettos and a half-sleeve tattoo. But I do find this whole accounting thing quite soothing in a very odd way. I say very odd way because I'm married to my job. You see, I work a good 50-60 hours a week in order to stay caught up. It's partially due to the lack of functionality of other inhabitants of this workplace of mine, these creatures that I am forced to call co-workers against my better judgement. It's also partially because I don't have a social life. Sadly enough, I'm perfectly happy without a social life, and so I don't stress out about anyone's lack of functionality nearly as much as I used to. Plus I made this whole deal with myself in which I admitted to the lack of productivity that stress brings with and how accepting things for what they are brings greater happiness and all this other spiritual bullshit. It really isn't bullshit. I think it was called growing up somewhere along the line.

Anyway... so it's really late. I just remembered that my very smart computer won't stay adjusted to the Daylight Savings so it's actually really 3:50am now. I suppose I should probably go home and take a shower and get ready to play Tuesday daytime, but I'd rather sit here and think about how exactly to phrase that whole what-a-month-and-twenty-days-can-bring story out. That and contemplate bulimia... I've gained 6 pounds in the last two weeks. I think I'm PMSing. I hope I am. Why would I ever hope to PMS? Ah! You see... if I would PMS that would mean that my hormones are still functional and that I still have some sort of a chance at becoming a big tall Amazon woman in my afterlife. These dreams probably sprout from my Petitecomplexphobia or whatever it is, but being 5'2" has drawbacks. Anyway... if I would PMS that would mean that Mr. Ex was completely wrong in telling me that I'm sexually inept and that my vagina is dysfunctional. He declared that theory after the umpteenth time of not being able to get me to even conceive touching his skin without gagging.

That brings me to a whole another subject. You see, Mr. Ex is actually attractive. Don't get me wrong, he's certainly no Brad Pitt, but he's attractive. When other girls I know see him, they make the whole "Aww... he's cute! What's wrong with you?" comment. Good Heaven knows that there is NOTHING at all wrong with me and that the sudden nausea that occurs when I think about the fact that I once used to VOLUNTARILY engage in reproductive practices with this man is completely justified in my mind and in God's eyes. Oh... no... there is nothing wrong with me. Nothing at all. Because none of my friends ever tried to engage this man in conversation, tried to get him to wake up, tried to get him to grow up, or really tried to get him to change a light bulb. No, they never did. Mr. Ex has absolutely zero seductive skills and even less social skills, he has such limited masculinity and absolutely no femininity that you wouldn't even question that he's straight, but would think it sad that he isn't gay. See, if he were gay, I'd probably like him more. Isn't that sad?

Anyway... Mr. Ex and I are no longer living together. Really, the whole story of us living together went something like this:

Him: "Hey. I hate your dog."
Me: "I'm sorry."
Him: "Hey. When are we gonna do it?"
Me: "Never."
Him: "Hey. Your dog breathes."
Me: "I'm sorry."
Him: "Hey. When are we gonna do it?"
Me: "Never."
Him: "How 'bout a blow job?"
Me: "No."
Him: "I hate your dog."
Me: "My dog loves you."
Him: "Hey. Are we ever gonna do it?"
Me: "No."
Him: "I'm telling my mom."
Me: "You wouldn't."
His mom: "Honey, don't you think it's proper that since you guys live together you should you know... be together?"
Me: "I really don't think that I'm ready for that."
His mom: "Have you tried drinking?"


Anyway... this went on for longer then I'd like to remember. During that time, I slept very little, I developed terrible insomnia. Every night after I'd put my daughter to sleep me and the Deoge would take a walk and then we'd go sit in my car and watch the snow fall, listen to jazz, I'd smoke cigarettes and write a page or two in the O.G. "X" Chronicle, my little black book. I'd write about what polite and clever response I had for his "When are we gonna do it?" drill on that particular day. I'd write about how he'd purposefully insult and belittle me and try to start fights in front of our daughter, how disappointed he'd get that he couldn't get a visible reaction out of me. I'd write about how he'd kick, hit and say mean things to my dog. I'd write about just how glorious it was that even though I begged him to, he didn't have the social skills necessary to go out and meet another girl that may be interested in how many gigabytes it takes to make him last longer then 22 seconds in bed, and one who may not be able to resist his lack of charm and wit. I'd write about how empty and lifeless I felt and about how I was digging for the last bit of it in my dog's sorry eyes and the quiet falling snow.

Then one thing led to another and he put my clothes in this crate he'd make me force my dog into so that he wouldn't "be in his way" and left it on the front porch. He all but used his hand to beat me off the porch when I was picking it up. And so when I write all this, it sounds really sad. And I cried a lot that day and night, I did. I missed my daughter, I missed the fact that I couldn't make it work... again. That I really truly couldn't bring myself to fall in love with this thing that I picked to father my only child. I cried because he has family to fall back on and I cried because his life isn't any sort of a financial catastrophe and because in that crate was nothing of my daughter's. It was just me... and so I cried. And I still cry and it's been almost a month. Actually, a month today.

It's 4:26 am and I think I'm going to go smoke another cigarette. Maybe have another cappuccino out of that fancy little productivity machine we have, and then maybe I'll take my dog home, jump in the shower, and get dressed and get pretty for Tuesday. I like Miss Tuesday... I think today, Miss Tuesday and I are gonna get along just fine and she'll bring with her something extravagantly, extraordinarily delightful and perhaps I'll sleep sometime before she leaves me in 21 hours and 33 minutes.