The pink paper confirmed the fact she was gone and that she would return. How I wished when I saw it that one day it would be a suicide note, that she’d go to the forest on Friday and that I would find the note on Monday when I couldn’t stop her, and that it would all be over.
During Buffy she returned. Bothering me with questions on what pots and pans I had, carrying a whole bunch of them. Bothering me with wheter I am fine with her sleeping here. What I would want her to do.
Imagine this: you open the back door and theres a dog sitting there. It‘s filled with fleas, it drools on your nice Pooh Welcome mat, and it looks mangy. You walk out of the door and it follows you. Following your every move. You tell it to sit, and it sits. You tell it to roll over, and it rolls over. Hell, if you’d tell it to die it probably would.
Problem is, it’s still a mangy fleabag of a dog. And if you didn’t like it as it sat on your doorstep, it doing tricks for you probably won’t make you like it.
That’s why I’m more of a cat person.
Somehow, Marjolein, Miss Gassitall, Miss “Let’s bother Jane until she vomits”, thinks that by doing tricks it’ll all be allright. When I accept a trick, she is happy. When I ignore her, she follows me into the house. But the tricks never change the fact she gets under my skin.
I couldn’t be able to have a boyfriend like that, and I can’t have a doggish housemate like that. A cat goes it’s own way. Sometimes your paths cross, and both you and the cat enjoy eachother’s company. You grow fond of eachother slowly, and in the end, the cat lies on your lap every night and you marry it. Or something.
I can’t be around people who follow my every move, adore me like a godess, obeying my orders. It’s annoying. It gets under my skin and makes me want to vomit and scratch someone’s eyes out.
Marjolein: Sit. Cook. Go away. Die.
I’m very much like a cat myself. I go my own way, if I find something on my path I’ll deal with it when it comes. I won’t bother and ponder and make plans ‘what if’. I have food for another day in the fridge, and I don’t really want to think wheter my pots and pans can stand the electrical stove. Not today. I’ll see it when it gets that far. I’ll eat microwave food. I don’t care.
Ofcourse, when I told Marjolein that, she skipped onto the next trick. “Sitting up isn’t to your liking? How about rolling over?” I don’t care where she sleeps. If I don’t want to be around her, oh…by the way…nah it’s a small thing, really…I don’t!…I’ll close my door.
So I was bitching. Sorry about that. But the dog won’t leave when you ask it to. It will just sit and drool at you, glaring with those glassy eyes telling you “wha….?”
School today was total blah. It was fun doing the commentfight. But when I got home I was depressed again. There was laundry to be hung, school was closing. I had to leave and go back to the house. But I didn’t want to go here. I’m stuck here until I can go back there. Not that there’s anything there to talk about or do. I just go there, be in my little black cloud of problems-in-denial. I don’t talk with people about it, it just doesn’t come out. It only comes out here, at the source of all that is Gassitall. When I face her again. The proof of her return. The doggish cat she calls Mousy. I go there to just not be here. I stay as long as I can and then try to face Mount Doom.
Why can’t this all just end?
Why didn’t she fucking do it right? So that they would have found her car, three weeks later or something, in the forest with a decomposing, maggot-eaten corpse of the anorectic Miss Gassitall? It would have been so much easier.
Sometimes you can’t take the easy way out. With Jan I did. With Marjolein I probably can’t. I just know that when I tell Margreet next week I want her out I’ll have to give valid reasons and so on. That there will be discussions and talks and endless drooling and nagging on why.
I can’t be the one making the hard decisions for her. Sure, she’d like to let me know what is going on, and sure, it’s real nice that she’s keeping my feelings under consideration. But I have made up my mind and actually all I can care about is that dredded talk next week. Where I’ll tell her I can’t live with her. I’ve had a hard time before the attempt, but now that she lets me make all of the dicisions I’m going completely mad. I can’t make that choice. I have to cope with what she decides because if I have to make that choice it’s more than I can handle.
My roots are crumbling. In this storm, all I can hope for is that I’m not blown away. Screw reaching for the stars, all I have to think about is to remain standing.
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