A lot of my day to day is now in front of Genevieve’s TV, taking in another round of 30 rock or Mad Men, waiting until the next meal, drunken stumble, or Daily Show episode.  Sometimes, when I lie messily on that couch, I feel disgusted.  Not because of any discontendedness about my life with my girlfriend, but because I feel like I’m just waiting around.  I want to do something, but I don’t know what.  I want to have an experience, but I don’t want to have to exert myself.  So I just mull around and dig my fingernails into her increasingly magnanimous cat.

It’s not even that I’m bored, because I’m not doing anything that I feel is a waste of time per se.  It’s just inconceivable to think about all of the other people who are doing the same thing at the same time.  Did the people who managed to break free of the mundane soup in which most of the world is mashed have moments like this?  Did Hemmingway do this?  Did Proust?  Did Ghandi?

Did Britney Spears?

Sometimes during these moments I have bursts of inspiration, lines like “Bumblebee is a Marcel Marceaux robot.” “Believing in their unique brand of unique.”  A story where two characters have a conversation on elevators going opposite directions.  Others that I don’t write down and believe I’ll remember later, and never do.  Is the difference between me and those other people that I refuse to get up and write those things down?

I don’t want to be the person that talks about those other people that did something.  I want to be those other people.  But maybe that’s how everyone feels.

On the wall by the urinal in Linda’s Tavern, someone has written “This sentence has five words.”

Linda’s Tavern is the last place Kurt Cobain was seen alive.

It’s night and I get into bed with Genevieve.  Her cat flees when I enter the room, then enters once I lie down, settling between my feet.  I lie on my stomach, then have to carefully rearrange my legs when I flip onto my back.  Genevieve snorts and crowds me and I elbow her.  Audrey (the cat) licks herself loudly, I give her a little squeeze with my feet.

A few nights ago Genevieve and I were watching TV and we saw an ad for this movie about a horse or something and she said to me “It’s a movie about true love.”  And, realizing it was true as I said it, I responded, “I don’t believe in true love.”

No matter how much I care about her, I do not want to spend the rest of my life with her, or Jen, or anyone else I’ve ever desired, or perpetually-22-year-old Natalie Portman for that matter.  I will never need someone’s persistent affection as much as that stupid cat.  And that stupid cat pees on the bed like once a week.

And that’s ok.  It really is.  It doesn’t make me that sad, and I don’t think it makes me a bad boyfriend or a dishonest companion.  But I think the acceptance of it makes me a different person, and I don’t know what to do with that.


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