Wednesday, June 10, 2015

I'm Going to Puke on Kristi's Shoes

Sometimes there are stories in the news about ridiculously old people who have been married for, like, 40 decades or whatever. And everyone is all "Oh my god! That's so awesome! Those geezers are so lucky!!!!!"

I have literally never thought anything even remotely like that. I don't wish them any ill will, I just don't have the frame of reference to properly appreciate decades and decades of Geezer-Love. I assume that since they've been together since before spoken language was a thing, then they clearly must love each other. Or they're both just too lazy to kill each other or split up all their shit and go live somewhere else. So they can have their party and let their kids put pointy hats on their heads and blow those paper spit sacks that make a noise that sounds a really wet fart on a leather couch and live happily ever after. Yay for everyone.

When I picture my future, I don't see me sitting on a bench with my old fart of a husband, feeding my dentures to ducks in the park. (That's what old people do, right? Feed teeth to ducks? Because they're senile? And they can take their teeth out? And they like ducks? I don't know much about old people.)

I picture me sitting on a bench with my old fart of a best friend, whipping our dentures at the ducks' heads and saying that technically, we are biting the ducks. And calling the ducks assholes. And laughing because 'duck' rhymes with 'fuck.' And then teaching the word 'fuck' to little kids and telling them to say it around their parents A LOT.

I guess I might not get to do that. But I also might. Who knows? Maybe someday we'll live in the same place again. Soon we won't, though. And I'm not sure what I'm suppose to say about that.

Actually, I know exactly what I want to say, but I can't say it using words when she can see me, because I don't want that thing to happen when water comes out of my eye-holes. I don't care for that. Also -- and I cannot stress this enough, even if I used some sort of super-bold font that would cause permanent damage to your vision -- I really really REALLY don't ever want to make her feel bad.

I want her to have fun in her new home. I want her to meet new people and do new things and see new stuff and just have a really awesome, fantastic time. Climb mountains and smoke weed for breakfast and get rained on all the time or whatever it is people do in B.C. (I know as much about B.C. as I do about the duck-feeding habits of old people, apparently.)

I never want her to think I don't want her to have a good time, and that I'm not happy that she gets to do this exciting, new thing.

And that's why I can't tell her how sad I am that she's leaving. That I'm not sure what I'll do when she's gone. There won't be anyone here anymore who will take me to Costco so I can get Snappeas or who will sit on a couch with me for six hours playing video games or who will come to my house in the middle of the night to check on me like she did that time my useless tit of an ex-boyfriend left.

We're not going to be able to drive to Ogdensburg to buy the junk food that Americans get but we don't. (THANKS, Obama.) No more trips to Wild Wings to try to burn our faces off with chicken arms doused in gasoline and petrified hot pepper dust. We're never going to walk back to her place from Comiccon again.

So how do I tell her that I don't want her to go, but that I also want her to go because it's going to be amazing for her? How do I tell her that I'm so happy that she gets to see new things and do new stuff, but that the thought of her not being a short drive away sucks more than the suckiest thing that ever sucked?

The obvious answer is to give her an awesome present as she's leaving, then cry so hard I puke on her shoes.

I think she'd like that.


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