Photo @ Slutever
It’s 5pm or whatever time the sky starts getting dark now, maybe even earlier. I’m in my bedroom, stabbing at the chunks of solidified jizz in my hair with a mangled comb, trying to remove just enough of the jizzy snarls to make it OK to walk to the deli to buy coffee. I stab and stab, unsuccessfully, aggressively kneading handfuls of conditioner into the sex nest, but the conditioner’s thick, white gooeyness only makes it more conspicuous. Does this mean I have to take a shower?, I wonder
My new housemate Felix bounds into the room, no warning knock, mouth full of crackers mumbling something that sounds like, “Hey like what’s up I guess?” You know Felix; he’s that kid Bunny and I became semi obsessed with on Facebook a while back. Our obsession was based on little more than a few weirdly staged Macbook self portraits, but he seemed interesting enough, mainly because we didn’t actually know anything about him. Felix recently came to New York on vacation. We met up for drinks on his final night here, which I assumed would be the first and last time I ever spent any real time with him. That was until the next day when I received a text saying, HI, I DIDN’T GET ON THE PLANE. CAN I LIKE LIVE WITH YOU OR WHATEVER? and I replied I GUESS.
“Are you wearing all of my clothes and eating my hummus?” I say, and Felix looks down at his body and the food in his hands as if he’s seeing them for the first time, then shrugs like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care, has never had a thought in his entire life and never plans to.
Felix and I have lived together for three weeks now, during which I have acquired some hard, non-Facebook based information about him. For one he’s only 18, which surprised me. Also he’s never had any formal schooling–was tutored at home by his artist parents–which is probably why he’s now impressively retarded when it comes to social interaction. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look anywhere but at the floor, which as you can imagine makes even the simplest conversation a struggle. He also often comes home in the mornings, neck full of hickies, sometimes covered in bruises, claiming that he was raped the previous night. Today is more of the same.
“I got raped last night.”
“Oh really? Who was it this time?”
“I don’t know, some horrible girl. She was sooo old as well. Like 29.”
“That is so fucking old.”
“Felix, do you ever think you might be confusing being raped with sleeping with someone you don’t actually like?”
“Um, I don’t know, maybe. Is there a difference?”
“I think there is, yeah.”
The problem with meeting people you have weird, superficial internet infatuations with is that when you meet them they become real, AKA uninteresting. Not that I don’t like Felix–I do, a lot–but he’s just a real person now so I care less. Like for example before I knew him I used to think it was really cool that his fingernails were always painted an array of different colors, but now I’m just like, “Felix get your 400 gay nail polish bottles off my floor before I kill you.” See what I mean? Watching Felix eat tuna out of the can and trip over electrical wires totally eradicates any sense of mystery. Also he never knocks and yesterday he barged into my room at the exact moment that I was inserting my tampon, then didn’t even leave, just made a grossed-out face and continued on grabbing whatever is was he intended to grab off my shelf–probably my expensive hair products–and sauntered out casually like no big deal. WTF?
How and why do all of these people keep vomiting their way into my life and why are they all sort of the same but also sort of different, but samey enough for me to occasionally blink and forget which one I’m with?