August 28, 2007
To Hold My Tongue Speaks of Quiet Reservations…
“Would you stop trying to manipulate me, because I know what you’re doing and I’m better at it than you are?” She stood in the kitchenette, arms folded, glaring at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’ve decided to dedicate my life to helping others.”
“Okay, asshole, you know what you should probably do? If you’re going to lie to my face, you shouldn’t write blog posts saying you’re lying to my face.”
“I’m not lying,” I said. “I read the book about cancer, and all my medical instincts tell me the way to cure her is by impregnating her.”
“Fine,” Margo snapped. “What about artificial insemination?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I sighed.
“You’re such a prick. I’m just—I don’t know, just stay away from me for awhile.”
“But we live together—”
“Not for long.”
“What about the foundation?”
“Dude! First: it’s not a real thing. It’s something you made up for good PR. Second: trying to appeal to my shitty childhood by targeting a foundation at the 15-year-old me is not going to convince me to stay, or to agree it’s a good idea to logjam Sarah Goss.”
“But—”
“Leave me alone,” Margo said, storming through the apartment and slamming our bedroom door, hard. I tried to go after her, but when I got to the door I heard her shriek “I’ve got the chains!” followed by an obnoxiously loud crack against the door.
“All right!” I yelled through the door. “Will you feel better if I don’t sex her up?”
“What do you think?”
“Probably not,” I said. “You’re probably mad not because I could tap that ass, but because I want to. Which is such a double standard. You should really be mad about both—”
“Girth!”
“Yeah?”
“Quit while you’re ahead.”
“‘Kay. Would it make you feel better if I told you, truly and sincerely, that I don’t want to bang her—I have to, for medical science?”
“Bullshit! If fucking cured cancer, how do you explain the Curies?”
“Maybe they weren’t—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“I don’t know why you don’t understand that I don’t love her—I just want to fuck her, one last time or two.”
“I don’t know why you don’t understand why I don’t think you should want to fuck anyone but me.”
“Well, you’ve put on a few pou—”
The door shuddered violently as the chains slammed into them. I had been rubbing up against the door to hear what was going on in there, among other things, and the sudden force and noise drove me against the adjacent wall.
“Also, three seconds ago, you told me you didn’t want to bang her, you lying sack of shit. I’m so sick of the lying—”
“Hon, that’s why I’m finally telling the truth. On the blog. Sometimes. There’s a big part of me that lies, Margo, but there’s another big part of me that feels really bad about it. This is the only way I can have it both ways.”
“Are you lying again?”
“No.” I was.
It took a few tense seconds, but Margo finally opened the door. I led her into the room, then I turned some music on, apologized one more time, then went down and start gettin’ it on.
My cancer-curing plans are now on hiatus. Sarah will figure something out, I’m sure.
P.S.: Shout-out to Lacey, who turns 31 today. We’re having a party tonight at Cabo Cantina on Sunset, near Sweetzer, if any fans can make it.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on August 28, 2007 5:06 PM
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Cancer Crisis!
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