I know I’m suppose to give him a lecture or something, or even attempt to become a surrogate daddy or big brother. But I can’t or I wont. It’s one thing to lie to the world and another to continue lying to yourself. Frankly I don’t care about his dead mother anymore, the thing that happened to him one day when he was just a kid or the powder he used to travel before he one day got caught.
On some perverse level I am enjoying the madness. Waking up to their diatribe of deep self entanglement, the nonsense, the trivia of self denigration not on TV, but here in my own very living room. A thrill time that requires me just having to open my bedroom door. But on a deeper level I am sickened to my stomach, repelled that I am reminded of my own fallabilities, and for that I hate everyone.
Somehow by answering an ad for a room on Craigslist I have allowed myself to descend into a clinical experiment of self debasement and perverse self enlightenment. Through his suffering (which somehow and inevitably becomes with those who share the same space – a collective suffering) I have been forced to reckon with the world from a point of view that I would rather not. After all it’s one thing to write about scandal and media whores who misbehave, but another thing to write about scandal happening in your living room, or to be precise your bedroom. A bedroom, you randomly came to find through Craigslist…
I now get up, begrudgingly give him the $40, even play the game that he is supposed to pay me back one day (or at least come off the rent) before looking for my laptop (which ends up being stolen mysteriously from my room at a future date), my beret and a healthy winter coat as I set out to find a cafe from which to write from. In 12 hours time I will return to find them both gone, who knows where, with her pink g string on my pillow, and the ashes of their sordid affair on my sheets. I will that evening choose to sleep at a friends house….