Death of a Geek

I quit my favorite RPG last week.

Big whoop, I know, but I played that game with a feverish enthusiasm that lasted for upwards of 6 years.

It’s about fucking time, Jackie says, leaning forward on her hands as she sits on the counter and swings her legs back and forth. She ought to have a big pink bubble inflating from puckered lips as she stares at me with such deadpan confidence. That was gettin’ real hard to stop tellin’ people about since you were on it so damn much. Now you can stop being the weird online role-play  girl and can start being...I dunno, the sexy misanthropic writer or something. You and Marge work out the kinks on the name, she adds, wagging her finger from me to Margot.

Jackie’s the socialite and even though she appears to care very little what people think of her, she has the best idea of what image to project in public. She’s the one wearing the cocky grin and holding a double whiskey while swearing unabashedly and throwing her hip out to the side. She’s the one telling me to be ruthless and sweet all at the same time, tying up the bow prettily with a bit of spunk.

Jackie doesn’t give a fuck, so that means Jackie has to tell whoever she wants to about the game, see?

Still, she’s right: That nerdy-glasses, tomboy thing? It works for ya if the glasses do the heavy lifting on the nerd part.

I sat there after I’d written it just staring at the words, wondering if I had made a mistake in writing anything at all.

Don’t be a pussy, Bianca snarls.

A fingernail found its way into my mouth, a gentle tickticktick skipping therapeutically in my head as my teeth scraped against the tiny flap.

My inherent love of the game cropped up like a gremlin and I bit my lip. The stereotypical devil on my shoulder shook his jelly-bean butt at me and ran down the length of my arm to start jumping up and down on the finger that hovered over ‘DEL.’  I looked at him for a moment, head tilted, observing him the way a scientist might look at a rat that has done something interesting, admiring  the way his sharp fangs glimmered in the glare of my laptop as he held his pitchfork aloft and tried to stomp my finger into submission.

As soon as Margot noticed, her feathers ruffled.

YOU HAD BETTER NOT! Not after all that hard work I put in making this thing anything more than a child’s tantrum, I don’t THINK so!

And then, after her wits have returned, she smoothes her hands over her blouse and sits up straighter, tucking some of her misplaced bun behind her ear. I know where the Undo button is anyway.

Bianca’s all pissed off because I let Margot and Millie write it. She slammed her hands on the table so much so that a pellet of ash fell from the cigarette she bit between clenched teeth.

You oughtta write the whole thing the way it happened, without mercy just to show them how it feels. FUCK YOU, man! You’re still sucking their dicks, making them feel good about being assholes so you don’t come across looking like a jerk! This isn’t a review, it’s a giant dildo with their name written on it. You just didn’t include batteries and think you’re being all edgy.

She storms into the basement and slams the door behind her, burrowing deeper into the spiraling staircase behind my medulla oblongata to settle in a nerve somewhere.

God, is she gone already? Christ, she’s a handful! Jackie complains, wishing that she weren’t forever stuck with someone who was such a drag. Her eyes flash over to Margot then, panning up and down with irritation as the pencil-necked geek tutted over who didn’t run the dishwasher, she glanced longingly at the basement door.

Margot has the best handle on the situation, as she does on most of them.

Trust me, you would only regret it if you spewed your emotions all over it. She pats her hand on the top of the screen, indicating the same set of paragraphs that Bianca had so vehemently protested. These are accolades they rightly deserve and you know that. Besides, if you come across as an asshole then you may as well have written ‘wah wah, life’s unfair’ over and over again. It would have the same effect.

She’s right.

Shortly behind her, Millie takes a deep breath and pipes up, And they’re people too. It’s not like you’re completely blameless so show some tact and compassion. They did create the best game on the site, after all, and they were very willing to let you have freedom with your characters and always showed YOU respect…

Bianca, the vigilante, kicks down the basement door and stomps her boot on the broken beer bottles that act as her doormat.

THAT’S NOT THE POINT! They did nothing but talk constant shit to you about other people so obviously they don’t respect anyone. THAT’S the fucking point – it’s the principle, not the special treatment that YOU got! GODDAMNIT!

She breaks another beer bottle and then disappears into the basement, this time with a handle of whiskey and a single shot glass.

Jackie starts laughing heartily, and then claps her hands sarcastically from her casual perch on the arm of the couch.

Oh Bravo, drama-queen. Like any of us are buying that you’re this upset on anyone’s behalf other than your own.

Jackie’s not afraid of Bianca.

Don’t pick on her when she’s like this, you know it never helps, Millie hisses quietly, hopping up from the rocking horse and acting angry. Her fists ball up at her sides and she ventures a cautious look at the basement door, which is now creaking and groaning as cold belches of musty wind rattle it from within. After another cross look at Jackie, she steals across the floor on bare feet, artfully dodging the broken shards of glass to disappear down to the basement.

After a hasty edit, I logged into the website and posted the review onto my public page.

It’s not going to change anything. That much I know, but at least I said it.

From the darkest depths of my mind, Bianca stews, reminding me: if it was your intent to leave the game forever then you could have been as big a bitch as you wanted in the review. 

Pussy.

A Damn Fine Lay

This guy is a really good lay.

It wasn’t until I stepped out of the shower this morning that I noticed the beautiful pink handprint he left on my butt; a red, possessive shadow with five long fingers claiming every inch. I blush and look over my shoulder to admire it, skimming a palm over the offending mark to savor the sting.

That’s hot.

I can’t tell which of the peanut gallery has piped up but there’s more than one voice who approves of this small, carnal measure of possessiveness. An educated guess would have me postulate that Jackie and Millie are the most likely candidates: one is brashly proud of herself and the other finds it so sinful that it locks her in sexual fantasy.

Millie relishes the reminder, Jackie wears it like a badge of honor to boast her skills…

And once again, I’m staring at myself in the goddamn mirror, all round curves and freckles and wet hair

Some would call that vanity.

Yeah, I fucking know that, Margot.

I sigh and I’m alone again. I shake my head to deflect my reflection and go about dressing for the day, trying distinctly not to think of how big and strong his hands are and instead of how I have to have lunch with my parents in less than an hour.

After a moment of reminiscing, Margot can sense that I’m smiling and immediately sets to rectify this malfunction. I tell myself he probably only enjoys my company because of our physical bond, which Margot argues to remind me of with boring logic like neurotoxins and physiology.

It’s only the hormones racing through your body that make you so attracted to him. You know this. Oxytocin is a woman’s worst nightmare when it comes to men. It’ll be Don all over again and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself for getting all tangled in something so needlessly messy.

Millie is the first to rebut this time, stunning Jackie and Bianca into respectful silence.

He must enjoy your company too. Don’t you remember how you caught him staring at you from underneath your hair, just holding on and watching you? What about that?

Bianca knows Millie’s an idiot, knows it’s only the tits and girly face that he’s interested in. She knows this so implicitly and with such strength of conviction that all she has to do is look at me and I can read her loud and clear. The razor’s edge in her eyes is judging me for even considering that this might be anything other than two people rutting like hounds.

But still, he’s a damn fine lay. Even Bianca will give him that.

Margot tuts from behind a large, leatherbound volume, never once breaking her gaze from the line of marks she’s writing with a fine ballpoint pen.

I’m the one who goes over the accounts, dear. I do believe this one has graduated from ‘lay’ to…She pauses and bookmarks her place with her finger to flip through earlier pages for a consultation on the title these few fellows were afforded. After a moment she taps her finger onto a paragraph. Well, it appears you haven’t had a boyfriend since 2006, but there have been plenty of ‘men.’ That seems to be their only relation to you. With a simpering tilt of her head, she uses a pinched smile to conceal her judgment, but eventually, the words come spilling out: maybe if you weren’t such a slut you’d have more boyfriends than fuck-buddies.

After a poignant stare, she then severs the gaze and goes right back to balancing the emotional checkbook.

Bitch.

Drunk Dialing Dad

I drunk dialed my dad the other night.

Calling him has always been a chore. For the most part, talking to him at all is about as interesting as debating wallpaper. At least my mom has the good sense to be hilarious when she has to talk to me about something serious. Good ole pa just cracks lousy puns in-between reminding me loftily of what I should be doing.

Bianca, whose tongue is leashed in by Millie, wants to scream:

I have mom for all of this, why do you even bother talking to me? It’s not like you were ever useful for anything other than spanking and lecturing me. Can’t we just go through the motions like we usually do so I can go back to my life without you in it?

Arms folded, a glare limns my upper lids, lips pouting out. Dad is a sore spot. Even the name rubs me the wrong way.

Millie is the only one who can stop Bianca from getting out of hand. Millie’s a fucking golden lab when it comes to dad, bounding towards him with innocence in her big stupid eyes, totally ready to please. She’s Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “treat me like you would treat a dog – kick me, hit me, neglect me, try to lose me…”

He answered the phone and I was wearing the inner child, the one who still seeks his approval.

“Hi dad!”

It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, so the cheer catches him off guard. At this point I’ve already forgotten his birthday so my tone could have been apologetic and halting but four or five shots of whiskey have warmed my edges and now Millie is stepping out like a nymph into the moonlight.

“Hey.” I can hear that he’s smiling but he doesn’t know what to say so, empowered with liquid fire, I steer the conversation.

I tell him all sorts of things.

“Actually, I’ve been challenging myself a lot at work lately to try and make the best of it. I mean, happiness takes practice, right?”

Some jingling laughter follows, and surprisingly, he joins into the conversation with effortless gusto.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Working in that warehouse was really starting to take it out of me, but I think you’ll find that the happier you get, the angrier the people around you will be.”

Well duh, Bianca rebuts in my ear, draping an arm over my shoulder. Not like that’s news.

But Millie responds.

“Well duh!” Another giggle follows, telling my dad that I’m only joking and that it’s ok for him to laugh along. 

It’s a painful recipe for a meager yield, like sowing a thousand seeds and harvesting only a basketful. Who knew that bonding opportunities could be manipulated and manufactured like Hallmark cards?

That old fool doesn’t even know he’s being played. He actually thinks you two are having a special moment. Way to go, web-weaver.

Shut up, Bianca.

“I’ve told you for years that I would have a hard time relating to you until you were more of an adult. You sound very mature – ”

Thanks, pop.

I hang up after another few minutes of chatter and allow the conversation to die organically so that when I put it to rest I can imagine him sighing wistfully and wondering what was different about this conversation.

His opinion of me would plummet if he knew that alcohol was what made talking to him at all bearable. I can see the look on his face, the sadness in his blue eyes as he shakes his head and looks at the floor, ashamed of me.

He never says, I’m not proud of you, or I don’t think you’re mature, but he is passive in nature so instead, he subtly condescends to me and uses phrases like “Behave yourself” to imply that, without his reminder, I might not.

Because, you know, good girls don’t drink or fuck or live at all. Good girls are raised in white linens under glass bubbles and are devoted wholly to God and therefore, to the word of their father.

Good girls obey.

Bianca rolls her eyes and scowls.

Thank God I’m not the little princess he wants me to be.

Somewhere deeper inside, daddy’s little princess is crying alone in the corner while Bianca stands sentinel over her, hands stuffed deeply in her jacket pockets as she hates the world away.

So...I Probably Shouldn't Be Sleeping With My Roommate

Ok…so I probably shouldn’t be sleeping with my roommate.

Shouldn’t be sneaking down the stairs at night in order to slip into bed with him, shouldn’t let him bury his head under my dress while our other roommates pick up fast food, shouldn’t squeal like a little girl as he bends me over the communal couch, and shouldn’t let him fold me up like a deck chair until we’re both wet and trembling.

Most of all though, I shouldn’t be keeping it a secret.

 At least, that’s what a certain character would like me not to forget; Margot. She’s the librarian sort, always dotting i’s and crossing t’s and nagging, nagging, nagging. The type of orderly influence that self-preservation deigns necessary but has always sounded like a less effectual version of my mother to me. Margot is that girl who clutches her breast when you accelerate too quickly in a vehicle, a staccato gasp locked in her throat until the threat has passed and she can begin to breathe normally again. 

She’s the goddamn editor and lawyer of my everyday life:

What the hell are you doing, he’s only 21, you’ll ruin the house environment if people found out, this can’t go anywhere, and you’ll wind up getting attached!

I can hear her yelling at me with annoyingly sound logic. She reminds me of Hermione in the first book, when she’s completely insufferable and simply can’t resist a chance to chide or correct someone with a sense of haughty superiority. But again, Margot’s not as effective as Hermione either.

Margot is a forgotten echo in a churning stew of sunshine and shadow.

Then another voice rises over the din:

What? Hell girl, you’re only human, and he’s almost 22 so 4 years ain’t that bad, right? And what about all the convenience of having everything you need right at home? It’s a pretty sweet deal.

Meet Jackie. She’s the wild child, my inner gypsy, the voice in my head who says ‘fuck it, you’re only 25 and you’ve gotten your heart broken before over way more than convenient sex. SHUT UP AND ENJOY IT.’ She’d probably slam a door or wave her finger sassily in the air to drive her point home, with a sharp glare and a voice filled with defiant authority, daring anyone to rebut.

And someone will.

Millie is always quiet at first, watching the others with big doe eyes that seem to observe more than she lets on, giving her a certain air of childlike elegance. She takes a deep breath, filling her belly with fresh air and sighs upon the wind, “but you two get along all right for now. What’s the matter with loving him for a short while? It’s not as if sex is a crime, especially if it makes you as happy as this has.” And then she closes her eyes to let the wind run spindly fingers through her golden hair, and falls silent.

Good, Bianca snorts derisively, turning her nose up at the idea of anything that resembles nobility. She knows full well that the world is only populated with idiots and snakes, knows that the lush hills that everyone covets in daydreams are really littered with landmines whether you deserve them or not – and she’s suffered more than her fair share. Callused and armed, she flicks a cigarette butt into a dumpster and then spits on the ground.

This is all gonna blow up in your face no matter what you try. May as well have an orgasm while you’re at it.

I blink and everyone falls silent. Instead of piloting the ship as one is meant to do in their own skull, I feel more like the walls that hold everything inside, blindly stumbling and crumbling away as the patrons within bicker and joke amongst themselves.

And there I stand, blinking as I realize I’ve spent the past couple of minutes gawping at my own reflection as if somehow this will help the myriad of perspectives swirling through my head. Smudged lenses reveal tired eyes behind them as I take off those red spectacles and rub at the green circles I used to call my eyes, wondering vaguely whether I’m overthinking everything again or simply running through the obvious options that my gut is alerting me of.

But yeah, at the end of the day, I probably shouldn’t be sleeping with my roommate…

Right?