Bloom

April 8, 2011

“Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose with the exception of guppies, who like to eat theirs.” -P.J. O’Rourke

I’m at work checking my usual news sites when a name catches my eye: it’s The Writer’s. Reading through the article, I learn that a name-actress has signed on to be attached to his brilliant script, which was bought a few years ago but has since been sitting in a pile thanks to industry nonsense. This is great news–it means that his movie will almost certainly be made. I’m so excited for him because while he plays his stoicism well, I know that The Writer really loves this script. It’s a piece of him.

Since I’m at work, I can’t call him, plus he’s probably busy. So I send him a “congrats” text. A couple of hours later, The Writer sends out an unrelated message online asking if anyone has access to a certain pay-site. (There’s a free trial period, but he’s already used it.) So I take it upon myself to enter my credit card info to sign up for a two-week free trial to the site and text The Writer my account info. A split second after sending it, I realize what I’ve done and panic crawls up my spine, making my whole upper body shutter. The Writer didn’t directly ask me to sign up for the trial and send him my account information, but I did it anyway. I’ve officially made myself too available. I’ve crossed a line.

I’m not sure how I’ve gotten to this point of desperation, especially so suddenly, when I’ve been successfully asphyxiating my feelings in a plastic bag incubator for the past week. What’s worse is the panic continues because The Writer doesn’t reply. I try to bury myself in my work and convince myself that he’s taking a nap. After all, he does that a lot. My attempts to be rational are wildly unsuccessful, and my resolute mania continues to rampage on. I make it through the workday and drive home, beating myself up (I’m good at that) for the duration of the commute. I don’t have much of an appetite, but it’s getting late, so I nibble on whatever is left in my fridge and my phone rings. My heart jumps so high that I’m pretty sure it bruises my collar bone, and I see it’s The Writer. Don’t mention the pay-site, I tell myself sternly. “Hello?” I say, answering the phone. “Hey. What’s up?” He replies. “Just eating. What’s up with you…well, I guess I already know what’s up with you…cause, yeah. Congratulations! That’s so exciting!” I’m gushing. Why am I gushing? “Yeah,” I can hear the cloaked excitement in his voice, “I’m still just worried something bad is going to happen.” “Nah! It’ll be great,” I assure him. “What are you up to tonight?” “I’m just leaving dinner with some friends,” he tells me. “Do you want to write?” He asks. “Sure, yeah. Where do you want to go?” I say, trying not to stumble over myself. “Well, do you mind if I come over there?” “Definitely. Yeah!” I nearly shout. He tells me he’ll head over after stopping at home, and we say goodbye.

Pause. The Writer, who as of today has a name-actress attached to his brilliant script that will now certainly be made, has asked to come to my apartment on said day. He wants to see me. He doesn’t want to go out. He wants to come here. I’m ready to cry from the overwhelming and vaguely positive emotions washing over me, but then I look around and realize what a wreck my apartment is, so instead I throw all of my crap in a closet. My next move confuses me…I prepare myself for the sex. No, I’m not leaving anything out–there are no overt signs that I’m getting laid tonight, but I’m on auto mode, and this was auto-decision. As I’m prepping, I realize The Writer might be hungry at some point and that the sad state of food variety in my residence must be corrected ASAP, so I throw some clothes on and run to the grocery, hoping he won’t arrive before I return.

When I get home, I throw together a plate of food, make myself a drink, and realize how tired I am. The Writer arrives with a sparkle in his eye, excited to tell me all of the exciting details and his potential concerns. He doesn’t want a drink and although he’s just come from dinner, he helps himself to some cookies. “Oh, and thanks for helping me out with that website today,” he says coolly. Relief at last! He has some work to do, so we both get to writing in my living room until he gets restless. “Do you have a comfortable bed?” He asks. “I think so,” I say. “Can we go sit in there?” “Sure,” I say, closing my computer, and we make our way to my bed.

I pick up the copy of Candy Girl he gave me last weekend and get to reading, but my eyes begin to droop. I’m probably a little buzzed. So I tell him I’m going to fall asleep, but that he can keep working if he wants. “Can I spend the night?” He asks. DUH. “Of course,” I say, so I give him a spare toothbrush, and he climbs into bed next to me. “I really am happy for you,” I tell him. “Me too,” he says. As I’m falling asleep, he tells me about his family and how messed up his childhood was. We both had fairly conservative upbringings, but his sounds as if it was a little wilder than mine–his stories are ridiculous. We laugh really hard for a few moments then he tells me, “That was the first time I’ve been able to laugh about all of that horrible shit.” “Would you ever have children?” I ask. He gives a complicated answer that boils down to a maybe, and I fall asleep in his arms.

 

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The Cheap Trick

April 3, 2011

“I wish that I could have this moment for life.” -Nicki Minaj

I wake up late Saturday. I’m starving, so I call The Writer to invite him to a strictly eating-only lunch (Saturday afternoons have become prime writing time, and I’m full-on anti-work today), but he is of course still asleep because he sleeps always. When he finally gets up, I drive over to his house, and we select The Waffle in Hollywood as our dining destination. On our way, he calls his creepy friend Warren and invites him to eat with us, which makes me cringe. “The thing about Warren is he’s insane when he’s drunk. Like mad scientist bat-shit crazy, but he’s normally a very sweet person.” I nod discouragingly, remembering our last encounter, which ended with him drunkenly yelling something about Wolf and I on the street in WeHo.

When we arrive, The Writer insists on sitting next to me in the booth because we’re by the door and it’s quite drafty. He then stands and wanders around the establishment for the next five minutes in search of a different table until finally someone leaves. His shamelessness both embarrasses me and amuses, but this is why I like The Writer—he’s weird and unapologetically so. Just as we settle at our new table, Warren joins us and turns out to be an enjoyable conversationalist, which makes up for a less-than-stellar brunch (because what I really want is a cheeseburger.) Conversation turns to boys, and they pull out their phones to check Grindr.

What is Grindr? According to its website, it’s a “Free Gay iPhone App [that] finds local gay, bi and curious guys for dating or friends for free on Grindr. Meet the men nearest you with GPS, location-based Grindr.” Basically, it’s an actual gaydar. Grindr locates the nearest hundred gays and displays their profiles, which contain, among other things, naked to semi-naked photos of the user, their sexual roles, and other excruciatingly personal details. Users can then message whoever is in the vicinity and potentially hook up. What’s more is pretty much every gay I’ve met in L.A. has Grindr and uses it with as much frequency as Facebook. Grindr grosses me out, but the concept is admittedly fascinating.

Warren leaves to meet his personal trainer—he’s making big strides to improve his life, including not drinking and working out six days a week. The Writer and I leave shortly after, and I let him in on my anti-work leanings, so we agree to see a movie. “We have an hour before it starts,” he informs me. “Let’s go back to my place and take a nap.” “I’m not tired,” I tell him with legitimate naivety. When we get back to his house, The Writer suggests I read Diablo Cody’s Candy Girl while he naps, and we climb into bed. He reaches his arm out. “Come snuggle,” he says in a cutesy voice before scooping me over to his side. I’m a little cold on this given our history, but I don’t resist. I make it through a page and a half of the stripping memoir before I drop the book and reciprocate his embrace.

Half an hour later, it’s time to leave for the theater, so I poke The Writer. “We have to go,” I whisper. “Five more minutes,” he begs. “Fine.” Five minutes later, I shake him. “We’re going to miss the movie!” I exclaim. “No we won’t.” He rolls over. Yes we will, but I’m not going to win this battle. I kind of don’t want to anyway. Four and a half hours later, it’s nine, and I decide we really should get up, if for no other reason than my hunger–despite consuming every crumb of my last meal, I am already starving again.

Turns out waking him up was only half the battle. The Writer missed about twenty phone calls and thus spends the next half hour playing catch up. While he is texting, chatting, whatevering, his ex calls. The Writer answers, and I’m silent Read the rest of this entry »


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