Theodore's roommate took to pranking him with the omni-ventriloquism trick he'd developed, which got old quite quickly. Imagine sitting in the kitchen, at the table, finishing a crossword puzzle that makes you feel woefully inadequate. Imagine having every object in the room abruptly start to mutter at you as if under their breath; the blue tea kettle your sister gave you for Christmas. The microwave. The block of cheese that your roommate still hasn't put in the fridge since he used it last night. Imagine all these pinprick voices referring to your indiscretions, your secret fears, the ugliness of your individual body parts. This was Theodore's life now, rubbing his temples while his shoes demeaned the smell of his toes and the crossword called him names. The pencil, well, the pencil made terribly unfunny Freudian references. This was all Lyle's doing with his ability to throw his voice about simultaneously. As a result, Theodore felt it best to execute him. There would be no time to practice the weird technique with Lyle nursing a major chest wound and a disgorged heart leaking rotten blood onto the bathroom floor. Unable to think of a suitably ironic means of death, Theodore bludgeoned him with a frying pan -- a frying pan that pleaded with him for its life as he brought it up and down -- while he screamed "I can't hear you." The whole thing was a bit embarrassing in retrospect, but Theodore could, afterward, walk into a room crowded with knick-knacks and antiques without being concerned they'd make reference to his hairline.
I'm having so many Life Experiences lately. God, I'm sick of it!
But seriously folks. Naw. It's been a nice week. Went to a farewell party for the junior high school I used to work at, on Tuesday. Held my liquor admirably and gave a pretty good speech in Japanese. Didn't spill anything. Ate ice cream with chop sticks. The new P.E. teacher and I hit on each other for about an hour, to the collective shock of all the other teachers. Went for smoke breaks with my old buddy the janitor. When I finally left and stepped into an elevator, who should be standing there but K, an old co-worker I last saw in January, drunk on a train, when I convinced him to join us for a mad night of clubbing and strife in Shibuya. "We meet again," he said. This Phillipino girl who was also in the elevator screamed, "Why are you fucks always speaking English? I'm fucking Phillipino, desho!" He asked if I wanted to go to a dance party but I didn't; we ran to the station together anyway, split up cuz I needed to go to the toilet, then randomly bumped into each other again on the platform. He turned melancholy and said, "You never looked me up on Facebook even though you promised to." I went home.
Went to the gaygaygay bar with a co-worker on Thursday night. I had a hideous problem with my foot that I won't go into here and couldn't dance; stood at the sidelines with hooded eyes, chainsmoking and drinking beers and looking like what Danorama would have described as "a tired old queen." Some boys came up and showed my co-worker and I various pictures of hot men, asking us to select the hottest; we did and it turned out the pictures were of themselves and then they asked to sleep with us. We drifted away.
Friday night I met up with Mr. Vice for some sexy adventures. Orgasms and political documentaries and then as usual I couldn't sleep; stared at the fish transcedent in their aquarium at the head of the bed and thought, Who am I who am I who am I? Didn't figure it out but it was okay. Sex in the morning, he made me breakfast, sunlight and that hazy May feeling where the cicadas haven't quite been born yet but you feel they're about to be and it puts a smile on your face, there's a vibration in the air that lets you know they're coming. Limped all the way back to Baba on my fucked-up foot for a joyous reuinion with Sage -- FINALLY she's back from Australia! Caught each other up. For hours. Went to a bbq at Prince Harry's, where I smoked intense cigarettes with intense people and ate fish and salad and sipped Corronoas dreamy-eyed and not altogether there; locked in my own head, an internal choreography.