I have an issue living with people I was not birthed from, share the same genetic DNA with or wish I was genetically linked with. Until recently, meaning two months ago, I lived at home with my parents, my brother and my cat I have an allergic reaction to, Squid. It was great. From the waist down, I had the skin texture of a mutated kiwi. I didn’t shave my legs for months at a time and no one complained if they found hair in their food. I think my father preferred the fact that I cockblocked myself naturally and my mother appreciated the additional support of reliving her Woodstock days. It was delightful.
Now, the most crucial part of this was the fact I was allowed to be a free spirit, prance around my apartment with my mammoth like body fully exposed, receiving the appropriate ventilation to cool myself under my fur.
I was supported to fully let myself go.
But now, things are different. I live with two, sometimes three guys – the third one lives here occasionally when he’s done going through his phases of being in an existential crisis. My other two rooms include an Italian economist and a Belarussian sculptor.
The Belarussian sculptor spent one the New Year’s Eve of 2000 in deep meditation, where after he painted a self-portrait of himself, nude, in the traditional meditative pose. He does not have Facebook, but rather focuses his attention on playing his guitar and didgeridoo. Every morning, I walk into the kitchen where I see him sitting at the wooden table, drinking tea out of a bowl, scribbling down notes in a list formation. However, I have yet to see him cross anything out.
My Italian economist roommate started playing the guitar seven months ago and practices every day. Last week he bought a new electric guitar. Which he practices. Everyday. Cream-filled croissants make him feel good and a picture of Elvis hangs beside his bed. His dream is to work with wolves.
Since my roommate, the Belarussian, is health conscious, I decided to join him on a life of purity and tranquility. So, I bought prunes. I’m not really sure why I thought of prunes, maybe because old people eat them and I was constipated at that moment of this decision.
I should note that from here on, it’s basically a health and safety message regarding the dangerousness of prunes.
So, there I was, with a package of prunes. Unaware, I started eating them. One. Two. Three. Four. I was just mowing through this bag of prunes like they were chocolate covered almonds. These little guys were delicious, no wonder old people are all up on them.
Within minutes, my stomach started aching, gurgling noises I’ve never heard before were being produced from within.
The prunes. It was the prunes.
At this point, it was one of those moments where you’re pretty sure of what’s going to happen, like those moments when you’re dancing with a guy and he’s staring at you but you’re looking away because you know he’s going to try to kiss you the minute you make eye contact. It was that, but with the knowledge that you may shit your pants in a house of potentially new friends.
“Do you need the bathroom?” My roommate asks me while holding his towel.
I was silent, trying to evaluate the situation of my bowels. I gave myself a twenty-five-minute window of safety, he’ll be out of that bathroom in less than fifteen.
“No, I don’t need it. Enjoy your shower.” I replied.
I returned my attention back to the computer, casually googling, “how many prunes is too many?” The results were catastrophic. I overdosed on prunes.
New search, “What happens when you eat too many prunes”
Tragedy. Pure tragedy.
I closed my laptop and stared at the wall. The only thing I could do was wait.
My roommate came out of the bathroom, looking refreshed and hygienic.
He was slowly walking around the kitchen, you could tell he was finding something to do because he would just pick up a fork and put it down. Then, he would move the olive oil bottle from one side of the table to the other.
While watching him fumble around aimlessly, the grumbling in my stomach stopped. It was time.
I casually walk-ran to the bathroom. I tried to gently close the door behind me to go unnoticed but my right arm was in a panic, so I slammed it shut instead.
Now, usually, if I was at home, I wouldn’t care. Actually, I would have probably alerted my family members of the danger of prunes and loudly announced my entrance upon entering the bathroom. Instead, I was overly aware of the soundproofing issues of the new bathroom I had just locked myself into. This was an additional pressure that I couldn’t handle at the moment.
But then I heard the sound of the didgeridoo.
Usually, I would classify the didgeridoo as one of the most useless instruments created by man. I’m not sure who the fuck decided that a hollow stick would make for a pleasurable sound. Also, I’m skeptical of the people who aren’t Aboriginal, who decided to play the didgeridoo. Why.
The low bellowing sound filled the apartment. How long does one play the didgeridoo for? While my stomach turns, I look up to the sky. Is there enough time? Do guardian angels exist? (I would prefer if they didn’t, simply because I don’t need someone looking over me at this time with a bird’s eye view). After all this hate against this stick-like instrument, had the didgeridoo saved my reputation as a mysterious female? Where are the matches?
thelonelyserb 