I have such supportive friends.
Listen, I get it and it’s partially my fault. I’ve been on so many bad dates that you’ve come to expect a certain level of shit show. No one has cried (okay, that’s a lie — I cried during the opening scene of The Last of Us, but I’m a sensitive fucking flower, okay?), no one has said anything inappropriate about bicycles, and I haven’t received any unsolicited eggplants in over a month. I’m letting you down and I would apologize, but I’m too busy spending nights in eating takeout, marathoning Jessica Jones, and playing SNES with my boyfriend.
Hey, wait! Don’t go! I can still entertain you! I’m still a
drunken disaster; I got a boyfriend, not a brain transplant. One area I seem to be a bit clueless in is the big relationship milestones (I must’ve fallen asleep passed out during that lesson).
Bogart and I have very different hours, and I live downtown while he lives in Mordor. This typically translates to me leaving for work at the crack of stupid while he sleeps in my bed, stealing all my cat’s love. I especially enjoyed an afternoon picture of the two of them while I was physically dying the day after my office Christmas party (according to texts from Drunk Steph, I only fell once that night). Weekends are no exception since I solve first world problems at a tech store when I’m not changing lives at my day job. Last night, knowing I had to be awake in five whole hours, and also knowing he wouldn’t have to be at work until later in the afternoon, I asked if he wanted a key so he could go out, get food, and not have to piss away the time at Starbucks like a homeless hipster. Apparently you relationship people treat keys like they don’t make them 6/$10 at the hardware store down the street.
‘Uh, are we there?’ he asked.
‘Are we not?’ I replied, fuckfuckfuck-ing in my head in the dark.
I tried to think of the people in my life who have a key, and it’s not a short list. A friend who used to live out of town who came to visit me/the gaybourhood frequently: Sometimes I would come home to find him napping in my bed. Sometimes he would crawl in beside me if his bus got in early. He moved back to the city, still has a key. A friend around the corner: It came in handy last weekend when Bogart made me a beautiful dinner at his restaurant, I proceeded to get shitfaced, and realized I was locked out at midnight on a Sunday. My GNG who lives nearby: I’ve lost a key drunkenly walking home from her place to mine, and had to go back to get her copy. Sober Steph prepares well for the shenanigans of Drunk Steph. When people come in from out of town to stay with me or my roommate, they get a key. Certain people receive them during Pride for all the stoop festivities because I am not walking my ass up three flights of stairs every time someone needs a drink. Clearly I treat keys like they’re in a bowl at a suburban dinner party in the 70’s. Granted, I’ve never given a key to any of my other suitors, but I never really gave it any thought.
And therein, I think, lies the rub: I didn’t give it any thought when apparently it’s a thing in relationship world. Is there a list of things to look out for somewhere? Maybe I could borrow someone’s? I promise not to spill (too much) wine on it.
2 responses to “Key to my heart”
[…] yelled in unison when I shacked up with Bogart. ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ I sassily retorted. ‘I’m still me, my interests haven’t changed, and more importantly, who I am […]
You just have to love your fans to point out the fact they don’t like your latest blog post. Clearly, you need to hand out more house keys and have more disasters in your life. Or blog about your cat like I do…trust me, Mr. Whiskers and I have some great worthless advice you can trust.