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Off to Brooklyn, huzzah!, with copies of Jane Gaskell's The Dragon and Irish Fairy and Folk Tales by Yeats, which I scored off Comrade Curtin, for the bus ride. Huzzah, huzzah!
(Even more huzzah-worthy, La Principessa shyly informed me that, at thirty-eight years old, she has now purchased her SECOND outfit of skimpy, see-through, bedtime wear. Will we be watching the second season of Game of Thrones this weekend? I know not, but, HUZZAH!!!!)
It was the demise of Khal Drogo, that did it, actually. La Principessa really, um, gets into it when we do the KD/Dany scenes, so, you know, I started to identify with the barbaric, rapacious, horselord. I think I'm going to start putting bells in my hair.
"Indeed the same dark question often rose into her mind, with reference to the whole race of womanhood. Was existence worth accepting, even to the happiest among them? As concerned her own individual existence, she had long ago decided in the negative, and dismissed the point as settled. A tendency to speculation, though it may keep woman quiet, as it does man, yet makes her sad. She discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task before her. As a first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down, and built up anew. Then, the very nature of the opposite sex, or its long hereditary habit, which has become like nature, is to be essentially modified, before woman can be allowed to assume what seems a fair and suitable position. Finally, all other difficulties being obviated, woman cannot take advantage of these preliminary reforms, until she herself shall have undergone a still mightier change;..."
Spoilered for being less Women's-Liberation-Through-Socialist-Revolution!-ish but still pretty awesome
"...in which, perhaps, the ethereal essence, wherein she has her truest life, will be found to have evaporated. A woman never overcomes these problems by any exercise of thought. They are not to be solved, or only in one way. If her heart chance to come uppermost, they vanish. Thus, Hester Prynne, whose heart had lost its regular and healthy throb, wandered without a clew in the dark labyrinth of mind; now turned aside by an insurmountable precipice; now starting back from a deep chasm. There was wild and ghastly scenery all around her, and a home and comfort nowhere. At times, a fearful doubt strove to possess her soul, whether it were not better to send Pearl at once to heaven, and go herself to such futurity as Eternal Justice should provide."
Had an interesting conversation with the Nigerian Princess awhile ago that I have forgotten to write up until now:
I have no idea how it came up, but we were talking about catcalling, or street harassment if you prefer, and she said she was quite ambivalent about it. On the one hand, she said, when guys whistle at her or whatever, she gives them her "biznitchface." But, she added, as soon as they were gone she would smile because "You know, I must be looking good."
I told her that she had to stop sending mixed signals like that. "What do you mean?" she protested, "I don't send mixed signals, I glare at them."
"Yeah," I said, "but then you come back here and tell me and [Mr. Comrade] about it and then we go on the internet and tell everybody what you said. Stop perpetuating your own oppression, [Nigerian Princess]!"
Meanwhile, apparently, Mr. Comrade has been catcalled three times by black and/or brown girls since he has moved to Lowell.
Freehold DM wrote:
La Principessa is a communist activist of eight-years standing. Bigger, blacker, and if successful, beardier may all win you points in her favor, but she likes her men red.
Nothing to do with socialism, but some bedtime reading on La Principessa's part led to my discovery of
who was driven to suicide by state persecution for giving sex advice to turn of the last century Americans based upon her experiences making love with an angel.
Well, it's a little early to categorize La Principessa as a "mate," but:
At a comrade's house the night before Thanksgiving. Heavy flirtation occurred over a weekend full of Black Friday protests in front of the Wal-Mart and Ferguson solidarity rallies. Two weeks later, me and Mr. Comrade made a video at a victory rally for striking UE machinists, I catcalled La Principessa and put it on her Facebook page.
She's been mine ever since.
Went out to lunch with La Principessa, La Principessa's Single Mother Comrade and La Principessa's Single Mother Comrade's 7-Year-Old ADHD-Diagnosed Son and the latter, for no apparent reason whatsoever, called La Principessa "Big Bra."
Out of the mouths of babes, etc.
He also referred to me as "Big Belly" (shut up, brat!) and, much more worrisome, "Daddy."
Objectification of women is a terrible, terrible thing, as is societal pressure put upon them to make them conform to some Cosmo-approved standard of beauty.
La Principessa was telling me that she's been putting on weight and that it's all been going to her breasts and buttocks. In fact, she had to stop wearing her 32 DD brassieres and buy 32 DDD brassieres.
I told her it was okay.
Also, I've noticed that more women have been flirting with me ever since I met La Principessa. I'm sure there's a scientific explanation.
For example, beautiful mixed-race South African fashion designer who came to the Let the Fire Burn screening and with whom the Nigerian Princess instantly bonded over being hawt African chicks and having sexy accents.
Turns out her name is Antoinette. Dare I call her the Coloured Princess?
More Fun with Love and Stuff
So, essentially, La Principessa has been depressed since she lost her election. She was okay for the five days I was down there, but as soon as I left, she just kept running into crisis after crisis, and fell apart at each of them. But I thought she was making progress, because, you know, at least she wasn't being mean to me. Woo hoo!
That changed last night, though.
She was going on about every detail of her problems at work (she filed a grievance when her principal told her she had to teach a different grade next year even though she's the most senior eighth grade teacher in the department; he responded by writing her up on three different discipline charges, one which included eating a yogurt during the graduation practice ["professional misconduct"] and another was telling one of the other administrators that her principal was a sadist in the teacher's lounge ["insubordination"]). She kept jumping around, stream-of-consciousness-wise, and it was confusing to follow, so I asked a few questions and she got exasperated. So I stopped asking questions and just listened. She went on for another couple of minutes, then started talking to her dog, then trailed off. "Are you still there?" she asked and, apparently, didn't hear me when I said "Yes." She then got mad and started accusing me of not listening to her.
Well, there's only so much of this a goblin--even one in love--can take, you know? I've come to terms with the fact that depressives are, by nature, self-absorbed narcissists, and she only remembers to ask about how my life is going once or twice a week, while I have to listen to the minutiae of every step in the United Federation of Teachers grievance procedures, and then she accuses me of not listening?
So, I flared up a bit. She flared up even more. "Oh, well, maybe I'll talk to you when you're less pissy." "Oh, I'm the one who's pissy?" Etc., etc., etc. until I hung up on her.
Which started the dreaded barrage of La Principessa texts.
Now, I know I'm supposed to not engage and reassure and not return tit for tat, but, you know me, and the urge to bait is strong and sometimes I have to give in or else I'll go crazy. For your delectation, the texts:
LP: Just so you know, if i wanted to talk to myself, I could do it without calling you.
DJdD: What, you want to fight?
LP: No, but could you maybe make the tiniest effort to interact with me? Maybe signal me you're listening at all?
DJdD: Like when I asked what 310 was? Or who Laurie was? Or after you jumped from this morning to laurie as a witness to angela's letter and i asked a question and you got exasperated?
LP: More like when you forgot I'm spending my days around people who all think I'm a horrible psycho.
DJdD: I don't know what that means
LP: Whatever, I got to group [therapy] and was locked out and no one would come to the door so I left. Just leave me alone.
DJdD: You started this. You leave me alone.
[I think she composed the next one underground before she saw my response]
LP: Hope is completely pointless, as is trust. The world is ugly and I really don't see the point anymore. Just let me have some peace. I'm never going to get better and it will eventually just drive you insane. And make you cold. That's what I do.
LP: Fine. No problem at all.
DJdD: What are you talking about? Oh, that's right you want me to leave you alone, that's why you keep texting me.
LP: Wow. See, you're already a heartless bastard. That didn't take long.
DJdD: Yup, you really want to be left alone.
LP: Yeah, I f$ing do. But I'm glad you're enjoying ridiculing me.
DJdD: I'm a heartless bastard, remember?
LP: F*!% YOU.
DJdD: You did this.
LP: Blocking you on my phone. F!~@ you. I hope everyone I know does [sic] in a massive fire, including you.
DJdD: Well, i know how important getting the last word is to you. Block away.
I conferred a bit with Mr. Comrade and the Nigerian Princess, who were over for the second half of it, trying to get me to come out and do fun stuff with them. I told them I wouldn't be good company and was just going to sit in the dark and seethe until she came around. Mr. Comrade smoked me up and then I felt better and then they left and then I watched American Hustle, which wasn't very good, I thought, but some aspects of Jennifer Lawrence's character kept reminding me of La Principessa, and then I went to bed.
Woke up this morning to find that she had sent me an e-mail at midnight saying she was sorry and that blocking me was her sick way of protecting me from her and that she was never going to get better and I deserved someone better than her. So I wrote back asking if that meant she didn't want me to die in a massive fire after all and then she called me and then I made her laugh by telling her that the reason there was an ASPCA vehicle in her usual parking spot was that her Lab had ratted her out because she wasn't getting taken to the park often enough, further extrapolated a tale about an Underground Railroad of neglected dogs throughout Brooklyn and, run, baby, run, they're coming for you!
"Ha ha ha! Oh, baby, I love you...."
I know it's probably stereotypically narcissistically male, but I think she needs to have sex with me more often. Thankfully, today's the last day of school and she's got two months off.
Got another vacation coming up which will consist of a trip to Brooklyn, so I better finish A Game of Thrones before I get down there. Hence, I'm putting aside Brackett for a while and focusing exclusively on Hardy.
There's a really nice grassy hill outside of work that I've started frequenting. Get to work an hour or two early, smoke a bowl, sit on the hill, wait for La Principessa to call and then read a book. Yesterday, since La Principessa never called, I read chapters XXVIII-XXX and they made me cry over and over. My love and Tess are very different people and have very different problems, but it was kinda like Hardy had peered through a telescope into the future and was writing a description of La Principessa. I bet she would've made a great milkmaid.
Anyway, I was totally rooting for Angel Claire, then I finished "Part the Fourth" and peeked a couple of pages ahead and I am no longer and now I say f~&* that douchebag! but my opinion might change as I keep reading.
Nigerian Princess as she and Mr. Comrade get ready to go see the Anglo-Ibo singer Nneka:
"I haven't met a white American male who dresses well yet."
Mr. Comrade as he puts on a dress shirt and a pair of shoes that don't have holes:
"What about me?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter, I love you, baby."
The details escape me at the moment, but, recently, a female acquaintance complained that she thought her partner was going to be a better lover because he had read Castaneda. Yeah, I told her, I don't think that's what Don Juan is about. Haven't read the Acid Test since high school. Should probably re-read it.
Anyway, I'm a little terrified of the red inscription across the messageboards home page and worried that, come next Tuesday, I will no longer be able to post on these boards due to computer illiteracy. In case that is true, I love all of you and will miss you dearly and I have started reading Tess.
Love Among the Commie Nerds
I could give a detailed account of my adventures with Game of Thrones but I'll just leave it at she has started calling me "My sun and stars" and I have taken to calling her "Moon of my life" even though I haven't seen/heard either of those epithets yet.
When I (thought I) was too exhausted to keep doing it, I would insist that we stop watching Game of Thrones. She would then put on Buffy the Vampire Slayer which didn't help at all, just led to me calling her "My wicked black plum" and her demanding that I bite her harder.
Anyway, across town, (well, three states away) Mr. Comrade and the Nigerian Princess were fooling around in his mother's trailer, watching Panther. She was fiddling about with his genitalia, when Huey P. Newton started giving a speech. Mr. Comrade was thrilled to watch as she got less and less interested in sex and more and more interested in Huey's rhetoric, and stopped touching him until the scene was over.
"It was pretty exciting," he commented later, "Almost as exiciting as sex."
Before I decided on Martin, I was gonna read Tess to make her happy, but then thought up the Westeros drinking game. Never read any Hardy before.
Man, this thread keeps exposing glaring holes in my education...
I omitted the part where she requested a "too creepy, pass" proviso.
Anyway, she sent me a message earlier today about shopping online for the pattern to the dress Daenerys (or whatever) wears throughout Season something or other.
Lengthy Backstory That's Just a (Possibly Boring) Summation of Stuff I've Already Posted Before
About 2002, 2003, somewhere around then, in Boston, The Black Goblin's Wicked Hawt Parsi girlfriend was going on and on about these great books she was reading, A Song of Ice and Fire, but how the author was taking way too much time in between each book. She was quite frustrated and the subject came up, time and time again, about this writer, George R.R. Martin, and how he was "being a wicked dick" to his readers. I was intrigued, because she was so emotionally attached, but wary, because, you know, I don't need that kind of hassle in my life. I decided that I wouldn't read them until the series was done or Mr. Martin shuffled off this mortal coil, which, of course, I hope never happens.
Fast forward a bunch of years and me and The Black Goblin find our way back from Boston to New Hampshire. The HBO show comes out and I maintain my vow. The Black Goblin buys the first season on DVD. He watches the whole thing; I refuse to watch even a minute. He finishes and promptly starts watching it again with a roommate (my Tattoo Artist Former Player-Turned-Dungeon Master). I refuse to watch even one minute. He finishes and promptly starts watching it again with a different roommate (Buddhist Monk Former Player Whom I Haven't Seen in a While). I break down and watch the first episode. Am blown away.
(Parenthetically, watching the first season of Game of Thrones three times in a row had a deleterious effect on The Black Goblin. He bought a Westeros cookbook and started drinking a lot of mulled wine. Speaking of winters, that one around the D&D table was terrible.)
Anyway, I run home, dig my copy of A Game of Thrones that I had bought for a quarter at the East Boston Public Library donations bin out of a box and read the first half in 24 or so hours before I finally get a hold of myself, throw the book across the room, and maintained my vow. I did, however, watch the first half of the season up to where I stopped reading.
Fast forward a bit more and I start going out with La Principessa. She keeps going on and on about how I have to read A Song of Ice and Fire. I tell her about my vow. She doesn't care. She keeps telling me about this article* my Independent Maoist-Inclined Red Historian Rival for Her Affections (Since Vanquished) has written, and if I won't read them and talk to her about them, I guess she'll have to talk to somebody about them... (She really, really relishes this game of trying to drive me insane with jealousy, but doesn't respond at all well when I tell her about how I bought a copy of The Land of Oz for a female comrade in Boston a couple of months before I met her, and how happy that female comrade was, how she brightened up when I handed it to her and...Baby, put that down! Why are you so angry? She doesn't mean anything to me, I love you, baby!)
Spoilered for Disgusting Goblin Sexiness
Anyway, I was trying to figure out what to read after The Whispering Swarm and realized that I was going down to Brooklyn this coming weekend, so I call up La Principessa:
"Hey, baby, I was thinking, you want me to read A Song of Ice and Fire so we can watch the tv show together, right?"
"Okay, well, I'm thinking that I'll start reading them now and we can start watching the first season this weekend."
"You will? Yay!!!!"
"Yeah, and I was thinking...you know, I was thinking we could play a, kind of like, a drinking game while we watched the show..."
"A drinking game? Hmm, well, I'm sure there must be all kinds of Game of Thrones drinking games on the internet..."
"Well, not really a drinking game, just kind of like a drinking game..."
"What do you mean?"
"I was thinking that we could watch the show and, you know, stop everytime they have sex and, uh, have sex."
After a 20-second pause, "I like this idea."
"Yeah? I was thinking that, you know, we could stop when they were having sex and do whatever they're doing on the screen."
She involuntarily makes a sound that is half-moan/half-gasp and says "Baby, I really like this idea."
"Yeah?" "Yeah." "Where are we going to get a little person?"
She laughs. "Well, his sex scenes are mostly just him in bed with giggling prostitutes..."
"Baby, I can't wait!"
Worth breaking my vow for, I think.
Anyway, I made a joke about posting about it on the FB page of My Independent Maoist-Inclined Red Historian Rival for La Principessa's Affections (Since Vanquished) and she said "What have I told you? Facebook is public. You can't talk about our private lives in public." She must have heard my frown through the phone because she then added, "But I don't care if you want to tell all your little friends on Paizo."
Have been watching all of 30 Rock on and off with La Principessa over the past few months. Came to the realization that Liz Lemon is a scrubbed-up, made-for-TV version of La Principessa with all of her problems made cuter.
In fact, had a dream the other night that I was in the middle of a messy break-up with Liz Lemon. Told La Principessa about it and she was delighted. "I like Liz Lemon!" Hope that doesn't make me Dennis Duffy...
We're working on it.
After I took back being adamant about not moving to New York, she agreed to consider thinking about not being adamant above not leaving New York.
Anyway, she went back to her expensive, non-insurance covered behavioral therapy to learn how to deal with her anger management and other emotional outbursts, so, you know, she's trying.
Love Among the Commie Nerds
Had a pretty bad fight with La Principessa. She got some text messages from the increasingly spiraling out-of-control, manipulative, conniving and desperate Mrs. Comrade ("I know we haven't been close lately" yeah, after you drove her away back in January, you crazy psychopath! "but I thought I should tell you I don't like the way [Doodlebug] and [Mr. Comrade] talk about you, etc.") which led to her writing an e-mail letter which wasn't very nice to which I responded with an e-mail letter that wasn't very nice and in which I told her I didn't want to move to New York. We break up.
Full fury of La Principessa is unleashed, on-and-off, for the next 48 hours. Anyway, at one point she starts going on about "You shouldn't tell people you'll always be there, you shouldn't tell them you'll love them forever, you shouldn't lie to people like that!!!! [Cries]"
It was pretty terrible, lemme tell you. Anyway, I go to go play D&D to get my mind off of shiznit and the Druids Council tells me that there is a bear cub at the local zoo who sounds like a good candidate for animal companionship.
So, The Mad Hermit goes down to the zoo, scopes it out and concocts a plan. It was a great plan. I cast charm animal, got into the bear cage, made friends with the cub, we dug a hole and I hid in the bear cage all night nuzzling with the cub. Next morning, the zookeeper comes into the monkey cage next door. The Mad Hermit from his hidden vantage point, casts entangle on the zookeeper. He makes his saving throw. "Wtf?!?" I cast charm animal on one of the monkeys to get him to steal the zookeeper's keys. The monkey makes his saving throw and flings poo at me.
My beautiful plan foiled, I decide to give up on the bear cub and release her from animal companionship. The DM, not having any idea what's going on in my personal life, says "Really, you spent all that time bonding with the cub, becoming companions for life, and now you're just going to walk away?" I start sobbing. The Black Goblin, who does know what's going on, puts his hand on my shoulder. The Mad Hermit keeps walking and the DM decides to twist the knife. "As you pass a couple of zookeepers, you can see on their clipboards that the bear cub is scheduled to be put down later in the day." I flip out, attack the zookeepers, the zookeepers tase me and throw me in an offal ditch.
I come to hours later, make my way to the meeting place where I am supposed to meet the rest of the party, covered in poo, and make a grand entrance, flinging feces all over the place as I gesticulate wildly and tell the party members that they have to follow me to the zoo. They demur. I seethe. The DM lays out the whole exposition and backstory for the adventure, but I can't listen, I am obsessed with this bear cub who, my THC-addled mind is now convinced, is a metaphor for my relationship with La Principessa.
I bide my time impatiently, until the DM starts talking about some symbols that might provide a clue to the plot. The Mad Hermit pipes up, "I've seen that symbol!" "Where?" ask the PCs and the exposition-giving NPCs. "At the zoo in the bear cage! Let's go!"
Eventually, we get down there and the Mad Hermit surprises the rest of the party by suckerpunching the first zookeeper we run into and stealing his keys. More zookeepers assemble and I push the dwarven fighter at them and yell "Look out, he's got a knife!" The zookeepers pull out their tasers.
A ridiculous combat breaks out where the party, all good, agents of the church, whatever, are trying to prevent the zookeepers from tasing them, but refuse to strike back. Meanwhile, The Mad Hermit is ignoring the melee and trying to break into the bear cage. I get in. The older bears don't like what's going on, so the dwarven cleric of nature has to intervene to prevent me from getting mauled. I free the bear. I try getting it to flee the zoo with me, but the DM points out that I had already released it from animal companionship and it no longer wants to be my friend!
The Mad Hermit starts sobbing, falls on his knees before the bear cub and cries out "Francesca!" The Black Goblin says, "Ohmygod, do you want me to punch you in the face?" which I guess is New England Teamsterspeak for "I am sorry you are in pain and will do my best to support you." The Mad Hermit is pleading with the bear cub, crying, "Please come with me Francesca, please come with me." The bear cub bites the Mad Hermit and drops him to -3 hp. I start crying. "Let the Mad Hermit die! He doesn't deserve Francesca's love!" The dwarven cleric heals him anyway.
Later, I have to explain my behavior to the DM and apologize for ruining the session, tell him what's going on with La Principessa; the DM is aghast.
Next day, more terrible back-and-forth on the phone with La Principessa which leaves me wailing on the kitchen floor like a wounded animal before she repents and starts sending apologetic text messages which leads to reconciliation. She calls after I get out of work, I'm feeling better, tell her the story about The Mad Hermit and the bear cub. I'm laughing a little as I tell the story, but she starts crying and says "I'm so sorry, baby, I don't want to hurt you anymore! [Sobs] I love you! [Sobs]"
I think we're back together.
I'm sorry to hear that, son. Your mother was an extraordinary woman.
[Ends up wallowing in Declan MacManus instead]
Been a while since I listened to This Year's Model. Damn, that's a fine album.
Have spoken with her all of twenty minutes since Wednesday night. It's weird. Usually I have to recharge my phone every day, but not since Wednesday. Hmmm.
A couple of Facebook messages, including one of her saying "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" is the co-dependent's anthem.
I don't know what she's talking about. "To die by your side, well the pleasure, the privilege is mine."
Maintained radio silence for 35 hours before breaking down and sending her a quick message about how sad I was and how I hoped she was doing well.
Got this back in return:
I'm okay, but it changes nearly hourly. The only thing that makes me feel slightly better is not dragging you into this.
I know it's making you sad, and I'm sorry. But sometimes we have to do things that hurt to get to better things. I need to stop hurting, and I finally feel like I can make some progress without the crushing guilt of bringing you into the pain and watching you slowly unravel.
We will talk soon. I just need this time. I love you.
My resolve is already crumbling, comrades. I knew stat-dumping my Wisdom (6) would come back to bite me in the ass...
What our Glorious Empire-Building Forebears liked to relax with at the end of a long day shooting people browner than themselves was a rollicking tale of spanking 'n' incest, going by that and other similar books I've read. Make of that what you will.
Sounds more intriguing than Horatio Alger novels and Natty Bumpo stories...
Patrick Curtin wrote:
I showed it to La Principessa when she was up here. She blushed, then laughed, then shared it with all of her friends on Facebook.
Didn't stop her from doing it two days later, though...
(Once again, thank you, comrades.)
But, but, but....love!
Alright, so now my obstinate contrarian side is acting up and somebody better make a case for doing whatever it takes to keep her or else I'll be applying at UPS in Queens come Monday.
Here are the last three texts she sent last night before commencing "taking a break."
[Types out for catharsis]
I love you. Please don't be torn up inside. I know this is the only way I can save this. It's just a few days for me not to think about heavy things. I just need a break. It's been an awful few weeks.
I'm afraid I'll keep snapping and snapping and wear you down until you can't take anymore. And I haven't been able to stop lashing out. I'm still a little hurt and angry from that other night--but much angrier at myself than you. I'm backsliding really fast and I have to catch myself.
And you're not doing great, baby. Nervously humming when I'm freaking out is a bad sign. Don't come down this spiral with me. I may need you up there to reach in and grab me sometimes.
We can make this work!!!!
[Collapses sobbing on the floor]