I'm wondering when do I stop settling and start making demands?
I don't know where that thought just sprung from but I do know exactly what I mean.
Here's an example:
Dan is addicted to his computer. Each morning, there may be a shower or a shave, maybe even some teeth brushing, but there is always the loving, delicate packing of his laptop into his bag before we head off to work.
You should see the careful motions he makes when wrapping the power cord and sheathing the laptop. It's never like how I do mine, where I haphazardly grab up the cord and jam it in my purse, wedging my computer in at any random angle. It usually thumps and thuds several times before settling in amongst my cell phone, keys, and Diet Coke bottle. Dan would never put a liquid near his computer. Never. I don't even blink at it.
At work he runs data and makes code do things that code should do and he talks about it with his co-workers and he beams about it to me on the phone or even in person. He tries hard to express how impressive this particular snippet of letters and numbers and symbols is. His words come out in droves, piling up one on top of the other like piglets trying desperately to douse themselves headfirst in their first trough-full of ground up corn shavings and pickle juice. His words are that luscious, that fragrant, that overwhelming, all about his code. Meanwhile, I'm on the spitting end getting this piglet gunk of code love all over me, and not only does it make very little sense, but at the beginning, middle or end of any of my days, his code stories are of very little interest to me, if not very much annoyance. If I'm feeling sporting, I'll listen and try to ask questions that make me seem like I'm trying to understand this beautiful and spiritual thing that is code. I'll be very good about not looking out the window or turning up the radio. But that's only if I'm feeling nice about it. Most days, I tune it out altogether or do the above mentioned things or 0ust settle in for a hypothetical thought about what if I were rollerskating to this song and I were really good and I joined a team. Then, of course, there are the worst days when I'm tired or upset or just sulky, and then I don't want to hear about anything that has to do with the meaningless drivel that is gushing out the wide, code-shaped hole in his heart. Of course, then I don't mince words, at the first utterance of PHP or CSS or whothefuckcares I tell him just that, "Who the fuck cares, Dan. I don't even know what you're talking about. I'm sure it's very interesting to you, but I just don't care." And then I'm the bitch of course. I'm the cunt I'm known to be in less than two seconds.
But I'm going to defend myself here because the point is I'm damn tired of feeling bad for being second to an inanimate object and its inanimate creations, inanimate fucking charms. Blah-blah-blah this is such typical girl bullshit where I feel like my husband has no time for me, but I'm sorry all people I am paranoid of judgment from, my husband isn't out saving lives or fighting fires or killing Iraqis or making millions of dollars for himself and others; he's out there pushing data around a call center and making the most menial of tasks more menial and 10 minutes less time consuming for the retard that gets paid 10 bucks an hour to do them. My dear's great passion, his #1, amounts to very little in his hands these days, and yet I'm second fiddle to it whenever the choice arises. I'm second to the program that randomly generates a birth date or a name or an expiration date for a credit card number. How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel?
So, let's talks about home. While he’s at work I can't really blame him for being into his job. I'm into my job; hell, I dedicate off hours and weekends to my job. But when I get home, even when I'm in my hotel far from home, I'm still thinking Dan. Where's my #1 and what's he up to? So the part that hates me for everything I am says, "Wow you're clingy and pathetic. You need to get a life. What a typical clingy, wifey you are." Yeah, it disgusts me. I wish I couldn’t give a shit. I wish I could put him second to something, anything. Religion, family, my dog, my car, my job, my health, anything. I've tried to do it. I've tried with writing, but writing and I have our own special relationship, and I really can't force that, so the only other thing that I could possibly care as much or more forced me into playing by its terms. But for Dan it's so simple to disconnect from me. He walks through the door after work, usually before me unless he condescends to let me pick him up, and goes through a similar ritual, except now he’s lovingly unpacking, loving unwinding. No, he doesn't come home and do work. He comes home and stumbles from web site to web site, with no goal in particular than finding something mildly amusing. More amusing than I could ever be. More amusing than any alive person could ever be.
Sometimes he does more productive things, like play World of Warcraft. This is a role-playing game where he can pretend to be a superhero with a different name and appearance and do all sorts of super cool super awesome super totally rad quests that make him the super greatest person on the fake earth. Let me just put in perspective for you right now. My husband would rather spend time pretending to be someone else in world that has never and will never exist than spend time with me. I'm #2 to even his fake life.
So where does that leave me? Frustrated. All the time. Lonely. All the time. Annoyed. All the time. I hate myself more because I find myself to be so utterly uninteresting to my husband. Fuck! I'm saying it: I'm not pretty enough or smart enough or cool enough or interesting enough to demand more interest than a 600 dollars worth of metal and plastic and a fake life.
But I try to be so good about it. Because I try to talk to him, and I've tried to walk away, and I've tried to be nice and be mean and be fake, and some work better than others so that for maybe even two or three weeks it's better. I feel like I've climbed the ladder, like I've taken space 1 back from all that un-aliveness. But after those weeks, it all goes back to normal. Back to how it should never be, and I am running out, have run out possibly, of things to try and to say, without resorting to bowing out for good.
So at this moment there's only one more thing left to say to him, left to ask him: "Why don't you ever talk about me, like you talk about code? Why don't you ever take care of me, like you take care of your computer? Why don't you ever look forward to me, like you look forward to your fake life?"
I know his answer: silence. And then I have to drop it or go from zero to cunt in 2 seconds. Ultimately, achieving nothing every time.
Cooked alive, Les Matter.