Monday, January 19, 2015

From Apartment 21

The snow is piling up outside and the bills are piling up on my coffee table.

The pipe on the second floor has burst and the water is staining one of the walls in my living room.

The smell of weed is permeating my apartment from the air vents. Probably the burnouts on the third floor, but I'm not about to go look.

Today is the day I get to sit around and not do anything and just feel sorry for myself. It's my and Ted's anniversary.

I pull a bottle of wine out of the fridge and a pint of Ben & Jerry's half-baked from the freezer and make my way to the couch. I stare at the pile of bills on the table, willing them to disappear but knowing that they won't. In a moment of fury, I send them scattering across the room.

I can't do anything. My trust fund is running out and my job doesn't pay hardly anything. This isn't the bills' fault, though. This has Ted written all over it.

When we moved in together, in May 2010, I stupidly agreed to open up a joint bank account with him. He spent over half of it on drugs and TVs and pool tables and even strippers one weekend, I spent close to the rest of it bailing him out of jail or paying lawyers' fees. Oh, and I bought him a damn car for his 30th birthday. A damn Range Rover.

When I think about why, the first conclusion I came to was love. I was so in love with him that I was completely blinded to what he was. But I don't think that was it. I think I just wanted someone to need me, to rely on me. I thought that the fact that he needed me meant he loved me. I was that dumb.

The pipe burst continues to drip, drip, drip down my wall. My face is wet with tears and I curse, silently. I'm weak. And I have a terribly foul mouth for a lady. I can't fit anywhere right.

By the time I break out of my thoughts, the bottle of wine and the pint are both half gone. If I can't find the answer to all my problems at the bottom of this bottle, it's gotta be at the bottom of the next one.