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Authors: Mark Henry
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Toward Wendy. “You’re still working.”
“It’s hard being a celebrity. I thought you were on board.”
“You’re not really a celebrity, Amanda. You just want to be. You let it cloud your vision. It blinds you to the real important stuff.” Scott shook his head slowly, his jaw tightening. “Either way, I’m not a fan, Amanda. I’m your boyfriend.”
“I totally value you, Scott.”
“Oh yeah? How, exactly?” He waited.
It was one of those moments where your life passes before your eyes. Only these snapshots were select. Ones I’m not particularly proud of. As per usual, they showed up in clear undeniable list format (damn it)…
I left Scott sitting at the Well of Souls to meet Wendy for a photo op at Gangrene, the new slam poetry/art space in Ballard (which is awesome by the way), then totally forgot about him once we started talking to Gilles St. John, who promised to paint me slathered in caviar or some other egg, I couldn’t remember just then.
Or the time he brought home dinner in the form of a recently released sex offender (who was totally against the idea of treatment) and ended up having to sit there putting up with the guy’s chronic attempts at masturbation while I mingled on a dinner cruise with Karkaroff and her demonic team of lawyers.
Then there was the night I picked up the phone, with Scott in mid-thrust. Though, in my defense, it was an important tip on a clandestine red carpet event.
What I remembered most about all of my assaults against our relationship was Scott’s response. He accepted them. He didn’t complain. Always the one to reach out to me. Which lead me to the following conclusion: I was the asshole.
Damn.
“Okay. So I haven’t been very attentive to you.”
“That’s an understatement.” Scott zipped up the tote and charged for the door.
“But you never said anything, Scott. You just let it build up? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I shouldn’t have to mention that I’d like to be treated like a person. Like someone you care about.” He stormed from the room.
“Have you been reading Cosmo ?” I called after him, attempting an inappropriate joke. If Ethel taught me anything it was to have absolutely no clue what to say to mend a hurt.
Scott dropped his bag on the couch next to Mr. Kim and turned around. Honey and the Jonas Brother backed into the pantry.
“Yeah,” he said, sarcastically. “And they got you nailed, Amanda. Dead to rights. You’re a commitment-phobe.”
“I am not—”
“You can drop back to your old standby of blaming your mother for all your problems, but at some point you’re going to have to take some responsibility for ruining a good thing here.”
I think my mouth was open. I couldn’t find the words to fight back. And, damn it, Scott was right. But then, before I could agree, he said, “We’re done,” snatched his overnight bag off the couch and stomped out the door.
Mr. Kim stared at the TV, which didn’t happen to be on. Wendy simply shook her head and pointed at me, accusingly, I thought.
“Shut up,” I barked.
“No. You’ve got a…thing.”
I followed her cringing stare down to my leg. A strip of skin hung off my ankle and trailed across the carpet like a wet streamer, a line of rotting gore snaked from the bedroom. Wendy dug in her purse and extracted a bottle of leather repair kit and a Band-Aid. She heaved her shoulders sympathetically.
“Ugh,” I groaned. “Goddamn dew claws.”
CHANNEL 05
Thursday
9:00–10:00 P.M.
Jersey Devil House Party
Satana wins the ability to take her muscle boy for a stroll and discovers the horrifying truth about why he’s in chains. Jersey gets cozy with the feisty Miss Rickets and is left with an itch for a little bloody merriment.
South Park was one of our favorite breakfast spots, a small neighborhood south of the city, quiet, if you didn’t mind gunfire, and known for the plentiful and hearty Mexican food…also restaurants, but that’s beside the
“It’s hard being a celebrity. I thought you were on board.”
“You’re not really a celebrity, Amanda. You just want to be. You let it cloud your vision. It blinds you to the real important stuff.” Scott shook his head slowly, his jaw tightening. “Either way, I’m not a fan, Amanda. I’m your boyfriend.”
“I totally value you, Scott.”
“Oh yeah? How, exactly?” He waited.
It was one of those moments where your life passes before your eyes. Only these snapshots were select. Ones I’m not particularly proud of. As per usual, they showed up in clear undeniable list format (damn it)…
I left Scott sitting at the Well of Souls to meet Wendy for a photo op at Gangrene, the new slam poetry/art space in Ballard (which is awesome by the way), then totally forgot about him once we started talking to Gilles St. John, who promised to paint me slathered in caviar or some other egg, I couldn’t remember just then.
Or the time he brought home dinner in the form of a recently released sex offender (who was totally against the idea of treatment) and ended up having to sit there putting up with the guy’s chronic attempts at masturbation while I mingled on a dinner cruise with Karkaroff and her demonic team of lawyers.
Then there was the night I picked up the phone, with Scott in mid-thrust. Though, in my defense, it was an important tip on a clandestine red carpet event.
What I remembered most about all of my assaults against our relationship was Scott’s response. He accepted them. He didn’t complain. Always the one to reach out to me. Which lead me to the following conclusion: I was the asshole.
Damn.
“Okay. So I haven’t been very attentive to you.”
“That’s an understatement.” Scott zipped up the tote and charged for the door.
“But you never said anything, Scott. You just let it build up? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I shouldn’t have to mention that I’d like to be treated like a person. Like someone you care about.” He stormed from the room.
“Have you been reading Cosmo ?” I called after him, attempting an inappropriate joke. If Ethel taught me anything it was to have absolutely no clue what to say to mend a hurt.
Scott dropped his bag on the couch next to Mr. Kim and turned around. Honey and the Jonas Brother backed into the pantry.
“Yeah,” he said, sarcastically. “And they got you nailed, Amanda. Dead to rights. You’re a commitment-phobe.”
“I am not—”
“You can drop back to your old standby of blaming your mother for all your problems, but at some point you’re going to have to take some responsibility for ruining a good thing here.”
I think my mouth was open. I couldn’t find the words to fight back. And, damn it, Scott was right. But then, before I could agree, he said, “We’re done,” snatched his overnight bag off the couch and stomped out the door.
Mr. Kim stared at the TV, which didn’t happen to be on. Wendy simply shook her head and pointed at me, accusingly, I thought.
“Shut up,” I barked.
“No. You’ve got a…thing.”
I followed her cringing stare down to my leg. A strip of skin hung off my ankle and trailed across the carpet like a wet streamer, a line of rotting gore snaked from the bedroom. Wendy dug in her purse and extracted a bottle of leather repair kit and a Band-Aid. She heaved her shoulders sympathetically.
“Ugh,” I groaned. “Goddamn dew claws.”
CHANNEL 05
Thursday
9:00–10:00 P.M.
Jersey Devil House Party
Satana wins the ability to take her muscle boy for a stroll and discovers the horrifying truth about why he’s in chains. Jersey gets cozy with the feisty Miss Rickets and is left with an itch for a little bloody merriment.
South Park was one of our favorite breakfast spots, a small neighborhood south of the city, quiet, if you didn’t mind gunfire, and known for the plentiful and hearty Mexican food…also restaurants, but that’s beside the
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