My Psycho Girlfriend

My Girlfriend. That is what she calls herself.

I call her a place to stay in Midtown Manhattan after an all night party when I am too tired to wait at Penn Station for the morning train, want a bed (or couch) to sleep in, and eat food.

All the negative things I hear men say about psycho girlfriends are encompassed in this woman.
All except for the fact that she has not yet cut my dick off with a knife. She is not that evil, nor am I that provoking of such wrath. Frankly, I'm a  marshmallow, a softie, but I do call her on insanity, which is apparently the WRONG  thing to do when you are trying to be in good graces with the insane.

Yah, I make mistakes. Call me Dr. Obvious.
marsh
Thursday night, I was going to a PsyTrance party in East Village, NYC. I got a call from GF, and the chat went nice, I told her what I was up to, and told her I had a bit to drink, which she doesn't approve of (she likes crack cocaine better, because she used to be an alcoholic) so I was honest. She asked if she could go with me. This rather surprising so I figured (correctly) she must be smoking crack.

She hugged and kissed me, dressed nice, with my fashion design help, and looked like a little rock chic.  We took the subway - a surpise, because she's a limo-cab type of gal, and once there, the first thing she wanted was to cop some drugs. I wanted to dance. I had on my black/white checkered skinnyjean pants, wife-beater sleevless skank shirt, trippy fedora with headlamp and feathers, and some silly wrisband bling. So we looked the part, her in a low cut short leather dress, and pourghpie style black straw hat. I mean, we were the part and parcel of party, right?

And because people know me, I got VIP status and walked in front of the line, no ID, no bag check, AND I was on the list, so I got discount tickets for both of us.

I was not 5 minutes down to the Psycheground that I met friends. Lia, Neff, Ron-K, and others. Some people just came up and hugged me - I assume they were stoned or on X or something, hey, a hug is a hug and I'll take that anyday! Nobody knew GF, of course, she's twice their age and barely goes out even to shop, but didn't look it at the time, so all is good.  I had given her a glowstick to fuck between her titties, so that was cool. But the whole thing with her was 'where can I get some cookies?' as in crack. I wanted to get a Mollly. Some dipshit offered MDNA, I dip my finger in a baggie and run it over my gums. Yah right. What the fuck. She did it too. Nothing. Nada. But I danced, she sat. I hugged, she sat. I yelled and whooped, she sat. So after a bit, I sat, hugged her, and sat next to her, and kept near her, you know, like a boyfriend would do.

I gave her comfort in the confusing storm of young sweat and womp womp womp ( pause) DROP the bass FOOOMMM!.

It was just so much brain jiggling noise to her, but I expected that. She's a '60's music chic.

Oooookayyyy. We go back upstars to the street, and she's still trying to cop a hit. Whatever. We decide to go, but we gots no money left! Well, I do have lots of cred on my MTA card, but she needs to take a cab. We get a cab. He drives us home. She wants to ditch it. She runs. I run, but my foot hurts so bad I can't run. I try and hide, but I do it very badly because I'm drunk and quite out of breath, and my fucking foot HURTS! Cabbie finds me, confronts me, so I...

I do the right thing. 

I give him my debit card, and tell him I doubt it will go through. I know my balance is low. I apologise for running, it was GF's idea  (yah, lay blame, silly Leland, you went with it) and Gods be praised, it went through. I am absolved.

I stumble home, remember, my foot really does hurt, I am not making this up, and we get home, to GF's place, in Sutton Place Midtown manhattan with a cute little Shitzu, artwork, food, drink... bed, covers, excuses all gone comfort.

We talk, drink the rest of my alcohol  (which I am not supposed to have in the place)  with GFand then we go to bed. No sex, we actually don't do that. For reasons I cannot explain because I don't know either.

Apparently I talk in my sleep. As it is recounted to me, I am hilarious, talking in different voices, talking to my father... I know nothing of this, I don't even remember dreaming, which I often do.

I wish I had set my phone on 'record' and someday I will capture this, it will provide me hours, if not minutes of amusement.

Next day is sweet, except toward the end, where she gets more and more nervous headachey, and crushes up pills of Hydromorphone into powder and then snorts from a rolled up dollar, just like cocaine. Mirror, razor blade and all. Okay, makes her happy, whatever.

Then starts the insanity. From room to room, taking something from here, putting it there. A towel, windex washing walls, parts of the door, the dog's ass, then the frame of her bed, and part of the TV, then realizing what she's done, laughs it off. Offers a blowjob for me if I keep my hurting foot on some pillows, then goes wandering off int other rooms, to move things from one place to another. while I try to sleep. I can't. She's asking my why things keep appearing on Facebook she dosen't like.

OH MY FUCKING GOD! THE DOG PEED ON THE FLOOR!

So the pee must be cleaned up, out comes the cleaning supplies, out comes the mop, and mop she does, the living room where the pee is, the dining room, the kitchen, the bedroom. Not once. Not twice. Three.. FOUR times (and this is where I call her a bit insane, and she does not cut my dick off with a knife but explains how things MUST be CLEAN, and then once again, I savor the fact that my dear penis is still intact, and cover my head in pillows, and blankets. while she bangs around the kitchen cleaning dishes I don't believe were left in the sink. This goes on for a while.

She comes over, at 4:30 am, kinda sweet and shows me some fake pearls that look nice, and starts to explain (again, I've heard this story) and since I'm tired, and cranky, I say Thank You, and go into the living room couch with the big feather tic to go to sleep, and then the haranguing begins.

"ALL YOU WANT TO DO IS SLEEP, THAT'S ALL YOU FUCKING DO HERE IS EAT AND SLEEP WHILE I'M ON MY KNEES CLEANING AND SCRUBBING, AND CLEANING UP AFTER YOU! YOU ARE A PIG! ALL I DO IS CLEAN UP AFTER YOU!"

What can I do? I apologise, and get up, make some coffee and roll us some cigarettes.  Okay, it's calm for now. We talk a bit. More wandering on her part, so I go back to sleep while she shuffles papers into piles. Moves clothes from one closet to another. Asks me where her debit card went. (It's in your wallet, I put it there).  Then the Vacuum cleaner comes out again. She brushes the walls, the table parts of the floor, the couch, my privates (under the feather tic), and now that she has my attention she lifts her shirt and shows me her sagging boobies (which I really don't mind at all, boobies are nice, sagging or not) smiles at me and then goes on about her floor suckage.

I cannot sleep, really, I pass out, but only for brief.

It is morning, and now time to CLEAN UP THIS PLACE, get it ready, because people are coming to buy the artwork and give her money, or so she believes and tries to convince me.

I am not convinced,  and for good reason. I do not need to explain the reason at this point, you know?

Next day, I get a list of Aetna approved doctors - General practitioners, Rheumatoid Specialists, Psychiatrists, and Pain management doctors. She's trying to 'get better'. I copy all this down in her datebook from the Aetna rep who is very patient and informative.

She is very grateful, and very loving, so sweet (no sex, just nice). I am an angel. I am the Burning Man. I have that power, that influence, I am special. Yah, I'm so fucking special

We go the next morning, late because she can't decide what to wear, even with my expert coaching... and truth be told she looks great like an orange sorbet with orange purse, white pants, orange and white striped shirt, with an orange undershirt and big floppy hat, white rimmed sunglasses... she's midtown stylish! Damn, I dressed her well.

We get to the doctors office, and damn she can't fill in the forms because I picked out the wrong seeing glasses for her. Nevermind that she has had NO sleep for the last five days... none... never mind that she's still high on snorting hydromorphone.. She gets frequent bouts of 30 seconds of narcolepsy, luckily not while dodging traffic, which she does with abandon... (please will someone run her over and put her out of her misery?)

So she gets in 45 minutes late, and then finds out the doctor not only closes in a half hour, but cannot prescribe the drugs she wants - on the spot, is what she wants - but cannot do it without a referral. Begging ensues. Doctor wants to go home. More begging ensues. Explanations of stuff that has nothing to DO with her condition at the moment, other doctors have prescribed this, here are the bottles of pills, (yes, she brought them) and that is all the PROOF that is needed... in her mind, if it has been done before, any doctor should do it for her right now, with only this. The doctor goes on to explain procedure, but that has nothing to do with the reality of GF who is begging for drugs, while explaining again and again she is not just looking to get drugs.

Ummm.  yah.

She gets pissed off at me, because I have found that I have enough money in my bank account to get home - 20.95 dollars. I should get her ice cream. And pads for her dog to pee on. And a meal from a restaurant. I try and explain that this is the only money to get me home. She opens a can of whoop ass on me that I am the stingiest cheapest person she has ever met, (every time I go to her place I end up spending all my money, however meager it is, on her crack habit, or food) and tells me I'm a drunk and I sleep all the time and I'm a total fuck up, worthless piece of shit that is just abusing her, and I should just take all my stuff and get the fuck out.

I agree. I am using her. I come here with little money, I give it all to her, but it is not enough, and I try and cook for her, walk her dog, clean her apartment - but not enough to her specification, because I am a slob, and yes... I am broke, I have no money, and come here to depend on her after I go out and party and spend whatever I have left on you. I admit that. I am a sorry. I apologise. But I still care for you. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Oh is that all, you care, but you won't buy me a dinner at a nice place, you won't provide for me, you won't even buy me puppy pads, you eat the chicken you make for my dog, while you go out and party and go whoopt the woop with your underage friends while my dog is dying, is THAT WHAT YOU DO? YOU ARE A MONSTER!

And she went on to call me a schizophrenic, which perfectly defines her. I have come to realize that she accuses others -defines blame, and attributes bad practices that she is guilty of - on everyone else. It's so Freudian, a matter of transference, blaming \ other people of your own guilty demise.

----

There is a matter of truth to this. I do believe in telling what I know to be the truth, until proved otherwise, and I have thought about this lengthily.

I go there after parties, I am drunk, I am in a loving mood, I try and seduce her, but she is a stone cold bitch, or a zombie, or just intent on smoking her crack. At least I can either sleep in her bed, or on the couch. It is comfortable. I get to walk her pretty little dog. I get to raid the fridge of all the rotting stuff she doesn't eat (because all she eats is ice cream, cookies, and peanutbutter-berrypreserves on raisin-cinnamon-sworil-bread). I had to force her to eat a salad one day, because half of it was in decay. She ate half of it.  Oh, and Cheese on Pepito Corn  Tortillas. Whatever. But every time I cook, the stove needs to be cleaned cleaned, brushed, washed, cleaned, with bleach, and then the floor has all the crap that has dripped off the stove so it needs to be cleaned, mopped, swiffered, and then she needs to get on her hands and knees with a sponge and cry while she labors over getting the white floor clean again after I have slobbed it all up, and all I can do is stand there and watch her labor, and not help but one fucking bit while she slaves on her hands and knees!!!

But she does ask me to cook for her, else she would not eat right.

I once opened a two year old can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, and a three year old can of Sardines. If they were that old, goodness knows she wouldn't miss them.

Wrong again. She keeps bringing this up. The sardines were for a special diet she was on.

Right.

The Chef Boyardee... was there a year ago when I first met her. I remember things like that.

So, this is a detail of what I deal with, when I go to see my 'girlfriend'. She calls me my 'boyfriend' and professes to love me, but there is no sex, although she struts around either naked or in her panties... teasingly enough, and amusing to me, but when it all boils down, it's only that. Tease.

And then blame. And then money. Give me your money. I want your money! I need it for my habit!

Basically a crack whore who does not put out. She's a midtown bitch with a nice apartment I can crash in from time to time, and my rent is to take her abuse, while I eat her food.

Sounds like we're both some kinds of rats!

But in all of this, I keep a level keel. I think of the song 'Sweet dreams are made of this'

"Some of them want to abuse you -
Some of them want to be abused -
Who am I to disagree"

L3l& - looking for love in all the wrong places ;)