Bronfire: The Meeting.

Oh god.

It’s been a heavy weekend.  The adorable, sweet dog who belongs to my cousins and their young kids has  just growled at a toddler and, just about an hour ago, bit one of my best friends and broke the skin on her leg.  I feel awful.  I have another 9 days with these 2 dogs, and I now can’t have anyone over, because Riley is too unpredictable.  He’s a rescue dog, and he growled at my parents yesterday and acted terrified, especially of my dad.  I think he was abused, but N & G don’t know his history.  He was such a sweet puppy, and now that he’s growing up, he’s changing.  I feel unsafe, honestly, like I’m walking on eggshells.  All of my friends are sad, and I am sad and stressed right along with them. I hope this week will turn out to be better than it’s looking right now.  To send a grieving friend home crying and bitten by the dog I was just beginning to adore is almost more than I can take.

8th time's a charm?

8:00 a.m., Hump Day

I tried to give myself a good hour this morning to get ready, but once again, despite my early-ish bedtime (10:50 pm, quite an achivement), was unable to drag myself out of bed before 7:30. Generally I have to be at work by 8, which means that although 7:30 is not uncommon, it often leaves me with 20 minutes to get myself fed, somewhat presentable (looking), and out the door. Today I am closing reception phones, so I work 8:30-5:30.

I’ve realized why work has become such a nightmare: it is not work itself, but waking up early in a still-strange house to roommates who are not exactly like I pictured them, and certainly didn’t tell me two months ago when I was moving all of my shit in (or when I met them to see the house) that they both planned on splitting before August is up. I did not sign any papers, thank god, and I’m finding more and more as I get older that I’d rather spend more money to be comfortable than live with people I don’t know—or people I do know, in the case of my cousins—and always feel like a guest in someone else’s space. I want a home, and this is the perfect opportunity to spend money I could be saving for graduate school in order to make myself not miserable.

Recently, the thought of facing the responsibility for the furnishings of the entire house, interviewing and carefully selecting two roommates from a random group of responses from Craigslist or 7 Days and letting them use my stuff, and cleaning this entire fucking house out and making it my own (I live in a house: all of it, not just one floor, but despite all of the amenities and modern conveniences that once excited me, I now find it burdensome and lonely to think of it as “mine” once Biz & Sarah leave; it won’t be mine, not really ) makes me shudder. As my sister said to me on the phone yesterday, “You have plenty of time for a house, Bronwen.” There is 8 years worth of junk in this house that doesn’t belong to anyone who lives here. The landlord does month-by-month rent. Tenants, therefore, do as they please. And why shouldn’t I be one of them?

The truth is that I don’t want roommates! I don’t give a shit if I pick them or he picks them or she picks them or that guy over there picks them, I can’t live like this anymore. I’m 24 and I want privacy. I want to be a slob when I’m feeling slobby. I want to say things and not be overheard by a roommate who is just using the bathroom (which is conveniently located IN MY ROOM, really, and is the most awkward and horrible setup ever when you have “housemates”).

I think that at this point, I need to venture forth and actually be on my own. It always feels like such an uncomfortable, unhealthy, dorm-like charade when there are other people sharing the same space. I’m not in college anymore, and don’t want to live like I am. If I’ve learned anything from meeting people once, it’s that you can’t tell, no matter how cordial they may at first seem, how they really are: moreover, you can’t tell what it will be like to live with them. I sat down and talked with these people for over an hour when I met them, and decided this would be perfect. While we were laughing and making small talk, they were both not mentioning that they were both leaving; as I revealed all of my bad habits and my plans for the next two years, they were not telling me that they wouldn’t be seeing me in three months anyway, and that I would be stuck with the albatross, the house which should be a family home but instead is crammed with too many young people trying to impress each other to function. I can’t even take a crap if someone else is in the house, because I know they can hear it. If you know me, you know that pooping is a rare and delightful occurrance, so I need to really feel at home when I do it in my own house.

I just want to stumble (late) out of bed, looking shitty, and drink my coffee in peace. I don’t want anyone to know, firsthand, that I sometimes don’t leave myself enough time to shower daily. I just don’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s feelings or needs anymore while I’m in my own home.

Plus, the landlord, a contractor who is protective of his property but not entirely aware of the rules, drops by whenever he feels like it, weeks or months or even years (in the case of the deck, which is covered in four years’ worth of green mossy slime, and is akin to a slip-and-slide when wet) after we have requested that he fix something.

Oh, I knew it was too good to be true. I’m not settling this time. Well, I am. I think that’s the point.

Snapping out of my self-righteousness,

I thought, “Whatever” and moved on. I have no reason to be angry, let people deal with me how they will. I know that I—like everyone—have done shitty things to people I love, and occasionally there is no going back once those things have been done, even if I apologize myself into oblivion, and regret it so deeply that I can’t even escape it while I’m sleeping.

I shouldn’t give up; it takes years to really know someone, and as unfair as it is, I (we, you) haven’t had enough time. I wish I could truly know more people in my life. Sometimes I get caught up in the minutiae.

This is why I don’t write anything personal on my “blogs” anymore. It’s not real, and it’s not me, so I try not to say it, especially when it describes a relationship with another human being. Oh yes, I’ve done it, but it truly does belong in a diary.

I'm terrified that my ceiling fan might fall on me and decapitate me.

The light fixture on it is shaking pretty violently.  I’m scared!

It’s 11:30 pm, still at least 85 deprees outside, and it’s the only fan in my room.  Basically, I don’t really give a shit if it kills me, as long as I’m cool while it’s happening.