All my life I’ve been the quiet kid in the corner. It’s worked out well for me. Sometimes people would come to my corner and hang out, other times I would go to other people’s corners. It’s a great life. Or rather, was a great life. I had my corner friends and we did corner things together. Then one day I met a corner girl and I had a perfect corner life. You could say we “fit” together.
Then I got laid. In the corner room of a house. Fittingly enough.
At the end of what I like to refer to as a “ten-minute-long moment,” I burst out of the prison that is celibacy like the Hulk. With a victorious cry of “oh god” upon my arrival into the World, I collapsed on the greenest of grasses. Ten minutes later I had another ten-minute-long moment and it was glorious. I lay sprawled out and sweaty in the center of the corner room.
Then it was back to the rest of my corner life, this time with added sex. A pretty decent lot in life if I do say so myself. Or rather, said. Eventually I got bored with the corner, all of it, even sex. I know, who gets bored with sex? Apparently, this guy, right here. Hear me out though. It was always the same thing, each and every time. It was like ten minute long déjà vu. I made a move, she didn’t like it. I made another mood. She told me to stop. I got pissy and turned on the TV. As soon as I found a show that I actually wanted to watch, she would suddenly unbutton her blouse, straddle me, and then continue to round the bases.
This always confused me and, after the fact, left me in the ohso awkward position of hating and loving someone at the same time while feeling unsatisfied in the bedroom region. On the one hand, she was a corner person like myself. On the other, she played these crazy girly psycho games where all of my favorite activities were mutually exclusive and nothing meant what it should’ve. It was like being in a spy thriller where I had to decode reality and stop meant go but go, depending on tonality and semantic phrasing, could mean stop or that there’s a cop down the road or that I could only travel at 35 mph. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what the hell anything meant back then. I digress.
After seeking the counsel of my dear friend and personal guru, the Internet, I determined that I was definitively not a corner sex person, which led me to question if I were not so much of a corner person myself. In the lengthy soulsearch that followed, I discovered that I was, indeed, a corner person, but I did not, in fact, like the room in whose corner I was in. An odd quandary.
So, starting in that moment, I started rearranging the metaphorical, yet in a few cases, material objects of my corner. This sudden restacking of life’s Legos, did not make my corner girlfriend too happy. So one night I got wasted and pissed on her scrapbooking materials, sprayed perfume on her cat, and used her doilies as napkins for nachos and wings because I’ve never liked any of that stuff. It felt good.
I woke up the next day to a text that, in summary, concluded vehemently that I had suddenly stopped “fitting” her and that our lives would no longer be “adjoined.” I shit you not, she used those exact words. Who does that? I forwarded the text to my buddy to see what he thought. He asked what happened. So I told him.
(513): She found me naked and passed out on the toilet. When she asked me what happened to her scrapbook supplies, why her cat smelled like $200 dollar perfume, and what was on her doilies, I apparently just kept repeating "I'm like Elvis, but not dead."
Ohso – an interjection used to attract the attention of the person spoken to and transition into a new subject or tangent