I am eating spaghettios with meatballs right now and they are quite the tasty concoction. Bless the Chef Boyardee rip-offs named Franco-American. (what the fuck is that about?)
In case you're wondering, the girl's gone. She cried and cried and cried yesterday while I sat in my room. I peeked into the living room once and tried to talk to her. "Where's my drawing?" I asked. She looked at me like I was nutso and said, sobbing, "What?" "Where's my drawing you took?" I asked again hoping that adding "you took" to the equation would make her cognate things more clearly. She just shook her head and asked if I had anything to eat. I told her I didn't and she looked like she was going to vomit.
"I want some food," she said. "I'm going to the store."
And just like that, no more tears, no more nothing, she got up and walked out. I sat in my room doodling with a pen about things that are weighing on my mind. For instance, if a goblin has many quarters in its pocket, can it use a claw machine and get a prize with special powers? I thought it probably could so I decided to diagram how a goblin's mind works, how its powers affect the mechanistics of a claw machine, how a goblin comes across the quarters in the first place (it beats up a Navy Captain). It was fucking incredible. i could tell I was onto something, a real nobel-prize winning discovery. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I broached the troll-code that has eluded my thinking since I was a kid and wanted to cross the bridge out of town because my dad was talking too much about responsibilities and lying and how not to shit my pants and things like that. I got to the bridge on my bike but didn't have enough quarters to pay the troll that lived under there and I thought that if I could just figure out the troll-code, what makes a troll tick, what makes a troll want to live under bridges, what makes a troll harass goats, and so-forth, in other words, to understand the mind of a troll means you have easy access to all bridges in all parts of the world without fear of being treated like the lowest form of life on the planet: a goat. I figured THAT one out pretty quickly. Trolls harass goats because goats are the lowest form of life on the planet. Trolls are clean by nature and fucking hate it when things get fucked up by lower forms of life and so they like to eat these things. They also hate people because people are fucking stupid, almost as bad as goats and not ever ever ever do they think that maybe, just MAYBE they are like a Dolphin.
I digress, the goblin work was coming along (goblins are similar to trolls in that they are genetically related like Vulcans and Romulans are. I have not figured out why they separated but I know it's something to do with Hiroshima or Nagasaki) and coming along like a fucking saint had blessed my god damned pen, when I hear my door open again and I hear some sacks being placed on my kitchen counter. I flung open my bedroom door and stood there as the girl put groceries away like she fucking lived here. She didn't even flinch when she found the jars of urine I keep stocked in the cabinet above the sink, she just kept moving to the next cabinet and moved my civil war figurines into another cabinet.
I walked out further into the kitchen, my eyes wide like saucers and I wondered what the fuck she thought she was doing, did she think she was moving in? I'm not prone to hallucinations but this was very near like the ones I've had. There's a supermodel-like girl in my kitchen, stocking it with food.
Then she pulled a box of spaghetti out of a bag and we had this interchange which I prize highly for its bizarrity.
"Do you want something to eat?" she said.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" I yelled.
"Do you want something to eat?"
"Who the fuck do you think you are you stupid bitch?"
"Do you want something to eat?"
"Fuck this!" I said and grabbed the spaghetti box out of her hand (this was the last straw) rummaged around, found a pot and began practicing the fine art of spaghetti cooking. This made me think of Arata. I didn't know where Arata was. It was like one day she was just gone, just disappeared from my life and I didn't even notice. We met at my spaghetti cooking class YEARS ago it seems and we had such a nice relationship but what the fuck? Where the fuck did she go? Was she a hallucination brought on by the telepathic spiders? Was she just a ruse they used to lure me into a false sense of complacency? I didn't REMEMBER anything. The last thing I remembered was my short-lived job at the movie theater and how the butter had gotten on me that day and it burned so bad because some jackass had left it in the warmer all night long and it burned my skin so fucking bad no matter how much water or ice I put on it. That was the day I left forever because no job is worth the humiliation of crying when you get butter on you.
The girl whose name I'd forgotten sat down on my bookcase and said plainly, "You've got a nice place here."
I knew she was making fun of me but I didn't want her to know that I knew so I said "thank you" and continued making spaghetti.
I turned to say something else when I noticed two things. One was that I was still naked. How fucking rude of me to not put anything on, no pants, no shower curtain, no velvety robe, no nothing. I was ashamed of myself then I thought about putting my hand in the boiling water in front of me but figured that it was probably not the right time to do it. later. I'd do it later. The second thing I noticed was that the drawing I was missing was sticking out from under the fallen bookcase. I hadn't looked at it from this side. Now I couldn't help it. I was such a stupid fucking asshole, blaming others for my own shittiness. I was such a stupid big baby who deserved nothing in this life, no manners, no food, no spaghetti, no anything. It was no wonder the bitch didn't think anything of my being naked as I was NOTHING to anyone, nothing nothing nothing nothing, just a sad sack of puss that had managed to look like a man. The girl was wondering around, staring at things and wasn't looking my way so I stuck my hand in the water and held it there until I wanted to scream. Then I pulled it out and put the spaghetti in, cursing it under my breath for not having nerve endings.
She stayed the night but we didn't talk anymore. I fed the spaghetti to her in a bowl and she ate it and I left her alone the rest of the night in my living room to go in my room and hide under the bed in case she came inside. I fell asleep under there and had worried dreams the whole night about spiders telling the goblins that I was onto them. There was a soft knock at my door in the middle of the night, but I ignored it and bit into my burnt hand. When I woke up, she was gone, but the food was still there.
So now I am eating spaghettios with meatballs that this girl whose name I can't even remember bought for me for some reason. And every meatball I bite into reminds me of the skin I bit into last night.
I don't think Goblins carry quarters all that often.