Sucky weather

So, to apply a mood-genre context for the past week's unfortunate series of snafus let me start with this: It is weird to date your best friend's ex; not impossible, but weird and I do not wish it on anyone. Despite its immediate satisfaction, platitudes of doubt emerge beyond your tolerance levels which wrench you until you're dry. For a time, I enjoyed it incredibly; both needs and wants were met and exceeded. Now, feelings of destined loneliness and inaccessible freedom course through me. In a Rivers Cuomo way I think I saw a future—and I already miss that vision—but some ethereal connection was having none of it. All I can say is sorry to all involved, what went around has pretty much come around. I feel like a dump and do not feel entirely comfortable talking to either party, despite how much I want and need to. Maybe things will work out later.

Though that has nothing to do with the following longwinded events...

*****
Coming home Sunday the lock to our apartment was broken. One call to the over-apologetic Mark and he admitted he had lockpicked the door with Liz and Kate to prank the room and then lockpicked it shut again. But, it broke the lock.

He picked me back in, and amongst the stacked couches there was Kyle II, Liz's monstrous fabric recreation of her boyfriend. It is the scariest thing in the world. It sits, it sits gloomily, sits ominously, sits venomously, and sits blankly. Plus, his wardrobe changes. To put it another way, “he” is a creepy-ass Freudian disaster. I stowed him in my passenger seat and parked in the commuter lot. I thought it could be a form of ransom, or, at least a form of theft deterrence.

*****
Then, today I went on a quest with Dave because Blonde Redhead and La Remodea are good bands. With that, I started by asking Dave if he wanted to give me a ride to the mall so that I could return an AC adapter to Radioshack, then to a CD store to pick up Blonde Redhead's new album. It wasn't the right adapter for Zach's guitar pedal, and the new BR album came out yesterday.

We hit the Radioshack at 6:45 and found out that an 18 volt output, 1000 milli amp AC/DC converter is the absolute hardest thing on the earth to find. I got my money back, atleast, in cash. And, I forgot my wallet, so that was a plus. Now I could buy that cd.

7:00 on the dot we got to Flat, Black and Circular, which closed an hour ago. "Fuck!" said I. "There's another store down the street, let's try it out."

7:15 - CD Wharehouse. They were going out of business and -- upholding their reputation for being the worst record store on earth -- they had no new releases post January. "Arg! Dave, let's hit Barnes and Noble. It will be expensive, but I am rich today. Radioshack gave me $20." Through painstaking traffic our parking spot was stolen and I received a phone call at precisely the same moment...

"Hello?"
"Is this Ben Phillips?"
"Yea, who is this?"
"Officer Miller, campus police department. Where is your car parked, Ben?"
"The commuter lot, is something wrong with it?"
"Well, it appears as though it has been broken into. Could you meet the officers down there?"

I decided Blonde Redhead was more important, and ran into the book store with Dave parked illegally. The yuppies didn't have it either, but "they could order it" as fucking always. Who do you think you are? Guitar Center? I'm not a computer dumb dumb.

Officer Miller called again telling me to check my car out myself, the officers had left. I should just call if there was anything stolen. Thankfully, nothing was, but my passenger side window was busted in with my insurance and registration strewn about the melting snow which was slowly revealing little piles of broken glass.

Kyle II, my only defense was removed from the vehicle, frisked for valuables and thrown to the ground behind the rear left wheel. He lay soaked through and covered in grade A packing snow, his jungle-themed wristwatch loose and lonesome by his side. I fucking hated Kyle II, and I guess someone else shared the feeling.

Twenty minutes later Dave and I had Kate, Liz and Kyle I in the car and headed waaaaay out to the commuter lot once again. We kept them guessing as to where we were going, making the whole thing out to be a murder plot (we grabbed duct tape and trash bags from Kate). As we approached the scene Dave stopped the van and said, "We walk from here." Through the sleet and wet Liz's tears were hard to distinguish. Her beloved Kyle II was saturated, and sleeping with the...the...well, the asphalt.

The car was too wet to tape, and the dummy was too wet to put in Dave's van. So, I stuffed him back into my soaking seat and drove him back to Cedar Village with the most impossibly fogged windshield I've ever dealt with. I must have looked like a drunk driver, and the only thing that could have made it worse was if I was pulled over in that suspicious situation.

Wait, wait. It could be worse:

"Hey Dave, put Liz on the phone."
"Hello?" <---Liz "Liz...I think they peed on it."