A little prone to melancholy.

I made a sad discovery while riding the Grand Ave. bus to the office the other day: My old house is gone! No, not one I owned (I've never) but one I occupied the top two floors of for four years with my former fiance.

I'm not shocked by this, though seeing that gap in the block was jarring, like a very familiar mouth (one's own?) with a tooth suddenly gone. That neighborhood, an out-of-the-way and neglected old vestige of the once-huge Italian enclave to the south, bordered by industrial whatsits all around and very convenient to downtown, had been being encroached upon by the cheap-quality "luxury" condo-and-SUV set for years. The house itself probably dated to the 1880s or '90s - it used to have a sibling just like it next door that was torn down while we watched from our deck, keeping an eye on the encroaching backhoes nervously. (It did once take a chunk out of our foundation). Built on the lot quickly was the uglist grey five-unit monstrosity I've seen in a city noted for them. Very pretentious and imposing in its crass simplicity: very bargain-basement-Bauhaus, with a strange watchtower thing on top that looked like it should have a guard with a machine gun in it. Who the fuck buys these things?

So anyway, the house is gone--to my knowledge, it's the only house/apartment building I've ever lived in (and there have been dozens) that isn't still standing. This house was kind of a dump, but it was a dump we grew to love. Not a single 90-degree angle anywhere in the interior - during the four years we lived there our refrigerator slowly migrated two feet to the south. Blessed by some landlord with carpet in a soul-crushingly ugly dark pink. My fiance-at-the-time, (who I'll call Bugs, as I often did) tried to pass it off to me as "dusky rose" or some shit, but I know a twat-colored carpet when I see one! It had a completely raw, uninsulated attic space the same size as the apartment, the whole upper floor, with rotted wood boards and a century's worth of coal dust. I loved it, and I moved all my instruments, amplifiers, 4-track, altar, and guest bed up there as soon as it was made at all habitable (and I have pretty flexible standards of "habitable.") Bugs found, among other fascinating detritus up there, a huge box full of scratch-off lottery tickets (already scratched, no winners) and a very ancient wooden carving of a woman far too voluptuous to be a saint; from this and from the deeply weird placing of doors on the second floor, we deduced it might at some point have been a house of ill repute. We immediately made the Lady the Matron Goddess of the place.

I miss the house, and I miss the memories it represents, although it wasn't overall a thoroughly happy time in my life. Bugs and I never did make it to the altar (we were handfasted for a year and a day early on, but never renewed it and never made it "legal"). Yeah, I'm damn sick of the notion that "commitment anxiety" is only a male malady (if in fact it's a malady at all). We were great lovers, fantastic friends, deeply dubious as any semblance of spouses - and that does NOT make our relationship a failure or a waste of time. Goal-oriented courtship is vastly overrated. I'm glad we had the time we had.

When we broke up, I was the one to move out, because he could afford that place on his own and I couldn't. Some people thought that was awful, that I should be dumped AND lose my house at once, but frankly I was glad to live alone for a while. Bugs lives in NYC now. He was the first person I called on Sept. 11.

Kitty-Boy's not home tonight; he and his band went to Indiana for the weekend to finish up mixing on their EP. I like being able to sleep diagonally across the bed once in a while. But having a year and a half of it back then was, frankly, enough. I like to share.

A little prone to melancholy.

I made a sad discovery while riding the Grand Ave. bus to the office the other day: My old house is gone! No, not one I owned (I've never) but one I occupied the top two floors of for four years with my former fiance.

I'm not shocked by this, though seeing that gap in the block was jarring, like a very familiar mouth (one's own?) with a tooth suddenly gone. That neighborhood, an out-of-the-way and neglected old vestige of the once-huge Italian enclave to the south, bordered by industrial whatsits all around and very convenient to downtown, had been being encroached upon by the cheap-quality "luxury" condo-and-SUV set for years. The house itself probably dated to the 1880s or '90s - it used to have a sibling just like it next door that was torn down while we watched from our deck, keeping an eye on the encroaching backhoes nervously. (It did once take a chunk out of our foundation). Built on the lot quickly was the uglist grey five-unit monstrosity I've seen in a city noted for them. Very pretentious and imposing in its crass simplicity: very bargain-basement-Bauhaus, with a strange watchtower thing on top that looked like it should have a guard with a machine gun in it. Who the fuck buys these things?

So anyway, the house is gone--to my knowledge, it's the only house/apartment building I've ever lived in (and there have been dozens) that isn't still standing. This house was kind of a dump, but it was a dump we grew to love. Not a single 90-degree angle anywhere in the interior - during the four years we lived there our refrigerator slowly migrated two feet to the south. Blessed by some landlord with carpet in a soul-crushingly ugly dark pink. My fiance-at-the-time, (who I'll call Bugs, as I often did) tried to pass it off to me as "dusky rose" or some shit, but I know a twat-colored carpet when I see one! It had a completely raw, uninsulated attic space the same size as the apartment, the whole upper floor, with rotted wood boards and a century's worth of coal dust. I loved it, and I moved all my instruments, amplifiers, 4-track, altar, and guest bed up there as soon as it was made at all habitable (and I have pretty flexible standards of "habitable.") Bugs found, among other fascinating detritus up there, a huge box full of scratch-off lottery tickets (already scratched, no winners) and a very ancient wooden carving of a woman far too voluptuous to be a saint; from this and from the deeply weird placing of doors on the second floor, we deduced it might at some point have been a house of ill repute. We immediately made the Lady the Matron Goddess of the place.

I miss the house, and I miss the memories it represents, although it wasn't overall a thoroughly happy time in my life. Bugs and I never did make it to the altar (we were handfasted for a year and a day early on, but never renewed it and never made it "legal"). Yeah, I'm damn sick of the notion that "commitment anxiety" is only a male malady (if in fact it's a malady at all). We were great lovers, fantastic friends, deeply dubious as any semblance of spouses - and that does NOT make our relationship a failure or a waste of time. Goal-oriented courtship is vastly overrated. I'm glad we had the time we had.

When we broke up, I was the one to move out, because he could afford that place on his own and I couldn't. Some people thought that was awful, that I should be dumped AND lose my house at once, but frankly I was glad to live alone for a while. Bugs lives in NYC now. He was the first person I called on Sept. 11.

Kitty-Boy's not home tonight; he and his band went to Indiana for the weekend to finish up mixing on their EP. I like being able to sleep diagonally across the bed once in a while. But having a year and a half of it back then was, frankly, enough. I like to share.

I'm supposed to apologize to them?

With fingers firmly crossed behind back....


Dear Hermione: I'm sorry your solitary pleasures were witnessed not only by your least favorite teacher but by hundreds of people on WIKTT. I'm sorry I made you into a know-it-all, self-righteous, nosy prat....oh wait, I didn't do that, Rowling did. I'm sorry your sexual frustration and porn habit backed up so far into your brain you decided it was a good idea to shag your friendly local Potions Bastard and that he agreed with you. However, I am not sorry I made you unknowingly-at-the-time A.K. your ex, because I know that deep down inside, what bothers you the most is that you are not sorry either.

Dear Severus: I was very generous to you with your Animagus form - it's far cooler than you deserve, and in your heart you know that. Except for the fact that Minerva never gave you any, I have nothing to apologize to you for yet. Well, except that incident at the mall. You have got to stop cruising....man-like things at the changing rooms. People will talk. How can one man be so slutty and yet so inhibited with certain things? Could you possibly have a virgin/whore complex with yourself? I wouldn't put it past you.

Dear Harry: I am sorry you have gotten so little action, and in fact have achieved so little in my stories besides getting yelled at by Snape, which of course is no challenge for you. Don't worry, your life will get much more interesting soon.

Dear Ron: I am sorry I implied that you're a lousy lay. You know it's true, though, and you know why.

Dear Minerva: I am not sorry to have exposed your conflicted past and your passionate, if once rather confused, heart. You know perfectly well it's much better than the sensible-schoolmarm routine you've gotten so used to faking.

Dear Petra: I am sorry about your school. They're doing their best to fix it. I feel I owe you in particular, as my first OC with an actual speaking part, something even more exciting than a fiery temper and some ancient magic straight out of Kalevala-by-Lovecraft. Not that I plan to give up on those, of course.

Dear Sirius: I am sorry you appeared as such an irrational, paranoid, and reckless closet case. When you appear next time, you will have grown out of that. Somewhat.

Dear Remus: I am sorry to imply that you have a bloodthirsty streak. I know how it hurts you when people rub your snou-, I mean muzz-, I mean NOSE in it.

Dear Merry, Pippin, and Treebeard: You're welcome.

Dear Bitch-King: I am not sorry I told the world you screamed like a girl the first time you got a taste of, um, Grond, back when you were still human. You totally try to dom from the bottom, and all of Mordor knows it.

Dear Sauron: Ah apologize abjectly about the alliteration.

I'm supposed to apologize to them?

With fingers firmly crossed behind back....


Dear Hermione: I'm sorry your solitary pleasures were witnessed not only by your least favorite teacher but by hundreds of people on WIKTT. I'm sorry I made you into a know-it-all, self-righteous, nosy prat....oh wait, I didn't do that, Rowling did. I'm sorry your sexual frustration and porn habit backed up so far into your brain you decided it was a good idea to shag your friendly local Potions Bastard and that he agreed with you. However, I am not sorry I made you unknowingly-at-the-time A.K. your ex, because I know that deep down inside, what bothers you the most is that you are not sorry either.

Dear Severus: I was very generous to you with your Animagus form - it's far cooler than you deserve, and in your heart you know that. Except for the fact that Minerva never gave you any, I have nothing to apologize to you for yet. Well, except that incident at the mall. You have got to stop cruising....man-like things at the changing rooms. People will talk. How can one man be so slutty and yet so inhibited with certain things? Could you possibly have a virgin/whore complex with yourself? I wouldn't put it past you.

Dear Harry: I am sorry you have gotten so little action, and in fact have achieved so little in my stories besides getting yelled at by Snape, which of course is no challenge for you. Don't worry, your life will get much more interesting soon.

Dear Ron: I am sorry I implied that you're a lousy lay. You know it's true, though, and you know why.

Dear Minerva: I am not sorry to have exposed your conflicted past and your passionate, if once rather confused, heart. You know perfectly well it's much better than the sensible-schoolmarm routine you've gotten so used to faking.

Dear Petra: I am sorry about your school. They're doing their best to fix it. I feel I owe you in particular, as my first OC with an actual speaking part, something even more exciting than a fiery temper and some ancient magic straight out of Kalevala-by-Lovecraft. Not that I plan to give up on those, of course.

Dear Sirius: I am sorry you appeared as such an irrational, paranoid, and reckless closet case. When you appear next time, you will have grown out of that. Somewhat.

Dear Remus: I am sorry to imply that you have a bloodthirsty streak. I know how it hurts you when people rub your snou-, I mean muzz-, I mean NOSE in it.

Dear Merry, Pippin, and Treebeard: You're welcome.

Dear Bitch-King: I am not sorry I told the world you screamed like a girl the first time you got a taste of, um, Grond, back when you were still human. You totally try to dom from the bottom, and all of Mordor knows it.

Dear Sauron: Ah apologize abjectly about the alliteration.