Velouria (velouria) wrote,

O horrible, O horrible, most horrible!

Up until this point, there were 2 things I associated with the name Ophelia: Hamlet and Natalie Merchant. I have a profound dislike for both of these things, practically to the point of puking. But since graduating high school and abandoning higher education and the daily 10.5 hours in the drugstore, neither of these were at the forefront of my life anymore. There was effectively zero Ophelia exposure. That is until last night.

I was in a foul mood, and trying to make myself feel better with the only things I enjoy in this life: terrible food, cheap booze, and music. Well, that and staring at the internet and then bitching about stuff on it, but I wasn't writing at this particular time. Just staring, along with the booze, food, and music. I see my phone vibrating out of the corner of my eye and reach over for it. Somebody's called me from a blocked number and left a message. This piques my interest, so I dial voicemail and listen to it hopefully.  I hear the Landlady of all people, prattling on about how "Ophelia" (and I'm going to put that in quotes because I don't want to believe that anyone with reproductive rights could be retarded enough to name their child that) has called to say she's trying to sleep, and my music is keeping her up. She gets up so early, and she needs her rest. So she, Landlady, would call my work number and leave a message there, too. Why she would call my work when I'm clearly there in her house disturbing the peace is beyond me.

I turn off the music and close the blinds and go sit on my couch in tears, sobbing and hiccuping in the dark. (I'm drunk, remember?) I ask God to please find me a place on an island for misfit toys, or just take me. Take me now, God, please. I am contemplating hanging myself, but realize that too would inconvenience Lady "Ophelia." Suddenly my self-pity is washed over with rage. It's fucking 8:30 on a Friday! And how can she even hear my music over the constant roar of the freight train going by? And why couldn't she just say something to me anyway? Does she also call up Union Pacific Railroad and talk shit about the conductor? Stupid cow.

Today I sobered up and called Landlady to apologize. Said it wouldn't happen again and that I didn't realize it was so loud, and that "Ophelia" should go fuck herself. Well, minus one of those. Unfortunately, "Ophelia" and Landlady are longtime BFF's and I'm just some punkass off the street blaring gothfag music. I wanted to push my speakers up against the wall and blast Nitzer Ebb this morning, but decided to go walk it off instead.

It was a further walk to the University than I anticipated, but I wanted to see it again, having haunted it once a upon a time. It's much nicer on a Saturday in the summer when no ones there, except for a boy who followed me into the bookstore as I took pictures around the campus and asked he could buy me coffee. Normally I would say no, but I couldn't think of any reason I shouldn't just try being human, so I said yes. By the time I got back home, I was so thoroughly exhausted from both the walking and the interacting that I passed out face-first in a pile of velour blankets and various sheep.

That brings us to this point. My only plans for the evening are to continue making devil horns at the wall in "Ophelia's" direction, and to go purchase headphones somewhere. With the aid of my car.

I couldn't back up any further, or I would have been run over.

I suspect a murder suicide commenced when someone was made to interpret Hamlet.

Awwww, beaaaars in pink hoodiiies.


Not in all practicality.

 It's hard taking your own pictures with Parkinson's slash alcoholism.

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