MINOR AMOUNT OF NAUSEA
This what it says:
"Wheelie Boy" (not his real name, it's what I call him) is in pain and I'm going to see him. Please don't worry. Staying overnight with him. I've packed for work tomorrow".
Darn. If I had known his pain would do this, I wouldn't have wished it on him.
Yes, I know I should be sympathetic and understanding of a dude in a wheelchair.
But seeing as after you dropped me you took up with him, I can't make myself. Actually, I'm kinda hoping your precious boyfriend rolls into the bay and sinks out of sight. Splash, blub blub blub, aaaack.
I still remember what you said when you told me it was over. Withouth even intending to, you left me mentally bleeding and damaged.
Then, by my standards far too soon, you found him.
I was there for over twenty years. I supported you, comforted you, praised you, and reassured you that you were a valid and precious person all that time. I appreciated you far more than your family.
I didn't act Cantonese.
During those twenty plus years, I remained the repulsive secret that you never told your relatives about.
You never introduced me, you never mentioned me, they never met me.
I did not exist.
And I understood why. Nice Cantonese American girls do not have affairs with white men. It just isn't done. Good people don't carry on with kwailos. Period.
You met my relatives and old-family friends.
Heck, you met most of my people.
But they're rather white.
So I understand.
I still remember what you said when you told me you wanted to break up.
You weren't angry at me. You hadn't stopped liking me.
It just wasn't working for you any more.
Apparently, I no longer excited you.
Wheelie Boy excites you. And you've introduced the bastard to your relatives.
You notice his pain. It's something he communicates well.
The past two years have been hell for me.
More or less.
I guess I'm just too good at hiding such stuff.
But he's a very sensitive man, and doesn't hide a darn thing.
Forgive me, sweetie, I cannot be moved by his pain. It's probably just acid reflux. The poor dumb son-of-a-bitch likely ate something.
You know how it is with those sensitive types.
Might have been too much garlic.
Maybe it's constipation. He should eat more vegetables.
Too much meat makes him feverish.
But yeah, go comfort him.
The other day you told me: "Toad, I could smell that pipe all the way in the bathroom, can you PLEASE do that outside".
I went into the kitchen, like I've done for two decades, to keep my pipe from bothering you.
Our kitchen. The only place in the apartment I can smoke.
I've should have told you that The Toad died back in the summer of 2010, when you dumped me.
There is no toad. He doesn't exist any longer. He's quite utterly dead.
Don't know what I am now, I'm still trying to discover that.
But I haven't been The Toad in over a year and half.
The Toad is part of the destroyed past.
Shan't mention 'Mr. Badger', a persona that has cropped up on this blog.
You will never call me that. You cannot call me that. Ever.
That is not something you have the right to do.
It's reserved for someone else.
Still love you. As a friend. But crap I feel burned.
You've often said you worry about me staying out late.
I haven't had company, companionship, love, or a physical relationship in nearly two years. At least I get the first one of those when I stay out late.
It ain't much. But it's better than nothing.
And at present it's all there is.
I ate the entire pack of Pepperidge Farm Geneva Cookies, by the way.
All of it. Every single one of them. Because I felt like it.
It was the best darn dinner I've had in two years.
Probably going to regret it tomorrow.
But I won't say anything.
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