Hypocrite. This is what I became this past summer, in a multitude of ways. In Budapest I held airs of being someone who was well versed in travel, in understanding other cultures, until it tested my nerves. She was tall with curly black hair and I almost hated her immediately. She talked a lot more than I did, and the snap judgement just slammed onto the table. The fatty tuna on the chopping block so to speak.
She just had confidence, and I despised that about her. She would get on her phone, pretend the person on the other line was more important than the people she was with. Or so I thought. All the notions flying through my head had nothing to do with her but with my own insecurity, could my roommate see it, could the other girl from Germany detect my sadomasochistic personality shining through as my enmity for the Bulgarian girl grew. We started to talk, the situation worsened to a spectacular degree. I told her I went to school in Ohio, she told me that was boring. I was furious. She was right though, yet it felt good to posess that anger. It seemed visceral, but most of all it appeared legitimate and important, which gave me a little bit of a spot in life to have made my mark. The handprints on hollywood. She made a couple more jokes, most of them pertaining to the travel I had done. She then told me she had gone to school in Tennesse. Well how the fuck was that any better than the heart of the midwest where I attended school. Passing through the ventricle of Columbus and into the fatty tissue and clogged arteries of Springfield OHIO. My roommate could see the uncomfortable situation. I was caught with my fly down, my limp drooping self-loathing being ignited by this girls confidence. I then went on to smatter her everywhere I went. Any person who would listen, I would regale them with my banal story of deceit, betrayal, and the vindictive personalities of all Bulgarians.
Needless to say, time went by. My story of HATE had matastisized into the perfect form of making this girl take on the pedestal of heinous bitches. I had this smooth polished story. It made people laugh, cry, and all the above. During this time I continued to let her be my punching bag. You see, I had no plumbing in my apartment. Our toilet had broken down and my roommate and I were suffering the affliction of not being able to pass a decent stool in peace. This is what I did. I would go to the bathtub. A huge adobe colored tub that I bathed in often. Like a lesser being I would place a plastic trash bag at the basin of my asshole. I would then push the hard,soft stool or the worst case, diarrhea and just hope for the best. Usually it would land with a thump, but I would feel no satisfaction. I do not want to digress too much but you need to know that in our apartment the toilet had sort of a viewing plateau for poop. I cannot be sure whether this is the norm of all apartments but it certainly held true to our humble abode. We would be able to see the poop, resting softly and a nice thirty second time frame was allowed to judge our poop. To feel the paternal/maternal love of seeing your creation in its form, before drowning it in water. Now this whole beautiful act of god being stolen from me, I wanted revenge so she became the bane of my existence. Until the eighties dance party.
There were two elements to this party. I had a thirty five year old woman tell me in broken english that she was newly divorced and intended to hike up a volcano in Italy the following week. She told me she would probably fall, and I tried to console her by letting her know that she could prevent that with stable climbing shoes and not drinking as much as she was doing at the bar. I then managed to avoid her only to be confronted by me demons, the Bulgarian girl looking right at me. She asked if she could please speak to me in private. I said yes and gave the look of dread to a couple of people dancing. Someone grabbed my balls and I have never figured out who. We took up roost at the side of a concrete railing. The whole building was constructed to the stunted vision of the Soviet Union and there incredibly dull architecture. But, thanks to them they were now supplying us the dance floor to listen to Chris Isaak and other favorites. When we took up a conversation she immediately asked me the question of hate. She was told by numerous source that I found her incredulous and just all around a person who sucked total dilz. I tried to not make eye contact, I thought about scaling the side of the concrete railing and jumping to the fertile ground below and catching the tram back over to the PEST side of the city. Did I mention I was in Budapest, I dont know. I wont look back so I now it is established. I would escape her, have a falafel and go to sleep rest assured that I would never have to answer to her queries again. Something was feeling different. She was talking and I was actually listening to her. All these accusations of snap judgements. Me always having the moral highground saying I never snap judge. My god, this loathing, the abhorence had nothing to do with her. It was me. I hated myself, and then I was back at square one. Here I thought I was a savvy traveler, yet I was what I had always feared. A dumb American. With that said I promised myself a new life, a new perspective and that I would always remember that conversation and use it to make sure I didn't act like a dunce in the future henceforth. I actually felt different. I wanted this to be a model conversation that I would tell people. When this young man learned an important lesson. I felt renewed. I told everyone who asked about our convo, how positive it was. I danced to flock of seagulls with a new fervor. I drank gingerale and Jack with a new slake of thirst. I really moved my hips and thought about my receding hairline with reckless abandon. When the night was over, my roommate, the German young lady and the Bulgarian professor moved towards the night bus, back to our quarters for rest and water consumption to avoid post party syndrome.
As we left a horrible action occured. Some homely fucker stole my Roommates sweater. A cashmere cardigan. An exquisite piece of clothing. I felt bad. I looked for it, the German girl also did her fair share of scouring. As we had to call off the search with the conclusion that someone had stolen it, we made our way home with empty hearts. As we tried to console my friend on his loss, the Bulgarian woman's vocal chords made sounds, it sounded like this, "It's okay you're a rich American you can buy another one." My friend was puzzled by the cutting remark. My brain chemicals were swashbuckled. A new thought had entered in my head, in my mind I remember it clearly,
The words of wisdom, "What a bitch." >
