The Girl Upstairs RantOpus X - by LesLucid
I may be in love with the girl upstairs. I'm not sure.
She's a little strange. I don't mean in a wacked-out, keep-
your-doors-locked way, but strange none-the-less. Her name
is Rose, which doesn't suit her at all. Not at all. She
hasn't shown all that much interest in me recently. I haven't
pushed it, not sure exactly why not. I guess I should. Maybe
I shouldn't. I don't know.
I was interested in her the first day I moved into these
apartments about three months ago. Very interested in her.
She's very pretty, black as the ace of spades, with a
tasteful body, so to speak. She has a flawless set of
bright white teeth. Well, almost flawless. There's a small
chip in her front tooth, right in the middle. It lines up
perfectly with a sensuous scar above her upper lip. I
popped a boner when I first looked her in the eyes. Of course,
I immediately "asked her out." She accepted
with a quickness that I assume was due to my obvious studliness.
Maybe not. Anyway, it turned into a
terrific weekend and a wonderful welcome to Akron, OH.
Whoops! I guess I'm giving away my new location to the whole
world. So I guess I might as well tell you about that
weekend, too.
(She just got home, slammed the apartment front door, stomped
upstairs, and slammed her door.)
Actually, I'm pretty inept when it comes to seducing women.
Well, actually I'm not, totally. It depends on the woman
and there are plenty of them. All different kinds. One is
as good as the next, except for the special ones. All of
them are special, except for a few. What terrifies a woman
most, and this is also true of everyone, man, woman, or
otherwise, is the thought of being a non-special exception.
That is the key to seduction, or used to be, anyway. Make
her feel special. Yeah, right. Nowadays all woman can see
through that line of crap. Well, not all of them. The
truth is, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
Women make me this way. It's their fault I suffer so many
contradictions.
So anyway, to make a long story shorter, I took her out to
dinner, we came home, fucked and sucked, and went to sleep.
A normal date, if you will pardon the expression. She,
however, got up in the middle of the night and went through
my stuff. No kidding, she got up in the middle of the night
and went through my shit. I woke up but pretended to be
asleep, waiting for her to go near my wallet or other
valuables. (I've seen that behavior before, believe me.)
She never did. She only went through my clothes, my
unpacked boxes of books, and the kitchen cabinets.
Strange. Then she came back to bed and went to sleep.
You might be thinking that I should have confronted her, but
you weren't there. As outrageous as it was, it wasn't. I
could tell that she meant no harm, that she wasn't going to
steal, or damage, or whatever, anything. She did it in a
matter-of-fact, curious way. Making herself at home.
Perfectly acceptable. What was I supposed to say? After
all, I was inside of her just a few hours before, making
myself at home. I guess she was trying to "get inside" of
me. Well no, that's stupid. That's not the explanation, as
neat as it sounds. As neatly packaged an explanation as your
typical psychologist would package and sell. I didn't
question her mostly because I had no way to tell an honest
answer from a dishonest one. Also, as I said above, and
even though I don't completely understand why, what she did
seemed OK, perfectly acceptable. I just went confidently
back to sleep.
I woke up to the smell of frying bacon and a cup of hot
coffee next to me. Breakfast in bed. A mushroom green-
onion omelet with afore mentioned bacon. Oh yeah! She then
did the dishes, cleaned up, including vacuuming and the
bathroom, and then settled in on the couch to watch TV and
snooze. Not a care in the world. I spent the next 4-5
hours trolling the local BBS's. She was absolutely
uninterested in my doings but seemed perfectly content.
Lunch was in there somewhere. Later I took a shower. She
appeared in the shower moments after I stepped in. Needless
to say my subject came up. She's so beautiful. etc. etc.
etc.
(A lot of noises upstairs. I think she's rearranging her
furniture. At 1 a.m.?)
Afterwards, we talked. Outside, freezing rain. No desire
to go anywhere. We just talked and talked and talked and
talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and
talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and
talked and talked... I couldn't even tell you what we talked about.
Soon it was 2 a.m. Time to sleep.
Sunday was a repeat of Saturday, generally speaking. I
won't give a blow-by-blow description. It was only late in
the evening that several things occurred to me. Like, for
example, was this a relationship? Think of that question
this way. Suppose I'd had a relationship with her for, say,
the last hundred years or so, instead of having had just met
her. If so, you could have cut and pasted the weekend
anywhere into those hundred years with a perfect fit. That
was how it was, right from the start. Like It had always
been. So what was to come next? Was this a relationship?
Looking back, that was my question of the moment, not hers.
At the time I could never have articulated any of these
issues. Even now I can't, obviously. I'm still working
this out. At the time there were just these vague mental
pingings like "You have mail" messages. Mental messages
saying, "You have something to think about." Funny how the
mind works.
Sunday evening, about 10, she just suddenly said, "OK.
It's been fun. See ya." Or words to that effect. Then
she was gone, leaving a hole in my heart.
It was like it didn't happen in a serious way, which it
didn't, come to think of it. Like a movie is over when it's
over. A basketball game is over when it's over. A
cruise... You get the idea. We've been together a few times
since. I'm starting to take it seriously now because I may be
in love with her. I didn't then, that weekend. Like conventional
wisdom says, a weekend like that is every
man's dream. No commitments or consequences afterwards, and
all that shit. It's not working out that way.
I may be in love with the girl upstairs.
L.L.
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Subject: Re: The Girl Upstairs
From: hanson@cs.uiowa.edu (Rolf Hanson)
In article <3n4e34$307@newsbf02.news.aol.com>, leslucid@aol.com (LesLucid)
writes:
|> I may be in love with the girl upstairs. I'm not sure.
<whap>
|>
|> I may be in love with the girl upstairs.
|>
|> L.L.
YOU SAP!!!
Just gut her out, stuff her, and stitch her back together. Then you won't have
to worry about her rummaging through your stuff and you can "be in love" all
you want, hootchie. DUH!!!!!!! Or better yet, BUY a prestuffed model from your
neighborhood taxidermist, same difference, and it leaves the nice woman upstairs
warm and coherent so the rest of the non-weenise world can interact with her.
Ask her what's up, or WIMP OFF! Poofy peandering in cyberia is going to get
you nowhere, unless you are one of the squishy ones who *enjoy* wallowing in a
permanent state of "I love X, does X love me?....sigh...wurble wurble
pbthhhhhh"
" I spent the next 4-5 hours trolling the local BBS's"
I am blind now.
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Subject: Re: The Girl Upstairs
From: i.stang@metronet.com (Rev. Ivan Stang)
leslucid@aol.com (LesLucid)wrote:
> I may be in love with the girl upstairs. I'm not sure.
Les, that's beautifully written and very insightful and good to see here,
but DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW YOU'RE TORTURING SOME OF THESE POOR SUBGENIUS
BOYS? I don't mean ME, of course not, ahem. No. But some of these
lonesome, acne-pitted, fat, skinny, 3rd-degree-burn-scarred, hunchbacked,
bespectacled, three-legged, acid-scarred, insecure, anxiety-ridden,
radiation-scarred, hate-filled, shy, reclusive, fiendishly brilliant,
awkward, clumsy, young, old, home-made-bomb-scarred, dandruff-beshouldered
SUBGENIUS boys (and maybe one or two girls) are GNAWING THEIR KNUCKLES
TILL THEY BLEED upon reading of your EFFORTLESS LUCK and STUDLINESS, and
sunk into horrible depression at the thought that you can have something
like this happen, and then have the LUXURY to be PHILOSOPHICAL about it!
Mind you, I don't react that way. THIS IS NOT ABOUT ME OR ANY OF MY
FRIENDS. I just wanted to let you know that I can IMAGINE how SOME of THEM
might feel. But keep it up, they must learn, their times will come if they
PAY ATTENTION. In the meantime there's some great pics up now on
alt.binaries.fetish.armless.shit-tick.bat.orgy.
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Subject: Re: The Girl Upstairs
From: anarch@cse.ucsc.edu (Anarch)
Rev. Ivan Stang <i.stang@metronet.com> wrote:
>leslucid@aol.com (LesLucid) wrote:
>> I may be in love with the girl upstairs. I'm not sure.
>
>lonesome [X] >radiation-scarred [ ]
>acne-pitted [ ] >hate-filled [X]
>fat [ ] >shy [X]
>skinny [ ] >reclusive [X]
>3rd-degree-burn-scarred [ ] >fiendishly brilliant [X]
>hunchbacked [ ] >awkward [X]
>bespectacled [X] >clumsy [ ]
>three-legged [ ] >young [ ]
>acid-scarred [X] >old [ ]
>insecure [X] >home-made-bomb-scarred [X]
>anxiety-ridden [ ] >dandruff-beshouldered [ ]
>GNAWING THEIR KNUCKLES TILL THEY BLEED [X]
>In the meantime there's some great pics up now on
>alt.binaries.fetish.armless.shit-tick.bat.orgy.
But unfortunately we don't get that group here.
anarch@cse.ucsc.edu +-+-+ Just because it's a JOKE doesn't mean it's not TRUE
D I S C L A I M E R : E V E R Y T H I N G I W R I T E I S F A L S E
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