Yesterday was a great day. I wrote something awesome that I’m proud of and I got lots of affirmation and love in return.
Today sucked. It was not a work day. All I had to do today was make a few phone calls and go to therapy. Everything else was Bunny Fun Free time and I was rarin’ to go. I need to do a little shoppin’, I gotta a little weekend footie action to catch up on, it’s a good day to sit outside with a Graham Greene novel, maybe cook a little, change the sheets (since my mind meld with Mr. D seems to be broken and it’s time for a night without dog hair up my nose), do some knittin’, or whatevs my highly imaginative, if partly dead, brain could devise. That is not how it worked out.
The Greatest of the Great Juventini, Alessandro Del Piero, the Greatest Goalkeeper of All Time With The Possible Exception of Dino Zoff, Gianluigi Buffon, and the Regista of All Registas, Andrea Pirlo, reunited last summer for an exhibition match in Oz. Little impresses Mr. Pirlo, but ADP does. He’s one of the few who can challenge Pirlo in a dead ball situation, and Pirlo gives respect where respect is due, cos he’s got class.
I got shaken by a surprise (to me, anyway) schedule change from Mr. D and I could not recover. So that’s one thing.
I was unable to make any phone calls. Why? you ask. Because I couldn’t. Yeah. That’s two.
I sat waiting for the shower of love and affirmation to come and it (mostly) didn’t, so I got to realize that even after two months in the booby hatch, my sense of self is highly dependent on things outside myself. Then I got to be disappointed about my lack of progress and wonder why the fuck I bother with any of this. That’s three.
I went to therapy, but only because I happened to look up from fiddling with my phone when it was time to go, or else I would have missed it. Therapy is not fun. However, I did get over the cognitive fallacies behind number three, because my therapist is pretty good. That’s four.
Here’s five. Normal happy people might spend a free day with an actual boyfriend, or a friend, or alone. A lonely person with a vivid imagination and a couple of hang-ups might spend a day like this with an imaginary friend. Dirtbunny? Dirtbunny spends the day with her imaginary boyfriend, but do they have anything that could be considered a good time? No. They have a fight. I amaze myself.
So here’s what happened. We were at a big gala ball like they used to have in Edwardian times and which don’t even exist anymore. Dirtbunny looked smashing in her black gown with the bits of white facing, and she was the belle of the ball. There was dancing and flirting and sparkling conversation with all the awesome men of calcio. And there was dancing and intense smoldering looks with the imaginary boyfriend exclusively for a rather long time. Then he decides that it’s about time to take the evening to the next level, so he takes a quick break to check on the arrangements for the hotel room upstairs.
While he is gone, Dirtbunny is approached by none other than *siiiiiiiiiigh* Silvio Berlusconi, all tanned and decked out with his stinkiest cologne, his tackiest man-jewelry, and his phoniest smile. Yuck. He asks Dirtbunny to dance. She declines gracefully. He insists. She declines politely but perhaps with a little less silkiness in her charm. He grabs her wrist. She asks him nicely to let go and he insists and she sez leggo and it goes back and forth and stuff until finally she says “Remove your hand or I will have it removed. This is your last warning.” He gets angry and calls her a whore. Still with me? She puts on her stoniest serious business face and says “You have five seconds.” He laughs. She gives him the five seconds, plus two extra because he’s old and slow, and then she goes ninja on him and flips him onto his back in one quick move. It ends up with her
boot custom-made sparkly black shoe on his neck.
Boyfriend has concluded his business, sees that something is up, sees that Dirtbunny (of course) is at the center of it and pushes through the crowd to arrive just in time for the ninja part. He stops dead in his tracks and his jaw drops open. He was playing in the Bundesliga during that time with Marco Materazzi at the night club, and he hadn’t heard about her ninja skills. While Boyfriend (and the crowd) stand there gaping, Dirtbunny removes her foot and says with all the contempt she has collected over the many years of following Mr. Berlusconi’s career “Get. Up.” This is a command that must be obeyed, and so it is. He stands before her, hunched over and breathing hard.
“Would you like to apologize or do you wish to further deepen your disgrace?” There’s a long hesitation, but finally something is muttered. “Very well. See that you don’t do it again. To anyone.” She then turns and prepares to stalk dramatically out of the ballroom. Dirtbunny likes to stalk dramatically. Before she gets anywhere, Boyfriend puts his hand on her elbow to escort her. Not to direct her or control her, just to support her the way a gentleman might do. And that’s when it happens.
God. Is this ever going to be over with? There aren’t even any dick jokes.
Dirtbunny shakes his hand off violently. “I NEED PROTECTION FROM NO MAN. I NEED THE PROTECTION OF NO MAN. I TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!” And recommence with the dramatic stalking. Poor Boyfriend stands there, motionless and bewildered.
The ending is none of your goddamn business, but don’t feel too bad for Boyfriend. He’s a patient man, he knew exactly what he was getting into when he decided it was time to move out of the Friend Zone, and he knows that it’s worth it. When she’s not acting like a psycho.
To sum up, Dirtbunny’s glorious day of Big Fun hit a minor bump early on and derailed the whole day because Bunny couldn’t roll with it, then she sat around all day making bad choices and bemoaning her lack of progress, and even her imaginary relationships are bizarre and dysfunctional.
Juve played Cesena today and if memory serves, it’s about time for the match broadcast to air on cable. Boyfriend is still broken and not on the call sheet, but I was Juventina before he ever got there. Can’t be bothered to proofread. I gotta go.
Pirlo isn’t on the call-up sheet either, but someday, someday……
c’mon LeoDingbat. Give me a reason to post about you.
This post powered by two decades of very expensive therapy.