I Want My MTV

I used to live in a shitty apartment. I know everyone says this, but I mean it. This was the kind of place where there were more pit bulls than people, and clusters of stray shopping carts replaced what would’ve otherwise been landscaping . The kitchen cabinets looked like they were engineered by a blind ten year old, and the counters were made of a beautiful cork (painted white) that broke off in large chunks whenever it was wet. The carpet was soaked in what I hope was pet urine, which after a vat of Febreze, smelled like urine and…laundry. Bob Villa himself couldn’t have made this place habitable, but it at least had cable, so I couldn’t complain too much.

I watched a lot of TV back then, usually while eating a platter of egg and cheese biscuits I made for myself. I attribute this to the fact that my dick well was bone dry and I wasn’t expecting it to fill up anytime soon. So one day, when my ex and I got into a fight (the origins of which I have long forgotten) and he tried to take his TV, I snapped. I lost it. I thought, “You deprive me of dick and now you want to take away the TV?! Why don’t you just come out in the middle of the night when I am masturbating on the couch where I sleep now and cut my fingers off? Then you could really take away everything I have.”

This is all sounding exceedingly pathetic (because it is), so I believe it deserves an explanation. My ex, James, and I were together for a little over 3 years, 2 of which were spent living together in Joe’s Apartment. However, our relationship slowly devolved into more of a friendship as time passed, but we both failed to properly recognize it. Instead, I slept on the couch in another room, we never had sex,  and I sought companionship in a puddle of Kraft cheese.

This should come as no surprise, but the same apartment with the paper mache walls and spider infestation, didn’t exactly have windows made of bullet proof glass either. They were more like panes of solidified sugar. I learned this when I tried to push him out of one of them.

During this fight, James threatened to take all of his belongings and move them into the bedroom, and essentially turn our one bedroom apartment into two, with me occupying the living room. He would pull this card a lot, and every time, I felt like Harry Potter when he was forced to live under the stairs at his Uncle’s house. Sure, he would’ve been gracious enough to permit me use of the couch and the coffee table that I bought for $4 at the Salvation Army, but other than that, everything else was his and he had plans to cram it all in one room.

I leapt at him from my masturbation pad (couch) as I saw him advance toward the TV and attempt to take it out of my life forever. At this point, he had a choice to make. He could fend me off and surrender the television, or risk breaking the television and have to explain a black eye the next day. There was, however, Secret Option C, which resulted in a broken window and fragmented relationship, the pieces of which were never fully retrieved. I still remember the look in his eyes as I tried my best to expel him from the second floor of our apartment and onto the rotten shrubs below. It was a mix of “Oh my god I am going to die”, and “I can’t believe she is doing this over an episode of Top Chef.”

The window was eventually remedied with a trash bag and duct tape, which was probably an improvement from what we had before. The large black pane was a constant reminder of my broken relationship, but seeing it out of the corner of my eye as I watched my precious TV, somehow made the biscuit sandwiches taste a little sweeter.

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