The bloated bustard of incessant bulemia.

Bustard.

It's been a while, my precious readers, and for good reason: as you may have read in my previous 'blog, my roommate and former friend Tony moved out last weekend, leaving me with a toilet that hasn't seen cleaning since August of last year and the shadowy spectre of debt beyond my means. I will tell you one thing: cleaning that much blood out of your car trunk's upholstry isn't just difficult, it's effing impossible. Also: Home Depot wonders why you are buying three bags of quicklime if you do it at eight in the morning. With rope. And a saw.

I'd written that last 'blog as catharsis, but the response I got overwhelmed me with raw humanity and restored some of my faith in people's ability to do good things. That, and quite a few of you came out with me the night when I slashed his tires and shat on his doorhandles. Nothing says "friendship" like dressing like a ninja for me at three AM and taking a screwdriver to someone's car. I cherish you all.

The worst seems to be over. I managed to work things out with the rental office--well, as much as they can legally allow. I've been "visiting" the neighborhood Dumpsters (not IN the Dumpsters...that's irresponsibly disgusting) and I've found some lovely furniture; my living room doesn't quite have the "fleeing my homeland before a paramilitary death squad" feel anymore. A visit to the Dollar Store got me forks and a bowl and a plate or two. And some of my relatives who believed that my time in the corn was going to end sent donations to the cause, which I will squirrel away in an untouchable savings account.

At night: the silence. Oh, at first I was unnerved; for the past nine months I'd fallen asleep with the buzz of a television from the adjacent living room, or the washing machine, or Tony talking to one of his sorostitutes, several of whom he was porking on a regular basis. Now, the only noise I hear is the noise I make, and I can only moan like a skinless leper just so much before the neighbors call management.

It's actually, in a strange way, a relief. Tony and I had grown apart so much that we didn't even share anything anymore, either in our lives or in our home. The refrigerator had become Ground Zero for a herculean battle of will: no, you will NOT put your shit on my side. No, I don't care if you DO buy more food than me. In the end, my food was death-marched into the back corner near the box of baking soda and my frozen goods were exiled to the door of the freezer, where they rapidly became frostburned and inedible. And the living room - oh, the living room. Since all of the things in there belonged to him, it was made abundantly apparent that I wasn't really welcome to use any of it. Tony's drunken buddies spent more time on his couch than I did. And, while he never said any of this out loud, the feelings of children are transparent.

Now it's all mine again. I can do what I want when I want to. I can eat cake and watch Six Feet Under at three AM in MY living room should I choose. This week I've been finding myself hastening to come home so I can be in my own space, my three-month sanctuary. Come August and the better, happier life I've been dreaming of for seven months, this will all seem miragelike. I can't say I'll miss it. I can't say I will feel even a tinge of remorse. I just feel older, wiser, and a little less vulnerable.

This afternoon I came home to a box waiting for me in my mailbox. Inside: a brand-new, beautiful wok. There was no return address on the box, and I was utterly confounded as to who would have done something so unexpected and so timely. On the packing slip was written: "Now you have a pot to piss in. :)" It was from one of my former roommates and friend Shannon and her husband Rick and their daughter. Long ago (so it seems) a fresh-from-Turkey Domonic was a groomsman at their wedding, but it's been more than an year since I'd seen them. As I put it together, my mush-center nearly fell in on itself and I found my sight getting a little blurry. Yes, a wok made me mist up a little bit, and I am man enough to admit it. Of course, it wasn't the wok itself, but the idea that someone out there had my back when I couldn't watch it myself.

So, thanks for the calls. And the emails. The support... well, I can't repay it, so I guess in the Jewish sense of things that they are all mitzvahs - good deeds done for their own sake. One day, when you call upon me, I will come, and you'd better believe I will be bringing my shuriken.

I remain, as ever,

Domonic the humbled