mychai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fuckin' Roach First off, forgive my language in this one. I'm not in the best of moods. It's 2:30am. I am woken up -- again! -- by the terribly inconsiderate and extremely loud next door neighbor having an after-bar party right outside my window. This is the third time in a week. And any time someone gives the traditional, "Shut the fuck up!", she gives the even more traditional, "Fuck you!" in return. So, three days in a row I've been woken up at exactly 2:30 and can't get back to sleep because it is so loud. So, I get up and just accept that my day will have to begin at 2:30 in the morning, praise be to Allah. Oh, and then Oprah sucks today. Who cares about fuckin' Valentino? So, I shut off Oprah and hop in the shower. I get out. Dry off, and put on my uniform. I have to make a drive to Ramstein to take my first weather test. One-hundred questions on RADAR, space weather, and other fun weather stuff that we never really need to know in the real world. There is a traffic jam on the way. I get there, rush up with minutes to spare, and guess who is amongst the five people taking the test. Fuckin' Roach. And she's a-flirtin' with one of the guys in there, being all giggly and all "Awww, poor baby" when the schmo is talking about being hungover because he drank soooo much Red Bull and Vodka. He was probably 19 and never could legally drink and talk about it, so he let all of us know just how drunk he got off of his five Red Bulls and Vodka. He kept track. Then the putz wanted to go person-by-person and have each of us tell the group where we like to go and party. It was a fucking guided conversation about where we like to drink by some pimply-assed peniswrinkle who was getting hit on by Fuckin' Roach. Yeah. The same Fuckin' Roach who is getting married to one guy and having my child. And she was all like, "Ohhh... I don't drink! And I can't drink coffee. And I can't do much exercise any more." And people would ask, "Why? Why can't you drink? Why can't you drink coffee? Why? Why? Why????" And every time she would be all, "Oh, I can't really discuss it, hehehehehe." Just rubbing it in my face. Fuckin' Roach. So, I take the test. Pass it. And I leave. Fuckin' Roach is standing outside. Just standing. In the middle of... nothing. Just standing there like that guy from Patch Adams who can only lift his left hand. Only her arms weren't raised. She was just standing. So, I walk up to her and I'm all... "I just want you to know that I'm going to get a court-ordered paternity test and, if mine, I am going to petition the court for all of my custody rights." I wasn't being confrontational at all. Probably, if anything, I was polite about it. She puffed up, turned around, and stormed away. Cut to the scene where I am in my room and Christina comes by. "Did you talk to Roach?" So, Christina and I hop in the BMW and go to the grocery store because Christina had a weird craving for hotdogs and sauerkraut. Not those kinds of cravings. Shame on you. When we get back, a message was on my door to contact the 1st Sergeant. Fuckin' Roach. So, I call him and he wants me in his office first thing tomorrow (this) morning with my supervisor. Who knows what the hell she told him. Whatever it was, though, I guarantee that she is the victim and I am the abusive, threatening, obsessive creep that she seems to make everyone believe I am. Everyone always believes the girl. The guy is always the bad one. Ok. I can accept that she doesn't want me to ruin the lie she has been telling her obviously ridiculously blind fiance. I frankly couldn't care less what she has told him. There is only one thing I want for the gestation period of the kid, and that's to know what the doctors say so I can feel like I have some resemblance of participation in the creation of a child. What would it hurt if she tells me how her progress is going and the extremely off chance that the baby isn't mine comes to fruition? I know a little bit about her pregnancy. That's it. No harm. Frankly, if it isn't mine, she couldn't be far enough away from me. So, I'm probably going to get into trouble for being the stand-up guy who actually cares about the well being of the baby -- and indirectly, the mom he knocked up. I honestly believe I would have had a much easier time of it if I would have told her that she was a skank ho and to never talk to me again, no matter if the baby is mine or not. This is a bizarro world we are living in. So, here I am, waiting to be yelled at for being a good guy. I've been up for almost 30 hours. My hair feels disgusting because... it just does. It's been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I'm moving to Australia. 4:15 a.m. - Friday, Oct. 22, 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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