The difficulty of judgement

Some of you reading this may be under the illusion that I am a nice person. Although, to be honest if you've read much of my brain vomit over the last couple of weeks (couple of weeks?!!!) you have probably deduced by now my true nature. Cynical, cold and a wishful rodent murderer. Anyway, the point is, if you have somehow retained a good opinion of me, and do not wish that illusion to be shattered- if you think of me as a God perhaps, a God whose fall from grace would render your own lives pointless, I would advise you to close down your computer now and go and have a very thoughtful sandwich or something, until tomorrow's update.

Ok. See you tomorrow. Thanks for stopping by. Just put some cream cheese onto a leaflet if you don't have any bread, honestly, its the fillings that really make it. Thanks again.

All gone? Ok great.
Now. What's going to happen is that I am going to be needlessly cruel about a housemate of mine, a person that I don't really know, and who will probably, in all likelihood, never do me any wrong. So technically, he's already one up on the squirrel.

And why am I going to do this?
Well, i don't really know. You know when you just get a feeling about someone, the same feeling you get when a British guy enters in an American film wearing a black coat, and you just know that he's the one who actually rigged the reading of the will so that his happy go lucky stepbrother and hero gets nothing, even though he's the one that really needs Sir Smigglewick's money because his son was born without arms, and thus needs funding for his 'painters without boundaries' foundation? you know? that feeling. It's tricky to explain, but I just bloody well don't like him.

I'm going to put what little evidence I have against him towards you, and perhaps you can tell me better than I can who is the wanker here, me or him. I'm beginning to suspect that 2 weeks with only my own brain to run things past is making my judgement a little hazy, not least because of when I woke up today and realised I had voluntarily put a picture of my own massive underwear onto the internet without a moment's hesitation.

The housemate I am talking about, you may have realised, is the out of place banker. I see him wearing two kinds of things, one- a suit, and two- a basketball uniform (oh yes there is probably a name but lets just move on shall we?). All fine so far, a normal human, I'm sure you'll agree. On my first day in the house, I was being exceedingly 'lets be friends, yes?' and offered to make him a cup of tea. Not just any cup of tea you realise. I was using P.G bloody tips, smuggled into the country with a hope and a prayer, the stuff I sold on the subway by phone for hundreds of dollars a gram. And I was offering my limited supply to him. He said, 'yeah great'. So, thus it was, and thus I made and thus I brought over. At the time, he was munching on down on a MASSIVE bag on kettle chips, and as I set his tea down on a coaster, he mumbled 'cool thanks,' whilst watching 'the game', some playoffs thing that I have no intention of going into, either here or in the rest of my life. Now. It could be that I am just a stickler for food type things. But you'd offer the crisps. You just would. I mean, this bag was nearly as big as him. And I bet he didn't smuggle it into the country. But come now Tash, I said to myself, as surely as you're saying wordlessly to me now, its just some crisps. Lets not be a massive bitch.

You're right, I was right, and so I let it go, perhaps this was all the food he'd had for the day (it wasn't, he'd had a dock off pizza earlier. I had watched with both hope and then resigned disappointment)

He then, obviously suddenly realised that this offering of tea was a British ritual meaning 'you have to talk to me now, for as long as it takes to drink that.' He tore his eyes from the screen and said 'so, you like sports?'
I sort of inwardly twisted about. I don't. I really really don't. But he was offering conversation, and it would go against everything in me to knock a stranger back from conversation. We know this from previous mishaps. 'Well, you know, I don't mind playing them' (the last time I played a sport was in 2004, and I think it was table tennis.) 'but, I dont get a lot of kicks out of watching them, hahaha'
He snorted,
'yeah and I guess in Britain you guys watch, erm, you know, cricket? Right? And that shit is dull!'

Now. I hate watching cricket. I hate is so much, I would rather watch a 4 hour documentary on why Katie Price is a great business woman then watch 40 minutes of a cricket match. I hate it. I have had arguments with learned people where they tell me things like 'its all about the pyschology of the game' 'its the tactics, they are utterly fascinating', and 'It's like becoming absorbed in a 4 day game of chess!' All of these things I have heard, and all of these things I have rejected. It is boring. For me, that is the end of the matter. However. there is a very big difference between me saying this sport is boring, and this man telling me cricket is boring. I felt as if I'd been having an argument with my mum on the street, had cried out 'mum, STOP phoning random Americans, you are literally mad!' and then a stranger had tackled her roughly from behind, forced her to the floor and screamed 'YOU ARE INSANE BITCH! YOU ARE COMPLETELY FUCKIN INSAAAAANE!'
And that, quite frankly, is not cool.

'well you know, a lot of it is to do with tactics, you know,' I say rather stung, he shrugs.'whatever, you know its just kinda boring,'
'Its more a pyschological game I think.' I mutterly vaguely 'Kind of like chess.'
Can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth.
'ha. yeah. maybe. But, you know.'
And he drinks my tea. And that's kind of the end of the conversation.

Now I have to admit, this is basically all I have on him in terms of person to person contact. But I have also heard him on the phone. Tonight he spent about an hour and a half on the phone, laughing in a really quite bizarrely high pitched voice (you know Doc in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? I know i'm being all convoluted, but yeah. Like that). And I hear the odd phrase. The odd phrases like (and these are all word for word)

'yeah, and remember, ahahahaha, that then Jeff kicked him in the face?'
'I don't know man, I'm not sure I should see her anymore after that night where she totally schitzed out on me', fuckin weirdo'
'Ouch, that woulda hurt, if I hadn't just been to the gym man!'
'yeah and then I totally put a rat in her wall.'

Ok maybe one of the above isn't quite authentic. But you get my drift. Oh God I am just a bitch aren't I? A massive bitch with even more massive pants. Oh well.

In other news, all this means that I really am getting quite fond of my squirrel. (I've decided, based on the solid evidence that squirrels don't poo and that rats don't scratch, that is is absoutely not a rat.) He's never said a word against my culture, and I'm almost certain he doesn't drink tea.

I also went to the East Village for most of today. About 27 theatres tucked into mysterious and difficult to find roads- which actually makes it feel much more of an achievement when you finally find them, in comparison to Time square where every bit of theatrical advertising gets burst unceremoniously onto the inside of your eyelids. Bit like a teen flick, where the jock at first goes for the blonde with the massive boobs and wet lips, but inevitably in the end sees the beauty in the slightly shorter brunette with the massive boobs and the lips that get wet halfway through. Ah romance.

Also saw a flyer for Puppetry Kafka. Yeah. I'm going to have to give that one a go.