I'm going through mega-bitch phase. Of nicotine withdrawal, that is. A little part of me which has lost all power can hear me being crusty, can feel me being unreasonably ornery, and knows it's all out of control. That little part can't do a goddamn thing about it, and at times that little part can go take a flying fuck.
Ponge regularly does things that makes me think, god Ponge you're such an idiot sometimes. Now, it's absolutely true that I'm an overly anal judgemental control freak when it comes to the closest people in my life. For some reason I find it easier to forgive strangers and acquaintances for going about things in an idiotic manner. Maybe it's just the lack of emotional investment in those people.
Anyway, this morning Ponge comes up to me to tell me his tire is flat, so can I please open our storage area (he doesn't know how to open combo locks) so he can ride my mom's bike, which has been sitting in there for months since he got his own bike as a gift from V and Columbia Josh. (Not-pregnant Josh is now Columbia Josh cuz that's where he is). He's been wanting to ride it anyway, apparently, because it has a splash guard.
I take a look at his bike and explain to him that his tires aren't "flat," they just need air. That is, they aren't completely and suddenly flat as a tire with holes would be. He just probably has never put any air in the tire since he got the bikes. Then he goes to sit on the bike to show me that it is indeed "flat." Ok.
A--I fucking hate it when people explain things to me that I have already understood. Especially when I understand the problem/situation/whatever better than they do. It's a waste of time, it gets on my nerves. Gr.
B--I fucking hate it when I explain something to Ponge and he goes on to show me via his words or actions that he either didn't understand and didn't ask for clarification or wasn't listening.
So I tell him again that no, it's not a "flat," it just needs air. And we don't have a converter for the type of air compressor attachment that's needed, so he will have to do this at a bike shop rather than a gas station. There is one just four blocks from our apartment.
He doesn't want to fuck around with this, so takes the bike back to the basement & I unlock the storage unit. I find, as expected, that the borrowed bike has been sitting there long enough that it, too, needs air. Either way he needs to get air or borrow my bike.
He's all talking about "I'm just going to ride it like this." NO. No you are not, because then you really will fuck up the tires and wheels. Columbia Josh and V hand built this bike for him, there is no way in fuck I'm letting him fuck it all up. Especially when we don't have any fucking money to fix the things he gets wrong. If you're going to be late than just borrow my bike.
He doesn't say anything and carries his bike back up the stairs while I lock the other bike back up in the storage unit. I start to explain to him that he should walk the bike to the bike shop, don't ride it. He says again, I'm going to ride it. No, you're not. He's all, Kelly, I'm going to be late.
HelLO. Didn't I JUST fucking say then borrow my bike?? Didn't I JUST explain what was going to happen to that bike if he rode it like it was?? Is he completely fucking DENSE or what?
GodDAMN.
So he takes his bike back downstairs and I run up to get my extra bike key for him. I come back downstairs to find him taking off my bike basket.
(What the fuck are you doing? Why the hell would you do that?)
Ponge, leave that alone. Put it back on. Why would you take that off?
Now, this is a milk crate which is held on by a bungie cord. That is, it's not meant to be removed because it's a huge pain in the ass to put it back on. Additionally, the brake light is duct taped to it. Hello, safety? Additionally, he was so concerned about getting splashed on; well, my basket acts a lot more like a splash guard than say, air. Hello, logic?
I do not understand that person sometimes. Really, what in the world would be the point of taking off the basket? Is it unfashionable? The bike is so damn heavy anyway that the basket hardly makes a difference.
Sigh. I also apparently need to teach Ponge some basic bike maintenance so he doesn't run that nice ass bike into the ground. Right now I just want to stab his eyes out (did I mention I'm also running on about 5 hours sleep).
Basics: check and inflate your tires regularly. Clean and oil your gears regularly. Inform me when one of the brakes isn't working so that I can figure out what's going on & either fix it for you or recommend a bike shop. Don't ride the bike with empty tires. Adjust the seat to the proper ergonomic height for you. Put the fucking lights I bought you on the fucking bike so you don't get killed. I D I O T.
Lessee, while I'm having a bitch fest, what else does Ponge do that gets on me nerves?
**uses the last of something (bagel, granola bars, anything packaged) and just leaves the package out. Throw the shit away.
**loses my socks. Wear the shit all you want, but don't let it get sucked into the disorganized pile of blackholeness in your part of the closet.
**never throws anything away that is clearly useless: example, used up phone cards. example, receipt for cash paid at Chipotle. Examine your crap and decide if you need it. If not, get rid of it.
**calls people and talks EXTREMELY LOUDLY when we are watching a movie or TV together. Go in the other room for the love of god.
**breathes and eats very noisily. Blow yer nose, keep yer mouth shut while chewing.
**forgets that I speak French. We can be having a conversation and he will be struggling with some concept or whatever. He doesn't say it in French and ask for clarification when he clearly doesn't know how to say it in English. He just stumbles around. Now I understand pushing yourself to learn English but at a certain point just say the shit in French and I can get a clear idea of what the hell you are trying to say and then tell you it's equivalent in English.
I'm sure there's a lot more, but I've reached my nitpicking mega-bitch quotient for the time being.
Wow. Bitching sure is good for the soul. Some day I could maybe make a list of the stuff he does that I love, but I don't want to negate all the great bitching I just did. Just mentioning that there is a counterbalance takes some of the therapy out of it.