Title: Friends, Girlfriends, Roommates, & Other Fuckwads
Author: Rebecca Perlow
Rating: R for repeated profanity.
Summary: A post "Ghost World" romp. Enid's ruminations while
spending the night with Seymour.
Disclaimer: Enid, Seymour, Becky, Enid's dad, Maxine, Dana
none of them are mine. They all belong to Daniel Clowes and
Terry Zwigoff.
Author's Note: My name is Rebecca and I saw "Ghost World" in
the theater six times. Like Enid, I'm 18 years old and
graduated from high school last Spring. My first summer after
graduation included my father's heart attack two days after
the ceremony, my mother walking out on us a month later, the
purchasing of my first car, my first car accident, my first
turn table, my first record, and, later, flunking out of my
first semester of college. I had no choice but to love this
movie, and I hope this story does it justice.
************************************************************
When I promised Seymour he'd be up to his neck in pussy by
the end of the summer, I didn't think it'd be mine.
Not to say the idea hasn't ever crossed my mind, and I know
it crossed Seymour's more than once. But it was always in
theory. The big 'What if..' What if horse shit sat on pin
heads? What if clouds were made of opium? What if Seymour
and I slept together?
It was a hypothesis made impossible by a 20 plus years age
difference and a mutual clumsiness in the ways of romance.
But, looking back on it, niether of those things were ever
a substantial deterrent. Over the course of our sometimes
awkward, sometimes surprising, always unique friendship, we
managed to sidestep our conjoined baggage leftover from
previous less-than-successful encounters with the opposite
sex and forge something that was..I don't know, rare. And
kinda cool.
And the age difference always seemed to be someone else's
problem rather than mine or Seymour's. The looks we got from
people when we went out were interesting. I know Becky was
especially repulsed, and I can imagine what Dana had to say
on the subject.
'She just doesn't understand how I would know someone like
you. Someone so young.'
A thirty year old 'striking blond' feeling threatened for
the affections of a forty year old 'bookish' record collector
by Jewish, green-haired, little old me. What a riot. I wonder
what she would have said about our little field trip to
Anthony's.
Back then, the idea of sex with Seymour wasn't even in
theory. Sex with anyone wasn't even in theory. And yet, when
I think about it, it was always in the realm of possibility.
And now, with Seymour's scratchy afghan wrapped around me,
and a naked Seymour wrapped around it, I'm uncomfortably
aware of the fact that possibility seems to have crash-landed
into reality.
And to complicate matters even further, he wasn't bad.
Seymour may not have had a girlfriend in over four years, but
he definetly remembers the particulars of that part of the
equation. I mean, I won't have any problems walking home in
the morning but, still, it was nice. It was nice.
So how come I feel like complete and utter crap?
Maybe it's because he's still technically dating Dana. Dana
of the personals, famed in song and wet dream. In a way, I
have her to thank for meeting Seymour. If he hadn't been so
inspired by her heavenly presence, he wouldn't have placed
that ad, thus never inspiring me to play that prank, thus
never inspiring me to follow him home, thus never inspiring
me to buy his record, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda in
short, I have Dana to thank for meeting Seymour.
But I won't.
I wonder if he's slept with her yet. Two months for most
adults would be more than enough time but, somehow, I just
don't see it. Maybe if Dana wasn't a Clairol-streaked, stone-
washed, boergouis princess, antiquing fuckwad, I could. Plus
knowing Seymour knowing me, I think he would have thought
twice about poking his pecker inside me if it was covered
with Dana cooties. He knows I would have had something to
say about that.
I wonder if he'll sleep with her after this. If he does, I
hope my cooties give her cooties the clap. He probably won't
though. He'll probably break up with her after this. Part of
me will turn cartwheels over that. Actually all of me will
turn cartwheels over that. Right down main street, right over
the pants, and probably right into Norman, not that he'll
notice unless I've got eight wheels and a special compartment
to store his luggage.
Adios Dana, go buy some jeans.
I guess it's not guilt over Dana that's bothering me. Maybe
it's that I've got a champagne headache that would melt
Seymour's 78s and it's making every fart from Joe's room
down the hall sound like a windstorm. Toward the end of my
buzz, I see Becky glaring at me, the manager from the movie
place telling me not to drink on the job, and my dad asking
if I used his blue spatula to 'make the champagne bubble.'
Actually, the word bubble sounds more like 'bahhhbell' as
Dad has Maxine's toes in his mouth.
As I begin to come out of the haze, it occurs to me I asked
Seymour if I could move in with him. It's a fairly logical
concept, now that we've ridden the hobby horse, and one with
mutual benefits. I'd save him from Dana's perkiness and Joe's
flatulence, he'd save me from my own chronic misery and the
horrors of living with my dad and Maxine. It'd be just the
two of us, shutting out the rest of the world, though
occasionally peeking in on it to gather data for our largely
negative, though often accurate commentary. It's perfect.
How ironic that I would have convinced Seymour of its
perfection right after I'd convinced myself that it looked
better on the drawing board.
I meant it when I asked him. Part of me still means it now,
but deep down I know it's a bad idea. Like living with Becky
was and is a bad idea. I've lived with my father for 18 years
and nothing good's come of it, why should living with my
friends be any different?
I think, through sheer neglect, I've managed to persuade
Becky into believing I'm completely unlivable, now I just
have to convince Seymour. I'd be a terrible person to live
with Seymour. See? I hog the covers. My breath smells gross
first thing in the morning and probably tastes even worse.
I'm ferociously needy, you may have to quit your job just
to spend more time with me. I'm terminally untidy. All your
rooms would look like a cyclone hit them. I thrash around in
bed, my tits would probably smother you in your sleep. I'm a
horrible person, Seymour. Please don't want to live with me.
Somehow, I don't think he'll be so easily convinced. I'll
have to work on my approach.
It's kinda hard to stare into space when space is all dark
and fuzzy. Where are my glasses? Clothing inventory: my dress
is in a ball on the floor. My tights are in a twisted heap
at the foot of the bed. But where the fuck are my glasses?
If my alcohol-muddled recollections are correct, Seymour
took them off, which means they're likely on the night table.
A long reach. I hope he doesn't wake up when my nipples graze
his chin.
Much better. Seymour stirs a bit but doesn't wake up. Ohh.
He looks so sweet when he's sleeping. Happy. I wonder if he
always looks this way. Or is it just a sex thing? Oh well,
he looks happy. His hair is sticking up slightly in the
back. It isn't as oily as it looks, and, true enough,
it's rather soft to the touch. It feels warm against my face,
nice.
Again with the 'nice.' Again with the 'so, why do I feel like
crap?' It's becoming a vicious cycle.
Maybe because Seymour's one of my closest friends and, with
Josh talking to me even less than before, and Becky ditching
me in favor of checkered curtains and plastic cups, quite
possibly my only friend. And by sleeping with my only friend,
I've started something I can't finish.
So now I find myself asking the age old question most people
between shit and a shingle have been asking themselves since
the beginning of time: what am I going to do now?
The answer is fall back asleep, and hope that the answer comes
to me in a dream. Or maybe a hangover.
Fuck.
Author: Rebecca Perlow
Rating: R for repeated profanity.
Summary: A post "Ghost World" romp. Enid's ruminations while
spending the night with Seymour.
Disclaimer: Enid, Seymour, Becky, Enid's dad, Maxine, Dana
none of them are mine. They all belong to Daniel Clowes and
Terry Zwigoff.
Author's Note: My name is Rebecca and I saw "Ghost World" in
the theater six times. Like Enid, I'm 18 years old and
graduated from high school last Spring. My first summer after
graduation included my father's heart attack two days after
the ceremony, my mother walking out on us a month later, the
purchasing of my first car, my first car accident, my first
turn table, my first record, and, later, flunking out of my
first semester of college. I had no choice but to love this
movie, and I hope this story does it justice.
************************************************************
When I promised Seymour he'd be up to his neck in pussy by
the end of the summer, I didn't think it'd be mine.
Not to say the idea hasn't ever crossed my mind, and I know
it crossed Seymour's more than once. But it was always in
theory. The big 'What if..' What if horse shit sat on pin
heads? What if clouds were made of opium? What if Seymour
and I slept together?
It was a hypothesis made impossible by a 20 plus years age
difference and a mutual clumsiness in the ways of romance.
But, looking back on it, niether of those things were ever
a substantial deterrent. Over the course of our sometimes
awkward, sometimes surprising, always unique friendship, we
managed to sidestep our conjoined baggage leftover from
previous less-than-successful encounters with the opposite
sex and forge something that was..I don't know, rare. And
kinda cool.
And the age difference always seemed to be someone else's
problem rather than mine or Seymour's. The looks we got from
people when we went out were interesting. I know Becky was
especially repulsed, and I can imagine what Dana had to say
on the subject.
'She just doesn't understand how I would know someone like
you. Someone so young.'
A thirty year old 'striking blond' feeling threatened for
the affections of a forty year old 'bookish' record collector
by Jewish, green-haired, little old me. What a riot. I wonder
what she would have said about our little field trip to
Anthony's.
Back then, the idea of sex with Seymour wasn't even in
theory. Sex with anyone wasn't even in theory. And yet, when
I think about it, it was always in the realm of possibility.
And now, with Seymour's scratchy afghan wrapped around me,
and a naked Seymour wrapped around it, I'm uncomfortably
aware of the fact that possibility seems to have crash-landed
into reality.
And to complicate matters even further, he wasn't bad.
Seymour may not have had a girlfriend in over four years, but
he definetly remembers the particulars of that part of the
equation. I mean, I won't have any problems walking home in
the morning but, still, it was nice. It was nice.
So how come I feel like complete and utter crap?
Maybe it's because he's still technically dating Dana. Dana
of the personals, famed in song and wet dream. In a way, I
have her to thank for meeting Seymour. If he hadn't been so
inspired by her heavenly presence, he wouldn't have placed
that ad, thus never inspiring me to play that prank, thus
never inspiring me to follow him home, thus never inspiring
me to buy his record, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda in
short, I have Dana to thank for meeting Seymour.
But I won't.
I wonder if he's slept with her yet. Two months for most
adults would be more than enough time but, somehow, I just
don't see it. Maybe if Dana wasn't a Clairol-streaked, stone-
washed, boergouis princess, antiquing fuckwad, I could. Plus
knowing Seymour knowing me, I think he would have thought
twice about poking his pecker inside me if it was covered
with Dana cooties. He knows I would have had something to
say about that.
I wonder if he'll sleep with her after this. If he does, I
hope my cooties give her cooties the clap. He probably won't
though. He'll probably break up with her after this. Part of
me will turn cartwheels over that. Actually all of me will
turn cartwheels over that. Right down main street, right over
the pants, and probably right into Norman, not that he'll
notice unless I've got eight wheels and a special compartment
to store his luggage.
Adios Dana, go buy some jeans.
I guess it's not guilt over Dana that's bothering me. Maybe
it's that I've got a champagne headache that would melt
Seymour's 78s and it's making every fart from Joe's room
down the hall sound like a windstorm. Toward the end of my
buzz, I see Becky glaring at me, the manager from the movie
place telling me not to drink on the job, and my dad asking
if I used his blue spatula to 'make the champagne bubble.'
Actually, the word bubble sounds more like 'bahhhbell' as
Dad has Maxine's toes in his mouth.
As I begin to come out of the haze, it occurs to me I asked
Seymour if I could move in with him. It's a fairly logical
concept, now that we've ridden the hobby horse, and one with
mutual benefits. I'd save him from Dana's perkiness and Joe's
flatulence, he'd save me from my own chronic misery and the
horrors of living with my dad and Maxine. It'd be just the
two of us, shutting out the rest of the world, though
occasionally peeking in on it to gather data for our largely
negative, though often accurate commentary. It's perfect.
How ironic that I would have convinced Seymour of its
perfection right after I'd convinced myself that it looked
better on the drawing board.
I meant it when I asked him. Part of me still means it now,
but deep down I know it's a bad idea. Like living with Becky
was and is a bad idea. I've lived with my father for 18 years
and nothing good's come of it, why should living with my
friends be any different?
I think, through sheer neglect, I've managed to persuade
Becky into believing I'm completely unlivable, now I just
have to convince Seymour. I'd be a terrible person to live
with Seymour. See? I hog the covers. My breath smells gross
first thing in the morning and probably tastes even worse.
I'm ferociously needy, you may have to quit your job just
to spend more time with me. I'm terminally untidy. All your
rooms would look like a cyclone hit them. I thrash around in
bed, my tits would probably smother you in your sleep. I'm a
horrible person, Seymour. Please don't want to live with me.
Somehow, I don't think he'll be so easily convinced. I'll
have to work on my approach.
It's kinda hard to stare into space when space is all dark
and fuzzy. Where are my glasses? Clothing inventory: my dress
is in a ball on the floor. My tights are in a twisted heap
at the foot of the bed. But where the fuck are my glasses?
If my alcohol-muddled recollections are correct, Seymour
took them off, which means they're likely on the night table.
A long reach. I hope he doesn't wake up when my nipples graze
his chin.
Much better. Seymour stirs a bit but doesn't wake up. Ohh.
He looks so sweet when he's sleeping. Happy. I wonder if he
always looks this way. Or is it just a sex thing? Oh well,
he looks happy. His hair is sticking up slightly in the
back. It isn't as oily as it looks, and, true enough,
it's rather soft to the touch. It feels warm against my face,
nice.
Again with the 'nice.' Again with the 'so, why do I feel like
crap?' It's becoming a vicious cycle.
Maybe because Seymour's one of my closest friends and, with
Josh talking to me even less than before, and Becky ditching
me in favor of checkered curtains and plastic cups, quite
possibly my only friend. And by sleeping with my only friend,
I've started something I can't finish.
So now I find myself asking the age old question most people
between shit and a shingle have been asking themselves since
the beginning of time: what am I going to do now?
The answer is fall back asleep, and hope that the answer comes
to me in a dream. Or maybe a hangover.
Fuck.