In the beginning of the year, I split up my closet into two halves, one side for Neil and one side for me. I gave him the top shelf because he’s tallest. It seems to be inconvenient for him sometimes. He says he doesn’t care and that he’s grateful I gave him some space in the closet. Makes me sound like a Nazi. But I must admit, I wish the closet was four times this size. I can’t fit all my clothes in there. My bed is on risers to fit suitcases of clothes I’ll probably never wear.
When Neil shops online, he has to send the packages to my apartment. Everything I receive in the mail with my name on it could be for either me or Neil. Most of the time it’s for him. Either a new Foucault book or something illegal from China. (ex: laser pointer too powerful to be sold in the US, an electronic cigarette, strange boxes with Mischa Barton’s picture on the cover). Last week, Neil bought a mustache kit. It included:
- Mustache Wax
- Darkening Cream
- Small Brush/Comb
- Handheld Mirror
- Velcro Case
When he has time in the morning, he applies wax to his mustache. He has picked up a habit of twisting the ends of his mustache. He said Graham told him it would eventually curl the right way if he twisted it enough. I’ve found that his hygiene has increased since he has decided to grow this mustache. He shaves the rest of his face more often to accentuate the mustache, he slicks his hair back, he bathes, he buttons his shirts up all the way and enjoys picking out his clothes in the morning. Just last night he wore cowboy boots outside to smoke a cigarette. He liked how tall they made him look. His mustache has become a sort of new accessory to his ensemble. It has also become a new way for him to revel in his newfound masculinity. I used to hate his mustache. It’s trendy. It’s so Williamsburg. I’m waiting for Spring to hit so he can ride his fixie with a Chrome bag and a mustache and Keds. For now, I think it’s beautiful.
I haven’t done the laundry once this quarter. Neil does it every week. He hangs my tights and knows not to put my bras and underwear in the dryer. Yesterday he told me to “do the fucking laundry” because he’s sick of doing it. I said I’d get to it and never did. He did. As a result, the clean, dried laundry will sit in our laundry basket as the dirty clothes pile up in another spot on the floor until we have to do laundry again. He spilled crumbs in my bed last night and again this morning. It really pisses me off when people do that. I told him. I ended up holding a bowl underneath his mouth to catch every flying crumb. I have a problem. Someday I’ll photograph me being a controlling bitch. I don’t know why he puts up with me sometimes.
