Michelle's House of Horrors

Pessimistic optimism. Or optimistic pessimism.
That’s what I call it.

I expect the worst, and I am delighted to be pleasantly surprised when the worst doesn’t happen. Since my expectations are so very, very bad they are almost never met, and have never been exceeded. I can’t help but be pleased.

For example: if I think the half empty glass on the bar is going to shatter and slit my hand open when I pick it up, I am unfailingly thrilled to find that not only did the glass not shatter, and I have I not cut my hand at all, but in addition the glass is HALF FULL of tasty tequila. Wahoo!

I live in a constant state of cynical joy. Which would be a great name for a band.

See, the thing that people are wrong about is attitude. Pessimists are not necessarily dour and prissy. Some of us are pretty cheerful. Whimsical, even. Practically optimistic. OK, let’s not exaggerate. We’re cheerful, but still pessimistic. Pessimism with a smile does exist.

Of course, maybe I’m not really a pessimist. Maybe I’m more of a cynic.

No. I’m definitely a pessimist. Ms. Downside. I’m also a cynic. On the other hand, I’m not a fatalist, and I don’t think you should just let bad things happen. You should work towards a desired goal even if you don’t think it will ever happen.

Why?

Because even if what you wanted to happen doesn’t (and let’s face it, it probably won’t) it’s still very likely that something equally good or possibly even better will happen instead. It will. It always does. You just have to be happy with what you get instead of getting your pants in a bunch about what your expectations were.

For instance. I made sure I got excellent grades in High School so I could go to a sort of fancy college. During my first visit home from Fancy U, I burned my arm badly and was never able to go back. I finished college right at home in Oregon. Disappointing? Yes. However, as a result, I ended up taking some classes I wouldn’t have taken at the fancy school which lead indirectly to spending several years in France. If I’d stayed at the fancy school, I might have ended up as a chemist or something. Who knows.

I might be a different person now. That would be distressing.

To me.
It would be distressing to me.
You might like me better, I will grant you that.

I’m pretty cool though. Maybe you wouldn’t have liked me as much as a chemist. A chemist wouldn’t be writing this crap though.

I might be less charming than I think I am.
That’s unlikely–as a pessimist, I don’t think I’m charming at all.

Ha!

My mind swirls around. Whorls, whirls
Hurricane cyclone vortex
Ideas words imaginary conversations fall down to the bottom
And float into the whirl again

Conversations that never happened
Wish they had not
Wish they would
Harsher words
Kinder words
More loving
More hateful
More tearful
More forgiveness?

What do you do when you aren’t talking to me?
I think of you.
You do?
All the time
No you don’t.
Not really.
So why did you say it?
To make you happy. Why did you ask if you knew the answer?
Because I didn’t. Not really. I’d like to think that I’m all you think about, but I’m not insane.
I do think of you. But
But?
It’s sexual.
Is that bad?
Not in my mind it isn’t.
It’s OK in your mind, but not in person?
No, it’s good in person too.
You have ethical reservations about thinking about sex or having sex in real life?
No.
So, what’s the problem then?
I don’t know. I don’t let it bother me.
That bothers me. Why can’t you let yourself be bothered?
I don’t know.
You don’t try very hard to know.
Agreed.
That worries me.
Don’t be.
Not worries, frustrates.
Thanks.
I think you like that.
Maybe. Yes.

What are you listening to?
An Italian song. Listen…
Nice. How’d you find out about them?
In Italy.
In Italy?
Sure, a friend played them for me one day.
Friend?
Yeah. He played them for me on the day we met.
Him?
Him.
Just a friend?
Just? Friends are important.
Agreed.
What? Why do you look so dubious?
Is he gay?
Gay? No, why?
If you’re friends. You didn’t fuck him?
What?
It’s not a difficult question.
You can’t you call someone a friend if you’ve fucked them?
No.
No?
No.
Why not?
Because then you aren’t friends, you are lovers.
You can’t be both?
Not with someone you want to fuck.
That’s asinine.
No. Realistic.
So fuck buddies are a myth?
Yes.
Bullshit.

Hey.
Hey.
Where are you?
It’s 6 in the morning. Where do you think?
Did I wake you up?
Of course. It’s 6 in the morning.
Can you meet me?
Right now?
I’m at the bar down the street.
Doing what? They’re closed until lunch.
I have a few hours until my first meeting. Come and talk to me.
You aren’t going to break up with me in the parking lot, are you?
What? No. What? Can you come?
Sure. I’ll jump in the shower and be right there.
No, now.
Can I brush my teeth?
Yes. Brush your teeth. I know you won’t brush your hair.
I could just stay in bed.
Hurry up.

Mara reclined in the sun on her chaise lounge, with a novel and a glass of red wine at her side after a particularly acrobatic evening with Samael who did not appear to be the least bit tired. He never was. In fact, he was full of energy in spite of having cleaned both of the bathrooms, washed and dried the dishes, done 2 loads of laundry and dusted the whole house. He was currently humming an exotic tune while he vaccumed the carpets upstairs. Was there anything sexier, she wondered, than an incubus in an apron?

Samael nuzzled her neck. He did not appear to be wearing anything. Not even an apron. And there was, sadly, no chaise lounge. Just a very cluttered kitchen with a sink piled high with dirty dishes.

Mara sighed and wondered what she’d have to do to get the angel into an apron. Could she tell him the feather duster was a sword?

“Don’t you have anything to…destroy…or anything? I have things to do today, and although your companionship is very fulfilling in many ways, I do have some errands to run and cleaning to do. And a very neglected job. The last time I tried to get anything done, you were in the way. It’s hard to do any work with a bored giant incubus in the house stomping around.”

Samael raised a displeased eyebrow at the word incubus.
“I do not stomp. I glide. Or fly. Silently. You have voiced your displeasure about my silent arrivals more than once. Nevertheless. Is there anything I may assist you with, my treasure?”

“Do you know how to sweep? Dust? Feed birds? Buy groceries?”

“Those are not typically things I am required to do. I can eliminate or attract dust and dirt with a spell if you wish.”

“Really? Cool! Eliminate away!”

Samael lifted a hand slightly and muttered a few strange words. Several potted plants collapsed, but the floors, windows, shelves and other surfaces did look dramatically cleaner.

“That’s amazing. The plants need dirt to grow in, though. Can you put some dirt back in the plants?”

“Not with a spell. The dirt no longer exists.”

“Do angels get any sort of practical training? Can you use a shovel?”

“I could slice you into three equal pieces with my sword before you realize you are even dead.”

“Well. That’s sweet, and I’m sure it’s very practical in certain situations. I’m not sure how helpful that will be in cleaning the house though.”

“I do not wish to slice you into three pieces, of course. But I could if I needed to.”

“Let’s try not to end up there, Sami.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that. I am Samael.”

“And I wish you knew how to wash dishes. We all have our cross to bear.”