Boy has not been in Puerto Escondido for one week as of today.
Four days was an insanely short period of time. Four days. I mean, we made the most of them... but... FOUR days? Really? What the fuck is that?
I believe that Boy feels the same. But perhaps without the fuck. Boy's language is usually significantly cleaner than mine. Especially since my new favorite mantras are the following:
When I decide that something isn't worth my time because it's either a) abusive or b) boring, I simply say, "Girl don't got time for that shit."
When I decide that I'll do as I please when I please and that all protests are utterly futile, I simply say, "Fuck you, I'm a cat."
"Fuck you, I'm a cat," was inspired by Pepe's large male cat, Fortueni. Boy and I were sipping coffee and cuddling in the top room when Fortueni meandered through the open door, clamored onto the bed and began rubbing up against my coffee arm. Then licking my leg. Then scratching Boy's arm. Then kneading my chest with his, umm... not dull cat claws. So after Fortueni had exhausted all his cute points (cute points are always used up more quickly on me than on Boy) and had thoroughly crossed into the realm of bloody obnoxious, I put down my coffee, firmly grabbed the meowing Fortueni, drop-plop-flopped him onto the landing outside and shut the door.
"Win," I triumphantly picked up my coffee and returned to cuddle position.
Five seconds later, Fortueni popped through the window with an aloof glare on his feline face that seemed to say, "fuck you, I'm a cat."
Example of when, "fuck you, I'm a cat" is an appropriate response to the situation:
Orange Cat orders a Hulk smoothie and I order a cappuccino because I'm saving room for the grilled queso breakfast looming deliciously in my not so distant future. But... I still want a sip of Hulk smoothie because Hulk smoothie is epically good. So I wait until Orange Cat is a little distracted (or I grab it right from under his nose. Either method of getting paws on Hulk is acceptable), take a sip of his smoothie and with the feline perfected mixture of nonchalance and sass, say, "Fuck you, I'm a cat," between sips.
The majority of my days are spent with Orange Cat. We meet in the morning for sunrises --
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| Sometimes we drag along our new buddies, Brenden (from South Africa) and Ella (from England). We think they're pretty decent avocados, and their relationship as a vagabond couple gives me hope for my future of on and off vagabonding adventures with Boy. |
We sometimes go on roadtrips to Mazunte --
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| -- drink cappuccinos that look even better than they taste -- |
-- and we always eat exquisite food.
After I finish moaning over the aforementioned exquisite food, we find a nice beach. At which we either swim, drink cocktails or nap.
Orange Cat is in charge of the swimming, I am in charge of the napping, and we share cocktail drinking responsibilities. As a result of sharing cocktail responsibilities, I've learned that Orange Cat is the undisputed master of VIBS.
Vast
Intervals
Between
Sips
I wish I was as good at VIBSing as Orange Cat is at VIBSing. Orange Cat can VIBS one small-normal sized beverage for an hour -- and would VIBS for even longer if I weren't so occupied staring at his half-full drink in incredulity and waving flies out of the glass in front of me that's been fully empty for the last forty minutes (don't ask why I bother waving flies out of my empty glass. Perhaps I want it to feel full).
"Orange Cat. You're amazing. One day I will appreciate my drinks the way you appreciate yours."
I am the goddess of naps. This fellow can make a shot of whiskey last for an entire film. That has GOT to earn him some manner of title.
"I do most of my thinking around nap time," I told Orange Cat when he commented on my... err... excessive napping habits. "According to Baris, Turkish men think on the toilet. I think before and after naps."
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| This beach in Mazunte was a perfect napping location. I can't recommend the swimming (although perhaps Orange Cat can), but I can definitely recommend the napping. |
It's the first day of February. I've been in Mexico for nearly two months and have just over a month to go. The Spanish I've learned has been minimal (quiero queso. Quiero mas queso. Muchos gracias por el queso), but the lesson I set out to learn, I believe, was learned quite thoroughly.
Leaving the Sanctuary, even though it was an unhealthy environment for me, still made me feel a bit of the, "you failed at something you started," sting.
Which is a bloody nasty kind of sting.
Even walking away from Casa Kei prickled a bit.
But before or after one of my many naps, I had a thought.
This is actually exactly where I wanted to be. In my own space and making enough money for just today (and perhaps tomorrow) by doing what I love.
And here I am. In my colorless room by the ocean. With a wannabe part-time yoga job, a little community (Ella and Brenden moved in next door) and enough money to support my simple life.
Hey. Hey, you. Hey Life that tells people they have to spend all their time working in order to save money and buy houses and couches and cars and baby strollers --
"Fuck you, I'm a cat."
The only thing I sort of regret is that Orange Cat and I can't divide cocktail buying responsibilities quite as easily as we can divide cocktail drinking responsibilities. But he understands that this is my life now and makes accepting his... err... flooring generosity so easy. Which I love him for.
But I still kind of pine for the day when I can say, "this one's on me," and not worry that I just spent the whole day's (and part of tomorrow's) budget on a margarita.
It'll happen.
I've been thinking about going back to GJ for March and April. March is the month I left my vanity behind, so by the time I land in Denver, I'll have completed my year-long experiment of hairy armpits, hairy legs, no makeup and exceptionally comfortable pants.
"I'm feeling really playful," I'd told Boy during his four days (four days!) in La Punta. "I think that when I go back to Grand Junction, I'm going to spend a lot of time experimenting with different looks. Observing the different reactions people have to different looks. I'll wear excessive makeup for a few days... paint my face blue for a few days... wear a pineapple on my head for a week or so..."
Boy didn't even look startled. Not for a moment.
He's acclimating to my unorthodox, "fuck you, I'm a cat" life very quickly. Whoa.
"I mean, do what you gotta do."
"Would you mind it if I wore a pineapple on my head for a week?"
"Girl, there is nothing you could do to your face that would make me want to kiss it less."
"And I would give you a papaya. You could wear a papaya on your head for a week."
...
"Girl, there is nothing you could do to your face that would make me want to kiss it less."
Boy doesn't get to kiss Girl at all these days. But we Skype. Frequently. And I tell Boy stories like these:
Aimee
So, I caught a colectivo today.
And there was a super drunk American guy on the floor.
Who was trying to hit on all the girls.
He talked the whole way to Puerto Escondido.
And spat.
And was just about bat shit crazy.
Which he kept saying.
"I'm fucking crazy as shit, man."
But it was a funny ride because there was the super drunk American on the floor...
Who kept trying to get handsy with the hot Russian girl to his right...
Who had NONE of his shit.
And then he tried to get handsy with the cute English girl to my left...
But her South African boyfriend had none of that shit.
(I think the hair on my legs filled the required, "having none of that shit" role)
We were all amused and annoyed
But none of us really engaged him...
Except the Rastafarian from Italy.
Who would talk to the drunk American about why it's better to stay out of jail
And then turn to his companion from Venezuela and rehash the conversation in Spanish.
And then there was my Slovenian cat.
Who just sat.
And smiled.
Troy
Your life.
Aimee
And then we got stuck in fucking traffic. For ages.
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