January 13, 2011; The Grim Brother

What a fucking bunch. If Skeeter isn't weeping and requiring intervention, he's bouncing off the walls with this new project of his and rambling on and on about theatre and the wonder of it and the greatness of it and he sounds gayer by the fucking second.

Meanwhile Boo-Boo is going through an unending darkness where he is denying his own existence and drowning in insecurities and self-pity. He was tossing and turning in bed last night and I could stand it no longer so went into the cold, dark kitchen to sleep. But when he got up to pee he saw me and said, "Come on and keep me company." Now I may not have mentioned these two sleep in separate rooms as they cannot abide each other's company at bed time or in early morning. One smokes before bed and on waking, the other is just an old fart who hates talking anywhere near his bed. But I was hoping Skeeter would get up to pee first (it's up and down all night with these two) and I could sleep in HIS bed and thus escape being bounced all over the sheets by Boo's wretchedness.

But it was not to be.

"Come on! Come cuddle with me!"

"Must I?"

He seethed for a moment and said, "Yes." I sighed deeply and dragged my tired ass off the mat. He tsked at the sigh and said, "Move it!" at the dragging. "You know, for a pet you're pretty useless," he added.

"A) I'm nobody's pet and B) even if I was a pet, you'd qualify as a pretty useless master waking up a tired little puppy dog in the middle of the fucking night." He snorted a sarcastic laugh and we got into the bed. I curled up at the bottom and on a corner and he leaned over, grabbed me up and squashed me against him and hugged me until I farted.

"Charming," he said.

"You think it's the Hallelujah Chorus coming out of your arsehole all night long?" I snapped. He laughed tiredly. "So, as you're not going to let me sleep in peace anyway...what the fuck is up with you?"

"Those rotten students last year have shattered my confidence. I used to think I was a good teacher. I knew my material. In the profession itself for three decades I knew how to communicate. My student evaluations were great. Even my students told me—to my face!—that they liked me—"

"—which is somewhat of a miracle if you droned on like you are now—"

"—snotty remarks won't help me nor will they move things along—"

"—watch me shut up."

He sighed deeply before continuing. "The group I have now adores me, but when I get in front of them I feel like a fraud. Even though I KNOW the stuff! All I can remember are those kids before Christmas constantly talking during the class and questioning my authority at every step."

"Have you thought of seeing a doctor?"

"Hm? What for?"

"Depression?"

"I don't have depression."

"Look, the signs are classic. You eat without enjoyment. You watch great movies without seeing them. You and Skeet have a steady diet of sitcoms he's always roaring at and you don't crack a smile. Mind you, he is always roaring with laughter these days—"

"—annoying, isn't it?—"

"—oh yes! But the point is, you have what they call anhedonia. The inability to feel pleasure. Classic symptom. As are your anxiety attacks. As is your falling asleep on the couch and not in bed. You should be on the same pills as the other one. Or electro-shock. Or a baseball bat to the head." He flicked my nose, not finding me particularly amusing. "Depressives never laugh at good jokes," I said.

"When I head one, I'll laugh," he said.

"But seriously; Skeet and I have talked—"

"—you're talking about me?—"

"—of course! You're a big pain in my ass! We have to talk!"

"And...?"

"We all think you should get treatment—"

"—ALL?!?"

"Me and Skeet, Ginger and Benjie, Cleo and Slicer. You don't know how people can really fuck up the lives of the poor creatures who live with them!"

"I'll think about it," he said finally. First he thought about all those animals talking about him—like tourists who know everyone on the streets is commenting on their clothes without actually understanding the comments—and it was clear he did not like that thought but, also, clear that he could do nothing about the chatter. I wondered if I had given him one more thing to obsess about or if he was going to go beyond that and deal with his bullshit before he gave himself a heart-attack and seriously complicated my life.

He sighed again but then, finally, his eyes became heavy—as did mine—and he started to doze—as did I.

There is no doubt there will be an upshot. Skeeter, firstly, is going to break through his haze of silliness soon and confront this (as is his wont) or I will have to kill Boo in his sleep...

...just so I can get some shut-eye myself.