Fouad, Lenka, and Amy
Fouad called me at work yesterday to ask me for the password to one of his 853 (rough estimate) email accounts. First of all, buddy, we broke up 10 months ago and, while I had several passwords to several of your email accounts, I don’t remember them. Plus I’m pretty sure that the one you were requesting the password for is the one secretive account that I was never allowed to read. This is what happens when you keep (approximately) 853 email accounts, each with a different password. I mean, duh.
I think I’m like his mom in Prague. I’m that person he contacts when he is needy and desperate and doesn’t have anyone else to turn to. But, in part because I am not his mother, I feel less and less guilty about not helping him.
A couple of months ago, he was trying to hit me up for several hundred dollars so that he could fly home to Algeria. I felt bad that he couldn’t raise the funds to see his family but there was no way I was going to pay for it. Somehow, though, he managed, and I will always wonder how. But he flew home to Algeria in mid-October. And then he proceeded to text me and do that call and hang up thing, from an Algerian phone number. I did not call him back.
On Saturday, he returned to Prague and asked me if he could stay with me for a week, but I turned him down, simply saying that my landlord was going to be visiting this week.
Frankly, now that I know that he was fortunate enough to come up with the money for a plane ticket back to Algeria, I can stop worrying about him. I guess I’ve been feeling a bit guilty and thinking that I still owed him something after we broke up in January, but he can take care of himself.
My annoying friend Lenka might stop by tonight after work so that she can pick up her mail, which she is still getting at my apartment 10.5 months after she moved out. Actually, she only contacts me now because of her stupid mail. Caroline told me that I should take Lenka’s name off of my mailbox and that I should have done that months ago. And Caroline is obviously right. But we all know I’m a pushover, and so I haven’t.
I think my subconscious has opted for the annoy-her-until-she-no-longer-wants-to-get-her-mail-at-your-apartment plan. I’m totally cancelling on her tonight, in part because I think I’ll go grab a few drinks with my friend Leslie. But also because I’m a bitch who is tired of being used as Lenka’s personal post office.
I saw Amy and Emmy today for the last time in Prague. If I ever see them again, it will happen stateside. Amy was talking today about women dating/marrying men exactly like their fathers, and she asked if I had done this. I’m not really sure, frankly. I don’t think Leon and my dad were anything alike. And certainly not Fouad. Chris has an outgoing personality that might be similar to my dad’s but their beliefs, ideas, and views of the world are so completely different.
Anyway, I was describing my dad to her as an extroverted, talkative person, and she stopped me to ask how my seemingly friendly, outgoing parents could have produced someone like me. “You’re so quiet!” she said.
It made me stop to wonder how she perceives me. Our friendship was sort of built around my listening to her problems. She had to go through that hellish pregnancy and birth; she had to go through one particularly hellish job here in Prague; she had the general hell of dealing with a foreign land and people who aren’t, by nature, very helpful or friendly; she had some arguments and issues with her husband. And so I listened.
Yes, it’s true, I am a quiet person. But I was quiet out of the kind of respect that I think my parents taught me. And that, I guess, is how my friendly, outgoing parents produced someone like me.
I really hope my new sofa and armchairs are in my apartment when I get home, but 20 koruny says it ain’t so.
I think I’m like his mom in Prague. I’m that person he contacts when he is needy and desperate and doesn’t have anyone else to turn to. But, in part because I am not his mother, I feel less and less guilty about not helping him.
A couple of months ago, he was trying to hit me up for several hundred dollars so that he could fly home to Algeria. I felt bad that he couldn’t raise the funds to see his family but there was no way I was going to pay for it. Somehow, though, he managed, and I will always wonder how. But he flew home to Algeria in mid-October. And then he proceeded to text me and do that call and hang up thing, from an Algerian phone number. I did not call him back.
On Saturday, he returned to Prague and asked me if he could stay with me for a week, but I turned him down, simply saying that my landlord was going to be visiting this week.
Frankly, now that I know that he was fortunate enough to come up with the money for a plane ticket back to Algeria, I can stop worrying about him. I guess I’ve been feeling a bit guilty and thinking that I still owed him something after we broke up in January, but he can take care of himself.
My annoying friend Lenka might stop by tonight after work so that she can pick up her mail, which she is still getting at my apartment 10.5 months after she moved out. Actually, she only contacts me now because of her stupid mail. Caroline told me that I should take Lenka’s name off of my mailbox and that I should have done that months ago. And Caroline is obviously right. But we all know I’m a pushover, and so I haven’t.
I think my subconscious has opted for the annoy-her-until-she-no-longer-wants-to-get-her-mail-at-your-apartment plan. I’m totally cancelling on her tonight, in part because I think I’ll go grab a few drinks with my friend Leslie. But also because I’m a bitch who is tired of being used as Lenka’s personal post office.
I saw Amy and Emmy today for the last time in Prague. If I ever see them again, it will happen stateside. Amy was talking today about women dating/marrying men exactly like their fathers, and she asked if I had done this. I’m not really sure, frankly. I don’t think Leon and my dad were anything alike. And certainly not Fouad. Chris has an outgoing personality that might be similar to my dad’s but their beliefs, ideas, and views of the world are so completely different.
Anyway, I was describing my dad to her as an extroverted, talkative person, and she stopped me to ask how my seemingly friendly, outgoing parents could have produced someone like me. “You’re so quiet!” she said.
It made me stop to wonder how she perceives me. Our friendship was sort of built around my listening to her problems. She had to go through that hellish pregnancy and birth; she had to go through one particularly hellish job here in Prague; she had the general hell of dealing with a foreign land and people who aren’t, by nature, very helpful or friendly; she had some arguments and issues with her husband. And so I listened.
Yes, it’s true, I am a quiet person. But I was quiet out of the kind of respect that I think my parents taught me. And that, I guess, is how my friendly, outgoing parents produced someone like me.
I really hope my new sofa and armchairs are in my apartment when I get home, but 20 koruny says it ain’t so.