three days in february. 12, 13, 14. that's right, culminating on Valentine's day of all things. today, we will be discussing february 13, its precursors and aftermath.

i arrived home to the news that renegade roomie timothy had checked himself into a hospital for "emotional problems". what a shock, you must think. more like passive disinterest. i'm sure that sounds heartless, but you haven't lived in my house for the last nine months. honestly, i was just grateful that the inevitable meltdown was as pain-free for ME as it was. no police, no vomiting, no blood, no strangers. impact was limited to a week without cable, which means i missed that pivotal roswell you've heard me bitch about before. but beyond that, i simply hoped this would signal the end of the drama. it may have only begun another round.

it all began innocently enough last april when i spent a week here in chicago to look for a place. the night i met timothy happens to be the same night i met chris. in fact, i made a mad dash from wicker park to wrigleyville that night to see the place. somewhat poetic that one has become my saving grace and the other the bane of my small existence. proof that balance is always restored in the universe. yin always has a yang.

the place was clean and current, somewhat sterile. but it had laundry and central heat and air. my greatest concern at the time was dealing with the weather, both summer and winter. modern heating and air conditioning was a definite plus. i know this may sound silly, but living my entire life in a climate almost completely devoid of seasons bred an irrational fear of meteorological chaos. a sticky, sweaty summer full of box fans and a teeth-chattering winter hovering over the radiator was NOT on my agenda.

timothy was stereotypically gay (i'm fairly certain the word "fabulous" was used numerous times) and slightly tipsy, but it WAS late and he was lamenting his LONG day. i'm no teetotaler. sometimes long days require a cocktail. we chatted for about an hour about very little of consequence. by the time i left, i knew that it wouldn't be the ideal living situation, but worse case scenario was an interesting chapter in my autobiography. and by the way, i HATE looking for a place to live. immediately after settling in last june, i began to realize just how "interesting" this chapter was going to get.

chris has described him as a praying mantis, the sort of person who lurks about waiting to pounce on you and monopolize your attention. he's the sort of character who asks how you are in order to launch into a monologue about himself, often "sharing" more than you ever cared to learn. every physical expression of him is designed to alert you to his presence and lure you out to inquire about him. his walk is heavy, his yawns exaggerated, his laughs maniacal.

slowly but surely, both myself and our other roommate, began to barricade ourselves in our rooms. any stylistic touches i added to the common spaces "mysteriously" ended up back in my room or in a drawer. forays into the living room or kitchen inevitably led to one-sided conversations about his "problems". upon reflection, this retreat fueled the fire as his bids for our attention grew more intense and extreme.

things came to a head around the holidays after several weeks of dance party usa until all hours of the night. french trance would awaken me in the wee hours of the morning, when i would find timothy decorating and redecorating the house for christmas. wreaths, lights, trees, candles, bows. one day, while quietly making dinner, he launches into a story about how he had fallen backwards out of our front window at 3 in the morning (this is at least a five foot drop) while applying garland to the ledge and trim. this then segues into how desperate his life has become and for my advice about how to ask his parents for financial assistance. when i don't appear interested enough in his dilemma, he begins to huff at me. this was too much.

i proceeded to go off about how it was difficult for me to arouse much sympathy given my own circumstances. emotional ketchup burst about covers it. my personal revelations obviously provide a comfortable space for him to then drop the following bombshell: all of our holidays decorations, including the tree, were stolen. that's right, acquired by late night raids on christmas tree lots, etc. he actually says "maybe this will make you feel better". becoming an accessory after the fact of the great christmas tree heist was not quite the palliative i had been looking for. i simply walk away.

flash forward to february. the cable is out. i haven't heard timothy in days. this has been a blessing, but now i'm suspicious. i've been paying him for the cable. hasn't he been paying them? the revelation that he has checked himself into the hospital confirms my suspicions. as our downstairs neighbor (let's call her "the enabler") tells it, he showed up at her back door that morning, forlorn and asking for her help. as she works in a head-shrinker environment, she took him along with her to the hospital and facilitated his check-in, etc. she wonders aloud what happened to cause his "break". i silently develop my own theory. it may sound callous, but here goes.

the disruption to our cable service is the final straw. unable to conceal his irresponsibilities and unwilling to face us, he chooses to hide out in a psych ward. the enabler lends credence to this idea by informing us that he spent the afternoon acting out, jumping up and down on chairs, to get more drugs. my first encounter post-ward firms this up as he reveals that he was hoping to find some cute screwed-up twink inside, but alas, no such luck. clearly, he was joking, you protest. maybe, but still.

from time to time, foodstuffs have gone missing. a soda here, a bag of popcorn there. not enough to be bothered with, even without a food reciprocity agreement. but last friday took the cake and solidified my deepest suspicions regarding timothy's commitment to addressing his "emotional problems". as i reached into the fridge for my lunch (pasta which i had prepared the night before), the container feels much too light. i open it to find about ten noodles, a teaspoon of sauce, and a smattering of grated cheese. he ATE my lunch! it IS possible that it wasn't sealed properly, spilled out onto the floor and he cleaned it up. my brain is spinning any possibilities in a vain attempt to deflect the truth. he ATE my lunch! and now, he has the audacity to ask me to sit down with him as part of his therapy and discuss what he has done to upset, anger, irritate, annoy, and otherwise alienate me. i am currently assessing the deposit i would have to make in the karmic bank before allowing complete honesty in this endeavour.

-huck