Relationship Frankenstein; or The Modern Brometheus

The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past.

It was on an arid night in November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of my skin care routine around me, that I might infuse some glow and warmth into the lifeless, weathered face that looked back at me from the mirror. I had already applied the hyaluronic acid as a base layer. The gooey, slippery substance was sinking deep into my epidermis, where it would work its magic to reduce fine lines and wrinkles. I was just about to reach for my retinol solution when my girlfriend appeared in the arch of the doorway.

“I love that you have a skin care routine,” she said, as she beamed at me with a love I didn’t deserve. “It really says a lot about you that you take the time to take care of yourself.”

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? I smiled at my girlfriend, though inside I wanted to run away. I ached to dash into my bedquarters and smash the mirrors to rid myself of the curse of looking upon a man I no longer recognized. She loved these things about me: my skin care routine, my sense of style, the fact that I can properly use the term “male gaze,” yet she knows not these qualities I possess through no endeavors of my own.

The man she knows and loves was formed, collecting parts here and there from the dissecting rooms and slaughterhouses of relationships past. They were fused together, in an act defiant of God and Nature, until a new man emerged. A man that I fear has been cursed to roam the earth without a soul.

It was on the night of our first date that she began to fall in love with this man. I learned this much later, and when I asked her why I so immediately took her charm, she told me it was because I was “such a good listener” and “was so interested in her,” unlike many others. It was only through many failed first dates with varied women that I learned that “sharing stories about myself that your story reminded me about” does not count as “interest” and that asking follow-up questions or even a simple “that’s cool, tell me more about that” can go much further in the way of making your date feel seen.

Upon her first visit to my apartment (of which I will refrain from sharing any torrid details), she marvelled at my mattress and that it sat atop a proper bedframe. It was only recently that my slumber had achieved such loft, after another such visit ended abruptly when my guest took leave with the parting wisdom of  “miss me with that mattress on the floor mess, I don’t have time for men who don’t take pride in their home.” It had never before occurred to me that sleeping so low to the ground was a matter of pride. But the bedperch did wonders not only for my image, but also for my aging back.

“I appreciate that you dress in earthy colors that harmonize with the warm undertones of your skin.”

“You have so many towels, and by that I mean you have more than one towel.”

“I did a deep dive on your socials and didn’t find a single problematic post.”

Little did she know that one day I took search to the social archives for *my_user_name* plus any slur or pejorative term I could think of and scrubbed the record clean of any past offenses. She believes “pejorative” is a word I’ve known for years and not something I recently learned after being scolded that I needed to become a  “better straight white male ally.”

These qualities that this man possesses that she so loves are not rightfully earned through his own care and self-work. The man wonders if she is the right partner for him, or if she would just be really good friends with all of his exes. The man wonders if he is a man at all, or simply the combined efforts of all the women who ever cared enough to try to change him.

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The So-Called "Angel of Death Cat" Would Like to Explain Himself

“The one downfall of my chosen career path is that people tend to avoid me…”

Oh, come on, man. Stop for a second. You don't need to run away from me. It doesn't work like that. I don't bring death with me everywhere I go, I promise. I sense death, and then I go towards it, but not everything that I go towards is going to die imminently. Correlation does not equal causality, and all that.

I understand that it might be confusing and, yes, a bit scary. But it's not all that hard to tell the difference. To start, are you a patient in a nursing home who has been feeling a little worse for wear lately? If you answered "no," then you're most of the way in the clear. Honestly, that's where, like, 99 percent of my death-predicting work is accomplished. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but it kind of seems like less of a special skill and more like something that anybody could accomplish if they just tried a little bit. Roam the halls, listen for coughs that are a little more rattly, notice some moans that are extra moany, odds are their next nap will probably be The Big Nap.

So why do I do what I do? There are a lot of theories, ranging from the idea that I want to provide comfort to those who would otherwise be alone at the end of it all, to the speculation that I got really into The Dark Knight, specifically the quote from Heath Ledger's Joker about people showing you who they truly are in their final moments. None of those theories are true, including The Joker's. I've seen plenty of people at the end, and let me tell you, a lot of them are not their true selves. One guy wouldn't stop doing an impression of George W. Bush, but it was really an impression of Will Ferrell's impression of George W. Bush, which then slipped into saying Ron Burgundy quotes as Will Ferrell as George W. Bush. His final words were, "It's so damn hot. Milk was a bad choice," with a Texas drawl and squinchy face. 

In all actuality, I do what I do because nobody else was doing it. Simple as that. There's no passion behind it. I just saw an opening and I took it. Like how some people run businesses that provide portable toilets to construction sites and outdoor events. Do you think that's their passion? I sure as hell hope not. They just saw a need and decided to fill it, and now they make a pretty good living. Even better for them, their passion remains their passion, and not a source of career stress. The whole "do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life" crowd has it backwards. I tried doing what I loved for a while. I tried to be a professional yarn-frolicker. I couldn't sleep at night. Kept me up wondering if I'd ever be good enough to make it to The Show. I was filled with a jealous rage at more successful cats who, in my opinion, were less talented than I but just knew how to play the game better. Then I saw a guy setting up portable toilets on the street the day before a parade. He looked happy. I thought to myself, Wow, I bet he doesn't stay awake at night wondering why Johnny on the Spot got the contract to provide commodes to the new construction site downtown, even though Johnny on the Spot is a portable toilet hack. He just tends to portable toilets and then goes home at night to a nice meal. Hopefully, he will wash his hands in between.

The one downfall of my chosen career path is that people tend to avoid me, and unlike the stink that comes with being a portable toilet man, it’s impossible to shower off the stink of being a harbinger of death. Once the nursing home doxxed me just to get a little bit of clout from that god damned human interest piece, people on the street started running away from me, just as you tried to do. I do appreciate you stopping to hear me out. If you could help spread the word that most of the time, I’m just a friendly little guy looking for scritches and a sing-song “Hello to you Mr. Cat” greeting, and not a black-cloaked omen of doom, you'd really be doing me a solid.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret before we part ways. I smell death right now. It’s coming from that group over there, having a great time at the outdoor cafe, blissfully unaware of the fate about to befall a member of their friend group. I could go over and alert the unfortunate soul of their imminent demise, but I’m off the clock right now. And one thing I did learn from Heath Ledger as the Joker is that if you’re good at something, never do it for free.

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