the masturbater

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Mr. Scabs and I have worked together to write this post.  
Although I form the sentences, many of these words are his own.  Trying to capture raw honesty from the past. 

Summer 2011

The corn field across the street had just been planted.  Climbing the steps toward the pink room, I feel like a hobo with a 3-wheeled Safeway grocery cart hauling my laundry basket full of clothes, my toothbrush and no hope.  Dejected, alone and bitterly hated.

I don't know how many cycles of corn I watched grow and die while I lived in the pink bedroom.  

The pink bed wrinkles as I toss the laundry basket on it.  Obviously, not meant for me.  It's meant for the daughter of my divorced roommate.  She would come and stay once in awhile but not anymore.

I can't be here.

Lacing up my running shoes and grabbing my ipod I run for the door, pissed.  

Pissed and falling deeper into my own self-pity.  Pissed I have to move out.  Pissed at myself.  Pissed at the world.  Pissed I couldn't make it work.  Why didn't things just fall into place?  We got married, I love her, why isn't that enough?  Running numbs the pissed and I begin to wonder why I'm here.

That first night I ran 5 miles.  Last time I ran 5 miles was in high school.

Exhausted, sweaty and awkwardly aware of my new surroundings, I climb the stairs prepared to hide away in the pink bedroom.  At the top of the stairs is a desk and a computer and the divorced father who's surfing Latin dating profiles.  I think how pathetic he is.

This computer desk in the hall is his daily perch.  He is the Masturbater.  Endless porn sites, dating sites and craigslist hookups.  I wouldn't dare use that keyboard.  He's disgusting.

I don't know his story but I can imagine it.

The Masturbater is clean and well dressed.  He is meticulous about his laundry even ironing his shirts.  He's a little overweight, drinks too much cheap beer, never exercises and lives on frozen corn dogs and burritos.   Scotch taped to his walls are pictures of his daughter.  They have almost no contact.

No matter how many cycles the corn has grown, the pink room feels foreign.  Like I have no citizenship, no rights, I'm a vagabond.  My nights are sleepless while I lay alone in between a strangers pink sheets.  How did I get here.  How did I become so estranged from my wife?  from my kids?

Am I the Masturbater?

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