PixelVixen707

This week, I’ve been the Dish Slut. And the rate I’m going, I’ll be the Dish Slut another week too.

“Dish Slut” is a term coined by Zach’s brother Lucas, who’s silly brilliant like that. All it means is that I have to do the dishes every night. Normally Zach, my boyfriend as well as my roommate, splits the chore with me. But when we need to say we’re sorry, this is the way we do it.

And I am sorry, Zach. I know I’ve neglected you. Not just last week when I was out in Cali. (And I didn’t even invite you. It was a “work trip,” right? Did you invite me to that art therapists conference in Parsippany?) I’ve also neglected you this week, ever since I got back, energized and full of ideas and ready to freelance my way to fame and riches. Ever since the redeye landed Saturday, when I haven’t been stuck at work, trying not to sack out on my desk and drool, I’ve had a game in my hand or a computer on my lap. I’ve cranked out pitches and pecked at my blog and I’ve barely given you a peck on the cheek. Work comes first.

I’ve got a confession. I know I roll pretty large around here, queen of my own domain name, snarkista-in-chief, and so on, but I’ll tell you what I am: a fact-checker. A lowly research bunny at a failing newspaper. That’s how I pay my rent.

But last week, at GDC, I was a journo. A real, live, taking-quotes-and-printing-names writer, whose posts got picked up and whose tweets were retweeted. Except really? Let’s be honest. I was playing a journalist. If I were a for-real journalist, I’d still be journalizing today. And instead, I’m home, cranking through games, writing pitches, and ignoring my boyfriend.

I mention Zach a lot, but I don’t talk much about him. I guess that’s because this is “game world,” not “talk about my life” world. But also, I don’t know what to say except, I love him. We have a sturdy life together. I admire him like I’ve never admired anybody.

Zach works at an asylum - a really dire, nightmarish place that you have to climb into and really smell to believe. It’s a ridiculous, understaffed prison for the tortured and the insane, and he goes in there and tries to help with art therapy. On the face of it it’s the definition of quixotic. And yet, to hear him tell it - and he’s not a bragger - he’s actually done some good. He’s seen breakthroughs with patients who were locked in their own problems for decades. He finds the locks and learns how to pick them.

He’s an artist himself, and prone to holing up and working on things for nights or days. When we’re together, the attraction’s overwhelming, and so is the comfort. But when we’re apart, I ask myself whether we understand each other as well as we think. I doubt he understands me. He’s in love with me. He’s plenty attracted to me. (That sounds immodest, but hey, he’s a boy and they’re silly.) But what else do I know about him?

When he’s struggling with something, he keeps secrets. It happened last November, with his - what do you even call it - his Drake crisis? His family crisis? That one pushed us pretty far. I don’t think he realizes how close we came to breaking up. And it was the first time I saw him truly keep a secret.

He washed plenty of dishes after that.

Now, we’re close enough to spend time apart. We’ve spent little to no time together the last couple weeks. We cross paths going to sleep, and I still call him once or twice during the day, just to check in, tell him a stupid story. But I see what I’m doing. There are too few hours in the day. All I want to do is get better at this scribbling thing, get out of my rut at work, make myself something more than myself. I’m closing in on 28. Scratching out a living grows tired.

But this is vain and selfish. And Zach is neither. He doesn’t care if he ever brings home more than they give him. He doesn’t talk about publishing papers or winning an award. He doesn’t ask anything of me, either, except the little time I grant him. He goes out every day just to help people. And when he’s in trouble, instead of coming to me, he tries to protect me. Me. I could pick that man up and throw him over my shoulder.

And that’s just more vanity, and vanity’s the thing that’s keeping me from holding him right now. He’s out in the living room watching television. Who has time to watch television?

I’m sorry, Zach. I love you. Maybe I always will. But I want this writing thing, Zach. And sometimes I worry that I want it even more than I want you.

Soon I’ll give you the time you deserve. But I have to write one more pitch.