Now I Know How Jack Dawson Felt: A Letter To My Radiator
Hi,
Iron Man? Hello. Tony? Mr. Stark? It’s me, Care. Why are you inside my radiator? Did Loki put you there? The sound of you jerking off in your iron suit against my heat cage is ruining my life.
No? O.K. I guess Iron Man isn’t inside you. So it’s just you and me, Radiator. Haunting me, torturing me, making sure I don’t get sleep until St. Patrick’s Day. I’m not particularly enthusiastic about St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t need rest for that at all. It’s just the approximate date for the return of warm weather, but you’re an asshole. You’re never going to stop. You’ll bang, clang, boil, leak, and make my hangers so hot that I blister every time I take an article of clothing out of my closet until July, when the weather will do all the work for you.
You’re more annoying than any of my ex-boyfriends because you’re always there and you’re either too smothering or making sure I know exactly how Jack Dawson felt. I like to be teased by boys, Radiator. Not by my heat source—which boys have to be in our fucking situation. When I get home I never know if I’m entering a sauna or a castle dungeon with pillows. Your entire life is selfish and your lifelessness is, too. But you exist because of my selfishness. I don’t want frozen tits when I’m watching Mad Men or Frasier or Gossip Girl or my Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic on Netflix in my bed. I also don’t want sweat dripping from head to vagina. Let Don Draper make that happen, Radiator. This is not working out. I would rather loft my bed above a bonfire and burn like a marshmallow. Will that make me tan?
I want to understand what’s going on with you. You know a lot about me. You know what I look like when I haven’t shaved my legs in a month. You’ve seen me introduce a boy to my pillows. You know how often I masturbate. Your hot and cold swings concern me. There’s something going on inside you, and bleeding you out (like the Internet suggested) isn’t helping your emotional/mental well being. Help me help you. Tell me what’s wrong. Are my curtains tickling you? Does it make you sad that you can see your reflection in my mirror? You’re not fat, just loud and indecisive. Oh, Radiator. I feel like I’m talking to myself . . . we are the same person. Wait have you been trying to teach me a fucking lesson this whole time? I still hate you.
Fuck you/Love you (now you know how it feels when someone’s really indecisive),
Carrie Wittmer
Inhabitant, Your Room
stopignoringme@thebedtoyourleft.com