Love and Other Perishable Items Read Online Free PDF Page A

few pounds, and no matter how I crash-diet and run around the park, I can’t seem to shed them. My sister Liza lives in a big share house with other students and tells tales of parties and boyfriends every time we speak on the phone. I live in a small room in my parents’ house. My hair frizzes up around my face no matter how much I comb it down. Chris keeps on flirting with the other girls at work no matter how much I will him to stop. There’s not a single thing I can do about any of it.
    One day last week I’d been mouthing off to Chris about Othello , which we had just started studying at school. He’d listened to me with his head slightly cocked to one side, offering small arguments that I talked over.
    “Why is it called The Tragedy of Othello —should be The Tragedy of Desdemona !”
    “Well, it’s a tragedy for her too, but you know he’s the main protag—”
    “He kills his wife! Just kills her! I mean, what kind of psycho kills his wife and then gets to be the hero of the play?”
    “He’s a tragic hero, Youngster. He has a fatal flaw—they all do.”
    “It’s not his tragedy! It’s Desdemona’s!”
    “But the play is not about her, Youngs—”
    “How small a man is he? He’s this big war hero, but he’s so insecure that he believes all that crap about his wife. Who loves him, the poor woman. Big mistake. But how was she to know?”
    “He was willfully deceived by Iago. If someone is that good at deception, it’s easy to believe them.”
    “It shouldn’t have been that easy. Men!”
    Chris gave up.
    “You should get your own TV show, Youngster,” he’d said.
    Blimey , I thought, picturing his face yet again. I should have my own TV show, all right. It would be called Lifestyles of the Young and Powerless. Lifestyles of Them That Had a Mouthful of Metal Until a Short Time Ago. Lifestyles of Them That Still Let Their Mums Choose Their Clothes and Spent Last Saturday Night at Their Best Mate’s House Studying . I’m a disgrace. The only high points in my life are those rare moments when Chris offers to walk me home after work and listens to my rants with what appears to be tender amusement. I have become a bit of a ranter, I must admit. School, work, the disrespect with which my dad addressed my mum the other morning, the injustice of the universe, the crappy marks I keep getting in math, Madame Bovary , how one of my teachers drops the s in hubris like you pronounce debris .
    “Breathe, Youngster, breathe. You’re an Angry Young Woman.”
    But he listens.



August 5
    Time: 2 p.m.
    Location: Uni library
    Hours rostered at Coles this week: 22
    Uni essays to research and write: 3 (and a presentation)
    Health: head hurts, shoulders hurt
    Cars owned by myself, Christopher John Harvey: nil
    Hours spent waiting at bus stops this week: 4.2
    Status report on the Search for the Perfect Woman: fruitless but ongoing
    Money saved from Coles job this year: $250
    Money spent on random shit including alcohol, caffeine, aspirin, angsty music and one or two items of Young People’s Clothing: the rest of it
    Mum and Dad were asking this morning if I’m going to have a twenty-first. Hmm. This would probably involve assembling the usual suspects and having a party in the backyard. I’ll undoubtedly get tanked, as will everyone else, and it might be rather a pity for the parentals to have to see me in such a state. So I’d just as soon do all that at the pub and have a night I will try to remember rather than one I wish I could forget.…
    The uni bar, bless it, has a special on Long Island iced teas this week. I have to work after class this afternoon, but tomorrow after noon I’m fucking going. I’ll be there as soon as they roll up the metal shutters, demanding my value-for-money oblivion in a tall glass. I have my History of American Foreign Policy double lecture in the afternoon and I’m sure as hell not going to it sober.
    Now, dear reader (of whom there are none, but I can’t seemto stop