Rent is due today. $900. Technically, I’m paying $450 a month, but Alex paid the first month so we could hold the apartment and now I’m paying the second month. If I could go back I think I’d rather pay part of the first month and part of the second month because, even though shit evens out, it never feels good giving away $900. $450 is painful enough, but $900 is a rapist’s knife pressed to your throat.
There are few things more depressing than watching your money flow out of the ATM knowing that you have to give it away. Like a young mother who must give up her child for adoption. But the good thing about money is you can always get more.
On the street, I pass a bus-shelter-pisser (that’s what I’m calling them now – also hedge pissers) dressed in clothes from the Salvation Army’s clearance rack. I smile, nod a hello.
“You don’t want none a dis.”
Then he does one of those little laughs or scoffs or whatever that begins with a T.
“You don’t want none a dis. T’uh.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about AIDS or sickle cell. Either way, he’s right.
I work tomorrow morning. Up at 5:30 to get in by 7:00. That’s twenty-two-and-a-half minutes time allotted for each mile. But fuck it. I’m kind of enjoying the thought of being a celebrity by proxy. If I see Jessica Alba or somebody, I get to tell my friends and then guess what? I’m the fucking man. As pathetic as that sounds.
Also, I’ve decided that I will be scavenger-shitting no more. I’d rather stand over a toilet silently willing it to “Swallow my beast!” (that’s what I say in my head) than disrupt lifelong defecation habits any further. My asshole can’t take the crystal shards of brown I’ve been pushing out in the afternoon. It’s like having a kid every day.
I’ve realized that 90-something percent of the white people in LA are from New York or somehow tied to New York. At the gym, the members always talk about how they’re going to New York or going to be in New York or just New York in general.
Do people in New York talk about LA like this?
A lot of the guys at the gym are male models or aspiring male models or just look like male models. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but I feel really self-conscious around them when I’m working out. They do light reps with little-to-no exertion and produce just enough sweat to coat themselves in a flattering look-at-me-I-use-Turtle-Wax sheen. Meanwhile I’m going balls out with 25 plates on the leg press and my shirt is fucking soaked.
I look like a vagina, not a brand new car.
When they look at me, are they looking down?
I posted a Craigslist ad looking for a new place in August. Clean, white, polite, male, etc. Posted a few (good) pics of myself and have gotten a few responses.
Mainly from gay guys. I think.
Which is fucking fine by me. I don’t care if you like meat or fish – if you have somewhere I can stay for cheap then it’s all protein. But I’ve adopted a “don’t ask don’t tell” policy wherein I do not mention my (STRAIGHT) sexual orientation and I’m worried that once these people find out that I’m not gay and just gay-friendly they will not want to rent their domiciles out to me. See, I’m trying to rent an apartment and I think they may be trying to rent my mouth.
One guy offered to put me up for free. And it’s in a real good fucking location. I’m almost sure that he’ll retract his offer when he realizes my asshole is not for sale.
When I ask him (via email) why he’d be willing to do such a thing he writes:
“You look nice and strong and I’d feel safe with someone like you in my house. How tall are you and what do you weigh?”
To me that sounds like a thinly-veiled gay-for-pay request.
Living rent-free in one of the most expensive cities in the US could be worth giving a monthly BJ for… right?
Yeah, I don’t think so either.