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Blog | My San Francisco Life

Tooth fairy, anyone?

When I decided to start blogging about my life, I pretty much knew a few things would happen given my knowledge of myself:  a) there would be periods of time when I didn’t add posts; b) I would probably give up a few times because I was afraid of being discovered and c) I would kill dead horses over and over again.

Beavis is a dead horse but he keeps on showing up and needing to be beaten.

I had a tooth pulled today.   It was one that had been crowned many years ago and the tooth underneath had gotten decayed.    I’ve managed to drive away everyone in my life that was close to me so I couldn’t find someone to come escort me home from the oral surgeon.  Or I was too scared to ask anyone because I didn’t want to hear no.   I lied about taking the valium that they had given me because they told me that if I took it, they wouldn’t let me leave alone.    The surgery was horrible.  I hate the sound of the drill and the feeling of the dentist forcing the tooth out.    I wanted to get an IV sedation, but again – I would have needed someone to come pick me up and I don’t have the ability to ask for help for some reason.    I’m not saying these things because I want attention or sympathy.     That’s the last thing I want.  I’m just trying to explain why things are the way they are and put it out in the universe that I know that I’m 100% responsible for the situation that I have put myself in.

Anyway, Beavis did a number of things that make me want to slash his throat.    There was the food that he hid various places, hoping it would rot and smell up the place.   There was the things he took that he knew I wouldn’t notice until sometime later – like the little round thing that goes at the bottom of the blender with the knives, the critical piece that isn’t easy to replace.  Without it it renders the rest of the blender useless. Or the potato masher which I used maybe once or twice a year.

I can’t blame him for my stupidity in spending all of my money until next paycheck, but now I have a situation in which I need to eat mushy blended stuff and I don’t have a working blender nor a potato masher.  I’m going to need to get creative.  That is one thing that I’m good at.

So I’ve never made mashed potatoes with the mixer. but I thought I would give it a shot. Added the potatoes, some sour cream, some butter, half-and-half and turned it up to high. The butter was a little hard and kept on flying out of the bowl but after about three or four minutes I ended up with a nice bowl of mashed potatoes. My mixer is a really really nice  KitchenAid mixer that today retails for about $700. I got it at a garage sale for $20. When I brought it home Bevis became so jealous because he’s always wanted one. That memory made the mashed potatoes taste so much better and made me forget the fact that I did not have a  potato masher or a blender.  Thank God for resentments.

So it’s Friday night in San Francisco.   I have a good job and make nearly 6 digits. Yet I cannot afford to buy a blender or a potato masher. There is something wrong here.   I’ve gotten good at getting stuff for nothing – people in this city (and in my neighborhood especially) give stuff away for free all of the time.   Not nasty, broken shit but good stuff.    In the past few months I’ve gotten an air ionizer, a toaster oven, a closed circuit security system, a coffee table, a queen sized mattress, a monitor,  several hundred dollars worth of books, a filing cabinet, two telephones, some telephone cable, 3 working external hard drives, some specialty cables, kitchen utensils, a 1910 solid wood teacher’s desk and that’s just the beginning.   A lot of the stuff I re-sell to help with the bills.   It’s what needs to be done.

Let’s Catch Up, Shall We?

I’ve not been so good about writing lately, but a shit-ton of worthy-of-writing-about life has happened since the last installment.  I’ll do my best to catch y’all up.

The Roommate Situation

As I predicted, Beavis came to me 24 hours before he was supposed to leave, sobbing that he had no place to go.  His roommate situation, which was all an act, had fallen through and I was his only hope of saving him from an untimely horrible death on the street.

I told him that he could stay with me under a few conditions.   1) No dog (which was in the original agreement when he moved in.  2) He had to move his stuff out and use the bed I was having delivered the day after his supposed departure.  3) He had to pay the rental fee of $175 per day. 4) He only could do this for a maximum of two weeks.

He told me to fuck off.

Then he told the landlord that I was dealing drugs out of the house.

Then he told the police about the alleged illegal activities.

Then he sent me a text message that said, “Ha Ha, enjoy jail, bitch.”

All of this coming from the stupid sack of shit that got his ass fired because he left a bag of dope in a container of pastries he was delivering to Peet’s coffee.  Yeah, the guy without a job and a felony record calling the cops on me.  Funny.  The cops never came.

The bitch crossed the line.   You don’t narc on people.  Especially when what you’re narcing about isn’t true.  As far as I’m concerned he’s dead.

He has sent a few of his friends over here to see what’s going on, as well.   The other day someone came to the down and claimed to be one of Beavis’ friends.  He had left a blanket here the day that Brian had moved out.  Who the fuck is he, Linus?  Who brings a special blue blanket with them when they come to help their loser friend move except a whiny baby piece of shit?  I mean really Beavis, no one ever thought you were smart but this is downright comical.

Enough about him.  He’s gone, thank god.

 

Aargh, Math is Hard

So I’m not sure where I learned my math skills, but that post was way off.  The 31st isn’t until Thursday so I still have 5 days before Beavis leaves.    He’s been sitting in his room with his head in his hands so this is what I suspect:   He doesn’t have a place to go and at the last minute he is going to ask me if he can stay.    I will tell him no.

Comcast has to be the most fucked up company on the planet.   Here’s my recent customer experience.

August 17th.   Order Comcast Internet for $29.00 online.  I get two emails from them, one to confirm my email, the second asking me to get started.

August 18th:  Receive email confirming my order.

August 23rd:  I receive my self-install kit, but will wait until the 1st to hook it up as we currently have Comcast in Beavis’ name.

August 24th 6:01 am:  I receive a “Here’s what you need to know” email with Getting Started instructions.   I do nothing as I’m waiting for the 1st.

August  24th:, 9:06 am:  I receive notification of my first bill and how it breaks down.  Funny, since I haven’t connected it yet.

August 24th,  3:13 pm:  I receive confirmation of my disconnection request, which I never made.

August 26th, 9:11 am:  I received a notice and explanation about my second bill.   Do they bill every two days?  I haven’t even connected my service yet.

August 26th, 6:30 pm I log on to Comcast’s website and see that I have a bill with a $29.99 credit.

I initiate a chat with Comcast.  It goes a little something like this:

 

So I’m left thinking, WTF?   Who cares – fiber gigabit ethernet is coming my way on Monday.

The final countdown

[lead] T minus 5 days. [/lead]
And counting. I’m hoping that this happens this weekend and that I can start Monday fresh without negative energy, self-doubt and anger filling up the air that is mostly unbreathable at home.

It’s crazy that this all started with a spoon in the sugar bowl and escalated into what it is today – a lost friendship, hurt feelings and a lot of broken appliances. I’d like to say that I didn’t have any part in the breakdown of our relationship, but I’d be lying if I did. In reality, I was done after the second threat to move out. The trust was lost when he went to the landlord to give his notice before he could muster up the courage to tell me that he was upset about the goddamned spoon in the sugar bowl.

I had the power to turn things around. But I chose not to use it. I want him to leave. I don’t want his judgements, nasty looks or determination to sleep with everyone I’ve ever met anymore. I want some peace and quiet without the biting comments about the ways the towels are folded, the delusions about the inequality in the division of housekeeping tasks. Or the inflated air of importance that actually is just hiding fear.

Part of me feels sorry for him; his inability to communicate face to face or be present for confrontation. His low self-esteem and his self-centeredness.

That’s it. I think I’m done writing about that. I’m ready to close that chapter and start a new one.

Its friday night

l didn’t put my high heels on.     I did, however just witness a filthy man slop beer off the floor of the L-Owl with his finger that another filthy man dropped from his tall boy on the way off the bus.

Now I’m no stranger to filthiness.  I’ve done some pretty disgusting things in my day.   Tonight’s show of shows takes the proverbial cake – a three layer double fudge one at that.

Smoked some DMT with Darvin after the crack stopped working.   As I left his house there was some hot dude taking off his pants in the alley.   I really wanted to go check it out but I knew if I did I would get accused of cock blocking so I walked on.    I don’t get the competition thing he has with me.   Anytime there is sex involved he freaks out.   Sex is supposed to be fun, not competitive.    And when you’re all high and feeling it, the last thing I want to do is get into a bitch fight.   We always seem to make up pretty quickly.    But he has a strange way of twisting the facts to support the worst possible theory about people.    I guess it’s hard to trust sometimes.

t minus 8 and counting……

I’m about to have the un-havable in San Francisco – an extra bedroom.

My first room here in the city was $375 in the Castro. That was 1995. Next I lived in the upper haight in an amazing Victorian house with my own private bath for $395.

Fast-forward to today where a two bedroom runs $4000 per month if you’re lucky. Plus utilities. With 4 other people. In the ghetto. Dot com.

Beavis got mad at me for not washing my dish. Or peeing on the toilet. Or taking a shit too smellily. He is sure that he is hearing me talk about how much I hate him behind his back. But then again, he is sure that there are lots of things happening that have no basis in reality.

So he is moving out. Then he’s not. Hey! I’m moving out! No, I’m not. Six times he played that game. I stopped playing after the second time.

The landlord stopped playing after the fifth time. Now beavis is wondering why we are all expecting him to move out.

Today he asked me to make sure to let him know if I was going to work from home because he wanted to take the dog to daycare. He is afraid to leave the dog alone with me. I told him that I world be working at home for the rest of the month.

Only one more week of this shit and I have this two bedroom apartment to myself.    And 100 strangers if I so choose.   All at once.

 

Leather, revisited

I was invited to a place that I used to frequent a lot about 5 years ago in the Outer Mission.   It’s a master/slave couple who like to have thirds and fourths join them for fun.

I wasn’t sure if they would remember me or not but I only have good memories from being there so I thought I’d give it a shot.

The first time I went there I was greeted by the boy, stripped down and blindfolded.  I was taken downstairs and tied to a sawhorse and fucked by the master.   Things got even better from there.

Caught an Uber over there and texted them that I was there.   No answer.  Waited about 10 minutes and still no answer.   I had just taken a nice dose of G and was starting to feel pretty swirly so I decided to start walking.

Love walking on G.  What a fun time.   I walked down Mission to Ocean and up to City College.   Got right to the McDonalds when I got the text.  “Come back.” it said.     So I called another Uber, this one driven by an amazing woman who spoke about dinosaurs and imagination.

Arrived at their place and spent the night trying on gear and getting my ass pounded by master’s boy.   Master ended up passing out before anything happened.   Can’t wait to go back.   Just saw an invite for last night, hopefully it’ll be good for tonight as well.

It’s a small world after all…

I could tell thousands of stories about the smallness that is San Francisco.    And I probably will.    Here is one to start.

Got home last night from work and was exhausted.  I haven’t slept in 3 days and I’m beginning to look like the walking dead.  Last night was no exception and I quickly found a couple of like-minded souls to hang out with.   when I arrived at the Mission Street condo, the gaysian that came to greet me promptly announced to the ret of the building lobby that we had already slept together three times.     I, of course have no recollection of any of these times but as he describes the events that evidently happened it sounded much too much like me for me not to accept that it wasn’t me.

He wasn’t at all my type, which means nothing but the chances of me hooking up with someone 4 times and not remembering any of the previous encounters seems possible but unlikely.

Anyway, we hang out.  Nothing happens.  I go home.

Psychosis in da house

I had a fucked up day.

Probably not as fucked up of a day as a lot of other people, my problems are relatively tame compared to some.

I’m living with someone that is developing psychosis as a result of doing too many drugs.     He has become obsessed with finding out why I’m spending all of my waking hours devising ways to drive him mad.   Like turning out the lights.   Or sleeping.  Or going to work, eating taking a dump or breathing.   I’ve never met someone who self-absorbed that he truly believes that every little action that I take has something to do with him.

This morning I get a text saying “Thank you for helping me last night, I broke your knife getting into my room”.  Evidently he had texted me in the middle of the night because he’d locked himself out of his room and wanted to borrow a credit card so he could break in.   Why he locks his room is a bit of a mystery – evidently he thinks I’m out to take his stuff.    The only things I’d take out of his room are the things he has “borrowed” from me without asking.

Anyway, I was sleeping.   He heard clicks and talking coming from my room so he thought I was ignoring him.    Out I was.  From 9pm-6:30 am.   Psychosis.    I told him he needed to get help and he said he was going to a meeting.

And then he wants to talk, but he can only do this via text messages.    Tonight we were supposed to talk and when I got home he said he had gotten some bad news and didn’t feel like talking.   Not surprised.    And no meeting either.   On top of that, he asked me to front a teen until Friday.   Really?

I’ve been to 12-steps groups.    And although I think they are bunk, they can do some good things for certain people.   I’m all for people achieving their goals so if you tell me you’re going to go to meetings, the last think I’m going to do is front you crack.   Sorry, just not about getting in the middle of someone’s goals.   Or being the subject of a speaker at a CMA meeting.

Speaking of CMA meetings, there’s a shit show.   It’s like everyone you’ve ever fucked in the same room and if there happens to be someone you haven’t fucked you can guarantee that you will by the end of the day.   Incestuous group of tweakers, that is.   The last place you want to go if you want to get sober is a CMA meeting.

 

[meh]

Called in sick to work today.   I did have a sore throat.   I’m sure it had nothing to do with the 5 day sex marathon that I completed this past weekend.   It was Dore Alley fair,  which used to be like Folsom Street Fair used to be like.    For those of you that have never been, it’s a good excuse for San Francisco homos to put on leather jockstraps and prance about the street.   I sat in the back of one of the bars that happens to be inside the fair boundaries and got my knob slobbered on by who knows how many drunk revelers.

Later hosted a big party at a nearby hotel.   It wasn’t the normal sleazy one at 9th and Harrison but it should have been.   The one we were at required guests to walk through the lobby past the front desk and up to the room.   The lobby closed at 10pm so we were required  to go down and retrieve new guests.   The clerk was not amused and started harassing us by threatening to charge us $20 per person.    One time on my way back up he said to me “Hello?  Guest are not allowed”.   I was like “what?  what do you mean no guests are allowed?”  I was already in the elevator and kept on going with the two I was bringing up.    We must have had 20-30 in and out of the room that night.    Continued the party at my place afterwards and it lasted until 7am on Tuesday morning when I had to give it up and go to work.

I’ve had more sex in the last 10 years than most small cities in the midwest see their entire life.   I wish I would have kept track of everyone but after a while they all seem the same – nobody is what you expect them to be when they show up and when they go, it wasn’t enough.    It seems almost accepted to steal from people and the norm is that you’ve lied about your age.   The pictures are never accurate and it all seems like bad advertising gimmicks to get someone to get with you.     I wish it made me sick enough to actually stop.