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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.

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.

 

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.

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.

 

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.

 

I got my ability to drink from being part Irish.   My ability to drink to excess came from my Native American part.  The two work hand in hand to ensure I’m numb most of the time.

The house next to mine has been empty for about a year.  A few weeks ago, about 1000 Irish boys moved in.   They are all 20 somethings and I’ve yet to figure out what they are doing.  I suspect that they are a soccer team but as long as they keep prancing in the front window with their shirts off, I don’t give a shit what they are.

I’m spending the day watching the flowers grow.

Pissy queens.   Was hit up online by a guy who asked if I was in SF.   I said yes and he said “Are you a top with a big cock to service?”  I responded that we were not a match and he spat back, “oh, and how may I ask that you know that?”  and before I could answer “oh wait, nevermind. I’ll gladly accept the rejection . Good Day.”

Sheesh.

I’m not going to tell you my name.   Or give you my phone number or email.  Or submit to an interview.  Or cooperate with the police.   It’s just not going to happen.     You don’t need to know it.

Today I was browsing the net working on the macbook that I bought from my dealer because the one I had for work got stolen for the second time because I hooked up on the internet with some sketchy mother fucker who heisted it.  What a douche.   Anyway, I was looking at anti-virus and ran across one called Thor.    Now the fuck-tards at Thor thought it would be a good idea to outright plagiarize the content from Avast software.   Fucking word for word.   Has no one any self-respect or creativity?  Sheesh.

The tale is really told when looking at the App Store page.

It’s clear the only complete sentences she can write are those that she lifted from the Avast site:

 

 

The only thing she didn’t plagiarize is the 400+ million customers, 186 countries and the 43 languages.  I bet I can figure out why.

 

 

My roommate is constantly convinced that we have been broken into. I regularly get texts about this missing I’m missing or that missing and about the door being unlocked. Today was no exception. Today it was the unlocked deadbolt. He was sure he locked it at 715 when he left and was I at work?

Paranoia.   A direct consequence of using as much speed as he does.

I promise this blog isn’t going to be a bitch-fest about my roommate.  And I promise that it will become more interesting.    Some of the shit that happens to me is so bizarre that it can’t be made up.   Stories of lies, deception, hookers, thieves, drug dealers and incredible acts of sexual craziness await.  And….. maybe a monkey or two here and there.

Had a real haircut today. It’s been years since I’ve gotten it cut by anyone else but myself. Had an awesome student cut it who I think will be a regular. When I went to pay, the bill was $10 but my card couldn’t handle it. How fucking embarrassing. I ended up giving them $5 in quarters and the card handled the other $5.

Last night Darren came over with $500 worth of toys that were on clearance at the drugstore. He wanted to list them on Amazon so we sat up until 2am bothering the neighbors as we listed the shit. We’re supposed to be emptying his place, but each time we do he ends up buying more shit.

Still haven’t talked to Beavis. He sent me a lame ass text yesterday letting me know that if I wanted to talk that he’d be in the backyard. When I didn’t respond, he retracted. Typical. He doesn’t know yet that I’ve alerted the landlord that he gave his notice on the apartment and asked that he not give him the ability to retract this time.

 

First in last out. That was my day today. And yet I feel like everybody else if the credit. I’m long past the days of being the golden child and I realize that the pattern has nothing to do with me. But occasionally, a tiny bit of recognition and go along way.

My roommate is moving out. Because I left the The spoon in the sugar bowl , something I had to find out from the past drug dealer that happened to be at the house when I got home fucking some small tweak . He had gone to the hospital and left them in the house.

This is the fourth time he has threatened to move out. It will be his last.  You see the way I look at it is that it’s my sugar bowl it’s my spoon and my sugar. I should decide whether or not there is a spoon or not. And if it is such a big deal then why doesn’t he just asked me to not do it?  I’m choosing not to engage.