Not My Day

The other day I dreamt that my tattoo had disappeared and somehow been replaced by one of fishnet stockings on my left leg.

That day was yesterday.

I woke up at five a.m. to the incessant yelping of my neighbor's rat dog and couldn't go back to sleep.

I get up.

I have a cup of tea.

I don't know what I should do with myself so I pace the apartment in my socks, gathering dog hairs and dust along the way. Any other day I would've gone to the fridge and peered within its orifices in silence, looking for something unhealthy to bury my anxiety with. Today I'm momentarily soothed by my new diet, greasy food cravings not nearly as alive as they should be.

I decide to shower. A little masturbation and hair washing later and I'm back to reality.

Fifteen minutes and my hair is dry, the kitchen clock reflecting fifteen past six. What to do...

Coffee.

Good coffee. Specifically that caramel latte from McDonalds with a breakfast sandwich. I grab Bruno and head downstairs, too chickenshit to face the dark on the way to my car alone.

Only that when we descend the final step, there is no car.

Wait. Where the fuck's my car? I go back up slowly and pinch myself, lifting my hallway blinds and hopefully looking out the window.

Nothing.

The cops arrive half hour later, two chunky ladies with friendly faces and coffee breath. "These sorts of things happen all the time," says Chubsters #1. I'm not exactly relieved by her statement.

Three hurried phone calls and my car is located, an hour away from my place at a joint called "Torres Towing." Two hundred dollars gone and it's back in my possession. This is what happens when your landlord forgets to pay his association fees for months and owes almost two thousand dollars.

You know what also happens? You get an eviction letter taped to your door that same day, stating you have one month to either pay the monies due or vacate the premises.

This is about the moment you're ready to give up, wishing the universe would align in your favor for just one moment that changes everything. Then you go drinking one-too-many with your friend Miguel and decide it's a good idea to write a post that'll bore your readers to infinity and beyond, right before the long holiday weekend.

I don't know.

I don't really know anything anymore. I feel like a deflated balloon. Maybe everyone should write a blog post about RMG saying it's a porn site and show them this picture or something? Who knows.

Then tomorrow I'll wake up and delete this post due to sheer embarrassment and unwelcome sobriety.

But not tonight...

Tonight, I simply don't give a fuck.

Update: My landlord paid all the money owed to the association as soon as I threatened to move out. Miami real estate is a disaster and moving to a new apartment would be a pain in the rear end I'm not ready to face at the present moment.

Still! You guys rock. You rule. And are better than passionfruit creme brulee served in bed by Channing Tatum wearing only boxer briefs.