Airbnb housemates are just like real world housemates, among other things they eat your food. I eat mostly vegetables, tuna, etc., and the last time I went grocery shopping I was cool if the Gypsy woman ate some of my food, she could stand to lose some weight. AIR blog #1 That was like three or four days ago. The Gypsy woman is gone and so are most of my groceries. Time to go again. Just now I went through my condiments and each bottle is almost empty. I don't use condiments that often so each bottle should be almost full but they're not. (Sigh) 😒 You have to lock up everything in a shared housing situation. Every. Single. Thing. Unfortunately, the one refrigerator is downstairs in the kitchen. If I find someone to back my book, I'll get a mini fridge for my room.
Speaking of my book, I'm putting together a little WIP blog page to shop publishers or financial backer to self-publish. You'll either love my book or absolutely hate it. I'm told literary snobs don't like sex, sex crime, or swearing in books but all I can say to that is, enjoy your life under whatever rock you'll never crawl out of. I'm 55 years old. I've traveled halfway around the world and back. I've seen some shit. We all have. 20 episodes of To Catch a Predator, 406 episodes of Forensic Files, 629 episodes of Snapped, 1,100 episodes of Cops, and over 2,720 episodes of Dateline according to Google. Like I said, if you can't handle a little (and I do mean little) swearing, violence, and sex that are important story arcs in my book, then just go back under your rock, Karen.
The CRASH SLAM boys are gone already. AIR blog #1 They only stayed one night. At least they were clean. Loud AF, but clean.
There are all new Airbnb guests here now. All of them quiet so far which is great. I call the new person to the right of me The Sweeper. After she checked in it sounded like she swept her floor for a solid twenty minutes. I know what her room looks like. There's isn't twenty minutes of floor in there. Five tops but only if you ran out of OCD medication.
The new guest to the left of me is a single dude who looks like the first guy I housemate with back in June. Not sure though. I was texting with that San Meteo guy I told you about in my last blog when I heard a constant rhythmic cracking noise coming from the patio which is directly below my bedroom window. Annoying. I went downstairs to check it out and saw him just sitting there on his phone - still not sure where the cracking was coming from. Maybe the patio next door.
And speaking of the San Meteo guy, it's not going to happen. Something goes on with the men I know over a certain age, usually right around 60 years old where they absolutely suck at communicating. For a writer, it's annoying when people fail at communicating. That's all we do, communicate. Makes me wonder if it's just my choice in men or if this is common pattern behavior with most/all men over 60. They call it gaslighting when people randomly ghost you but that's just a poor excuse for failing to be an adult. Stop making excuses for people. Mister San Meteo talked a big game, Mister Big, but when it came down to putting up or shutting up - he chose to shut up rather than deliver. 60-year-old white guy. I miss Sheldon. He's a longtime friend of mine who died last year. In better days we would have had a few glasses of wine and ragged, "Don't want, don't want, don't want, don't want no short dick man. Don't want, don't want, don't want..." Unfortunately, in 2020 after nearly thirty years of friendship we got into our first major fight ever amid Covid and our thirty-year friendship came to a sudden end. Three years later Sheldon died at Cedars-Sinai. It was awful. We never patched up our friendship. We never said goodbye. Still, we would have joked about Mister Bigshot San Meteo. Mister, all hat no cattle.
At my age I don't tolerate big talkers. Do what you say. I don't have enough years left to wait for anyone. When you're young you can weigh your options and then weigh them some more. When you're old like me honey put up or shut up. "Don't want, don't want, don't want, don't want no short dick man. Don't want, don't want, don't want..."
It's 3:30am. I'm waiting for the sun to rise to go on my walk. I've been busy last two days feeling a little funky like a cold might be coming on and have neglected my walks. Today I'll walk. I need groceries anyway. After my stroke the Docs told me I have to use my legs and walk at least forty minutes a day.
The Crow is streaming on Pluto now. I watched it last night for the fiftieth time and loved it like I did the first time I watched it. Brandon Lee!! Goddamnit. As much as I love storytellers like Jane Austin, E. A. Poe, and Shakespeare, sometimes I need to get dirty-real in the rain and muck. Nothing is more real than revenge. Nothing. Shakespeare wrote about revenge like no one else ever will, but The Crow is a cult classic among those who live in obscure darkness, fingernails scraped in dirt and warpaint. Those who have tasted flesh and blood including their own and live to fight another day, and then another, a collection of battle scars. We know our own don't we. Stray cats. All of us.
Back to writing I go.
Tomorrow morning's blog will include excerpts of my book.
I'm a writer. Not an editor. I don't think I'll edit my books. If you can understand my broken brain here, then you're my kind of people. The book I'm writing isn't for everyone. Fuck grammar. No, kidding. Grammar is important. Just not here. If you can understand Bukowski, you can understand my writing. I tried to read Abbie Hoffman's Steal This Book, but I just, I don't know, maybe my brain isn't broken enough. He does have followers still, clearly, or I wouldn't have heard about Steal This Book.
Thanks for the visit. Now off with you. Make art. Make music. Write. Make film. Design clothes. Write a love letter and send it, or not. I'll see you tomorrow morning.
Lisa
