If I Die Before I Wake

If I die before I wake, somebody please call the cops because I'm pretty sure I just met the guy who is going to murder me in my sleep and stuff a pillow with my hair and/or make a leisure suit from my skin. I mean, he didn't throw me in a pit and spray me down with a garden hose every time I failed to put the lotion in the basket, but that's only because I didn't give him the chance. You may think that due to my penchant for hyperbole I am exaggerating. I say nay, my friend. Nay. I have an eyewitness and she will attest to the fact that this guy definitely killed small animals as a child and even odds say he has a human head in his freezer.

I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood with one of my friends with the idea that we'd get some air and scope out available apartments while we were out there. We came across an older building that was a little rundown, but I live in a historic neighborhood, so the buildings are old and you can't afford to judge a building by its exterior because it may be hiding some charming apartments. This building sort of resembled a dormitory or motel, but the location was good and I thought, what the hell? What the hell indeed.

As we approached the front door, we noticed a handbag sitting on the stoop, completely unattended. Weird, right, because nobody leaves their shit unattended in the city unless they are totally stupid. Or dead in a Dumpster, but we'll get to that. I pushed the button labeled "Manager," but there was no response. The call box made no noise, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing, so I thought it wasn't working. I tried pressing the button again.

Just as I turned to my friend to remark that I thought it was broken, I found myself staring directly into the dead yet queerly alert, sociopathic eyes of a total nutball. He was wearing a dirty sweatshirt and tapered jeans and had that bland, almost but not quite normal look of every serial killer in the history of the world. His Manson lamps raked over my body from head to toe as my flesh crawled in revulsion. He stared at us through the glass door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before finally poking his head out and greeting us warmly. And by greeted warmly, I mean he barked out, "Yes?" in his angry monotone. I told him I was inquiring about the apartment he had available and that's when the interrogation began.

"What are you looking for?" he demanded.
"A one bedroom," I replied. "Do you have any availab-?"
"Smoker or non?" he blurted out before I even had a chance to finish my sentence
"Uh, non."
"Pets?"
"Yeah. Wha-"
"What is your min, max and desired rent?"
"What do you have available?" I countered, totally thrown off guard by the barrage of questions. I mean, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions here?
"Tell me your min, max and desired rent," he droned.
"Well, why don't you tell me what your one bedroom is renting for and I'll tell you if I'm still interested," I said, starting to get weirded out and pissed off at the same time.
"$950 and up," he scoffed giving me a disgusted glance as though I was a dirt and excrement encrusted street person who was clearly wasting his time.
"That's fine," I said, "Can I see an apartment?"
"What color panties are you wearing and do you moisturize regularly?"
Okay, he might not have said that last part, but he may as well have. He was obviously thrown off his game when I didn't flinch and asked to see an apartment. Clearly he's used to running people off with his atrocious manners and crazy, crazy, crazy eyes. He whirled on his heel and walked inside. We followed and the foul stench of serious body odor, frustrated masturbation (and let's face it, dismembered bodies) wafted out from his "office," which he carefully used the door to shield from our view, probably so we wouldn't see the blood splatter.

He thrust a "survey" in my face and told me I'd have to fill it out in order to see an apartment. A cursory glance revealed that the "survey," included income, credit rating, social security number and all kinds of other stuff you should never have to give out unless you are actually applying for the apartment. The most I have ever been asked for is my identification and it's not like we're talking about some sweet ass apartment in a gated community or some shit. Chances are, the apartment was probably barely livable.

"Oh, I'm not sure I want to apply, I just want to see what you have to offer," I said. I mean, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I don't have to fill out shit for you to show me an apartment. I definitely wasn't going to give this freak any information about me that would facilitate his hunting me down, tearing me limb from limb and drinking my blood. I knew the second I laid eyes on this psycho I would never ever live there, even if they paid me $950 and up, but I wanted to see the damned apartment out of curiosity.

"Every prospective tenant must fill out this survey completely in order to assure my safety, your safety and the safety of our residents. You may not see an apartment without one."
My eyes began to water from the stench and I was done playing his game, so I just thrust the clipboard back at him and said, "I don't think so."

Anyway, I'm pretty sure he was trying to get rid of us because he was busy exsanguinating the unfortunate owner of the abandoned handbag. And I'm also pretty sure I'm next.

I'm off to wedge a chair under my doorknob and buy a shotgun. Pray for me.

On Drunken Ramblings

Wow. I just reread my post from last night/early this morning. Wow. Shut up, me. Talk about whiny. I attribute it to beer and lack of sleep and the fact that not one single aspect of my life is nailed down right now. I don't know where I'll be working, I don't know where I'll be living, I don't know who Anna Nicole's baby daddy is...It's all just weighing on me and magnifies other issues that normally wouldn't be enough to get me down. Forgive the wallowing in self-pity. I'm fine. Really. Boys suck, but I'm much happier on my own anyway.

In other news, I think I lost my phone last night. Fucking great. Now I have no phone numbers and no way to contact anyone as my landline apparently doesn't work. Good thing I'm paying so much for it! If I haven't returned your phone call or text, now you know why. I'm an idiot.

Tomorrow's a big day for me. Big scary interview. Any good vibes you can put out are much appreciated. Okay, my next post will be funnier. I hope.

It's Not You, It's Me

At some point, you have to realize that maybe it's not that there's something wrong with everyone else you encounter. Maybe it is you. That's where I'm at. Maybe it's me. There has to be a reason every single guy I date either stalks me and totally creeps me out or treats me like a piece of shit. There is no in between. Maybe it is me.

My options have always been: be completely alone or settle for some guy that treats me like shit. The stalkers are never an option because my independent streak takes over and I will literally gnaw off my own arm to get free if necessary. For a long time, I was with one guy in particular that made me feel like I was unworthy of anyone. After him, I decided to be alone for a really long time. We're talking years here. But it's difficult when every single other sentient being in the universe is coupled up and you're not invited to shit if you don't have a date. So, here I am: settling for less.

It's embarrassing to tell my friends about the way that I have been treated and the way I still allow men to treat me. The way they degrade my sense of self worth and make sure I know that I'm not good enough for them to spend time with unless they have nothing else to do. That they like me enough to not want to see me with anyone else and will beg me to stay if I try to break things off, but not enough to actually become a real part of my life. That they have no compunction about canceling on me, disappointing me, and hurting my feelings. It's humiliating to tell people about how the only dudes who seem to want to date you are the ones that are sure to let you know that you're not even worth a moment's consideration. The rejection I have learned to take, but the humilation is freaking unbearable.

I either don't put up with their shit and am alone or I just struggle to accept the fact that what I want doesn't matter to anyone else and I'm crazy to think things will ever be different. I'm pretty fucking tired of being asked why I don't have a boyfriend. What is the correct answer to that question? Um, obviously I have some wicked personality flaw that keeps any guy without a severe hatred of women/mental disturbance at least 200 yards away from me at all times. It's like my own restraining order against normal relationships! After a while it wears you down and you learn to take what you can get. The disappointment hurts so much that I don't dare to hope for anything better. But I'm not quite ready to give up hope altogether. I feel so lost and completely alone right now. I can deal with that, but the prospect of feeling like this for the rest of my life is eating me alive.

Wow, this is really fucking depressing and self indulgent. I think I'd better go to bed now. Hopefully I'll be in a better mood tomorrow...