Of course, Semi-Homeless refused to go quietly into the night.
When I realized I couldn't take him anywhere, because he wasn't even housebroken, I broke up with him. Not that that did any good.
He begged me to meet his mom. So the next day, off we went to the ghetto boondocks, better known as Lynwood, CA. I met his mom and sisters, who seemed like normal black folks of normal intelligence. His mom even confided, in an embarrassed voice, "I don't know why he turned out that way."
I broke up with him again. The next day, I woke up to three answering-machine messages, which I promptly deleted.
A few days later, I met a self-proclaimed mogul and would-be Motown impresario the same way I had met Stripper Pimp nine months before: from a bogus casting notice in the Hollywood trades. He talked the same sleazy game as Stripper Pimp. He would make me a star, but first, I had to prove I had the good sense to put out.
The thought of screwing that short, fat, no-name loser thrilled me about as much as tongue-kissing the foul-breathed Semi-Homeless. This new loser got three weeks of my time – time where he tried to rope me into a stupid pyramid scheme, time where I started learning Mary Wells songs because he promised I'd play her in a show, time listening to his lectures about how I needed to be smart enough to screw the right people, namely him.
At least this time, I didn't take the bait. I'd already tried selling my body, and all I had to show for it was seven months of a mystery STD that no amount of denial, herbs or supplements would heal.
I went out with Semi-Homeless one last time. He gave me a miniature rose-bud plant. I had no desire to care of it, just as I no longer had the desire to take care of him.
Ten days later, I told him yet again to get lost, that I didn't want to see him or talk to him "for the time being."
He asked, "Would a year be ok?"
A year might have been fine. But ten days later, there he was calling again and again and again and again and again. Leaving message after message that I never returned.
He was the last straw. The final proof that I was a loser. That my life was a joke.
I'd just turned 26. I'd been out of college four years. I'd been in Los Angeles one year.
And I had no money. No man. No job. No apartment. No acting credits. No career.
Nothing.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Except an endless, godawful future of taking care of my senile Great Aunt. An endless stream of stinky white stuff gushing into pantyliners. An endless, repetitive cycle of dating the wrong men. The endless disappointment of watching my dreams turn to dust.
I spent the darkest night of my life in my tiny little powder-blue bedroom. Crying.
All I could thing about was all the different ways I could end this misery. I could slash my wrists with a kitchen knife; I could O.D. on Great Aunt's blood-pressure medication; I could drink cleaning solution; I could drive down PCH and jump off the rocks into the icy, dark Pacific Ocean; I could stop my car on the train tracks and be demolished by a slow-moving freight.
There were all kinds of possibilities.
Or I could just try to spend as much time as possible in bed until the mood passed.
1 comment:
Escaping is not a good option. I am sure you have realized its goodness now. :)
Kisses.
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