Hyper Little Thoughts

quick update before I head to work on how horribly horribly BAD my weekend was.

walked to the bank before I headed out of town to deposit some tips and a paycheck, and got pick-pocketed. $300 worth - two weeks worth of tips - gone. So i had to put gas and smokes on my credit card just to get home. then it was bumper to bumper traffic on my way out of the city - it took two hours to get outside of city limits alone, and I narrowly missed getting involved in 4! 3+ car pile-up accidents.

home itself wasn't bad, not really. but it was really odd - I have my apartment front door buzzer hooked into my cell phone (so if someone rings my buzzer, my cell phone rings). the entire weekend at home, my buzzer kept going off, and if i answered it, no one would answer back.

then on the drive back to chicago, traffic was about 4x worse because it's Easter Sunday and they let all the old people out of the homes, and because it was thunderstorms the whole way back. I left about 3:30 this afternoon, and it's 7:30 now; i just walked in the door. It usually takes me about 2.5 hours. i get back to my apartment (after parking in the middle of the lake that is my street), and someone's tried to break in while I was gone. The door jamb is all chipped up by the deadbolt, which doesn't quite lock properly, and it appears that it was tried more than once (my forensic chem class coming back to me). which leads me to conclude that whoever was ringing my buzzer was testing to see if I was home, and finding out that I wasn't, somehow got into the building and to my apartment and tried to break in. luckily, they didn't succeed - it doesn't look like anything's missing or messed with. But that's really very scary for me. and after that pick-pocket episode, I am not amused with my luck right now.

Fuck, what a shitty weekend.

Going to get tested today.

Wish me negativity.

I have a date tonight! Mark called and wants to meet tonight after he gets done at this birthday party thing. EEP! That leaves me with 6 hours to clean this apartment, pick out an outifit, and make myself purty!

EEP!

I'm in an icky mood today. It's mostly because I'm exhausted and achey. Tonight's my 6th night in a row working, and yesterday I did a double. Thank god tomorrow night I'm off. My apartment is trashed and I'm behind in my school stuff already (I was naughty today and decided to not go to school...BAD BRADLEY!), and I've got a shitton of paperwork and crap to go through and sort out. And errands and laundry and all kinds of domestic stuff that builds up.

Was woken up this morning by my property management company wanting to know if I was planning on renewing my lease. I laughed at them and told 'em I'd let them know by next Wednesday, but it looks like probably not. When they asked why, I said point blank that what I'm paying now is too much for this apartment, let alone the extra $35 they want to increase rent to. Considering all of the stuff that's broke, my neighbors, and all the BS, it's just not worth it. I think I'm going to move up to A-ville (north side of the city) or even Irving Park. It's amazing what 12 blocks distance can do to property values. My goal is to get a 1-bedroom for around what I'm paying now for my studio, or maybe a little more. I'm meeting with four different apartment finding agencies next week. So hopefully I'll turn up something and be able to put some money down for a deposit to hold it till June. I just don't think it's a necessity for me to live in this neighborhood anymore. It's nice and I love it, but I can't really justify the money being spent here. Who knows.

Met a new guy last night; Mark. Nice guy, seems stable. We're going out next week. Gonna set Michael down tonight or tomorrow and let him know what's what. Things have definetely gotten out of hand.

I just finished all the requested changes for my research study and emailed everything back to the IRB.

It only took about an hour, and now I feel stupid for waiting till the last minute.

But it's done. It's really really done.

I? Do not feel good. My tummy hurts and my headache's back. Both of them are due to this fucking tooth. Argh! I'm getting ready to tie a string around it and tie it to a doorknob and rip it out myself. My mood has progressivly gotten worse throughout the evening. This is due, in part, to the huge stack of bills staring at me from my kitchen counter, my lease renewal coming today (they're increasing my rent $35, so it looks like I will be looking for a new place afterall), a bounce-back bill from my dentist, and about ten thousand things I need to have done by two weeks ago.

Man, being an adult sucks.

I don't suppose anyone has a kajillion dollars they could give me? No? Didn't think so. Ergh.

The Stranger
His hands tremble,
the palms are slick with sweat.
His hair is greasy,
coated with melted gel.
He stinks of ashes
and of hours old stale beer.
He shifts his weight
from left to right to left.
Brown eyes rolling,
cloudy and glossed over.
Cracked lips quiver,
craving one more quick sip.
His skin so pale,
even fresh snow blushes.
He wants me now.
I don’t want him, but I’ll
go home with him.
In the morning I’ll leave.
He’ll forget me,
wondering who I was.
I’ll remember
but I won’t care at all.
I’ll just wonder
who it is I’ve become.
Who am I now?

Okay, since lunabee34 requested, I'm going to be posting the stuff that I write for my creative writing class here. If you wanna read it, cool, but don't feel obligated:)

I'll post later on last night. hehe.

( The Chair )

( Rush Hour )

Just wanted to express my sadness and dissapointment over my creative writing class. It looks like it's going to be positively horrid. The professor is a heterosexist arrogant prick. He spent most of the class talking about what it means to be a "writer" like him. First of all, this is my opinion, but I don't think anyone can call themself a writer. There can be people who write; who write passionately and full-time and make their income from that, but I don't even then they can call themselves a writer. Like me for instance: I write, a lot, in fact, and it's my passion, it's what I love to do. I've been pretty successful at it too, fanfiction aside. I've had four different pieces professionally published. But I still don't think of myself as a writer. I'm just a guy that writes. Anyway, that aside, he was just very insistant on how exactly one is a writer. And that dissapoints me.

As for the class, we can chose to emphasize either poetry or short stories, and whichever we put our emphasis on will be how we're graded. We are not allowed to write any of the following: no characters are allowed to be between the ages of 13 and 30; we cannot write horror, science fiction, mystery, or supernatural fiction of any type; we may not write characters based on personal experience.

Now, I get that Creative Writing is more or less being able to write about something within a set of rules or prompts. Someone told me once that creativity is being able to use what you're given and only what you're given to the best of your ability. So, I can understand all of this. But my question is this: what if these things that he doesn't allow is what and how I, as a person who writes, want to write and what I am good at writing? What if this is what piques my interest and is what I am passionate about?

I can't drop the class, so I'm stuck with it. Maybe it'll get better, and I'm going to try and keep my chin up about it, but I do have to say I'm saddened and dissapointed by both the professor's attitude as well as how he conducts his class.

What is it about gay men that make them hate each other so much?

Long LONG story short: there was this older gentleman that was after me tonight; I wound up telling him that I have a boyfriend (which is about 1/3 truth). He was a really sweet guy but I just wasn't interested. Anyway, we all had way too much to drink, but this guy had so much to drink that his legs gave out - as in, he couldn't walk at all. So I, along with James (that's a whole nother post in and of itself), escorted him out the door and helped him into a cab. Meanwhile, all of these hanus mean drunken assholes were taking pictures of it! As in "and this is what happens at Charlie's...etc".

How is this okay? How is this acceptable? First of all, these are all guys that I know from the bars that I frequent or from working on the strip, and whatever. Second of all, they don't know this man who is in need of assistance. Third of all, who gives anyone the right to make fun of someone like that? That is just not acceptable. That is not humane. That is just not cool.

Luckily, I had enough courage (granted, it was false courage - you do the math) and the anger to stand up and say something. Sadly enough, under normal sober conditions I would have just let it pass for fear of causing conflict or getting into a confrontation. But tonight, I actually did something. I started yelling at these guys about how this is not OKAY and that some day, SOME DAY, they would be old too and need help, and how would they feel if someone was snapping pictures at them in their time of need. Granted, I was much more heated and much snottier when talking to them, but that really really upset me. These words don't give merit to how angry I was at these guys. And, what I said probably will get me ostrasized from some of the bars that they work at, but I really and truly feel better knowing that maybe, just maybe, I helped a little bit. Maybe something I said go through to one of those jerks. And even if it didn't - I feel better for standing up for not only this guy, for myself, but also for anyone who's ever been in a similar situation.

I just don't understand how anyone - no matter how drunk or high or whatever they are - can excuse that kind of behavior. How can you look at those pictures and still laugh; knowing that this person was in need of help. How can you look yourself in the mirror knowing that you laughed at someone who was in pain and who needed help? I just don't get it. But I'm damn glad I was able to at least stick up for him.