The past couple of weeks I’ve been cooking up a huge pot of self-pity stock with which to make a hearty pathetic stew. The meat will be a fine cut of wretched beast and the vegetables an assorted mix of anxiety, fear and intermittent rage tubers. The noodles are homemade from stress and the whole thing seasoned with my bitch tears.
I don’t handle stress super well. Like everyone on the face of the planet at some point your shit comes up snake eyes and bad things snowball to the point where you are fully prepared to snap, headbutt the nearest human being and flee weeping and screaming into the night to be picked up by the Po-Po three counties away, naked and drunk.
It all started last Saturday when my purse was snatched from the back office of Das Hotelenstein. There was a doorstop propping the door open and sure as the goddamned sun rises that was the day a passing fuck of a junkie took the opportunity.
BAM. Purse gone. I was only alerted to the fact that it had been stolen because when that ass face was running away with it my phone dialed the last number called. Which was my boss, who called and wanted to know what I wanted. I hadn’t even gone back to check before I knew I’d been jacked.
I had to call the police, make a report and then stand there as I was blamed for the whole affair. Then I was written up for it. Even though I wasn’t the one who put that fucking doorstop there in the first place and wasn’t the one to forget to kick it out.
My boyfriend , Mark , was a prince. When I called in a panic, asking if he would please, please bring my laptop so I could shut down my bank accounts he was there within ten minutes. Then he patrolled the garages and side streets looking for the son of a bitch that took my shit. He found the scattered remains of my belongings in the lower car park which included the purse itself, my house keys and my kindle. It’s odd that he took the wallet and other electronics but discarded my Ereader. I suppose crackheads aren’t big readers.
Then in the midst of trying to fix my accounts and replace my debit cards I begin receiving emails from the harpy that runs our building accusing me of being late on rent and running a gigolo lounge.
Then came the pissed off email marked with double exclamation points from my other boss asking why I accepted a cash walk in at 3 AM. Ahhhh, That guy hates me.
Then returning to Das Hotelenstien to be called “Dumb” for getting robbed. Then get my write up for it. Then wonder if my cards will come in in time to pay for my books for Stumptown Comics Fest…
Oh, but Stumptown…In five days I will be in the loving arms of Erika Moen and her sultry hunk of man, Matt. I’ll be free wheeling around that north western paradise with my hipster peeps…Doing lines of caviar off of Adam Elliss‘ tramp stamp.
So more funny to come. As soon as I can stop dreaming about being covered in spiders and missing flights and dragging myself into work day to day and maybe find the time to wash my underwear.
Five days, five days, five days and I’ll be normal again.
Thanks for reading guys.