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I'd just gotten back into town like twenty fucking minutes ago, the cab ride from the airport to the moderately shitty walkup I shared being at an appreciable fraction of the speed of light, and what do I come back to?
A note, from my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend it seems. Somehow, a relationship that was perfectly fine when I left a week ago has become too confining, restrictive, and all that shit. How I managed that from 3000 miles away, I have no fucking clue. Also, my room-mate Barry is in the hospital again. That was a postscript on the note. Seems he got into my medicine cabinet and overdosed on anti-diarrheal medicine. Apparently, it's hallucinogenic when you take forty or so tablets. Also toxic. So he's going to be there for a few days while the doctors figure out how to remove a brick of feces that has a density normally reserved for transuranic elements. And treat the claw marks around his eyeballs.
The only reason he's still my room-mate is that when he's on uppers, he cleans like a goddamned demon. And it only took breaking two of his fingers and threatening to perforate his testicles with an icepick before he learned not to sell my belongings on the street for whatever the new "In" drug is this week. Kids these days, what are you going to do?
I barely have time to process all of that when the phone starts ringing. I let the machine get it, because if it's for Barry, I don't give a fuck, and if it's for me, it's either the ex about to scream profanities at me (she's not the first ex-girlfriend, you see, and I have a detailed set of observations of their behavior patterns after breaking up with me... which is why I didn't bother getting another pet after ex #3) or a bill collector, or even possibly my editor. The man who sent me to the South American shithole I just got back from.
Fuck all this. I'm taking a nap.
A note, from my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend it seems. Somehow, a relationship that was perfectly fine when I left a week ago has become too confining, restrictive, and all that shit. How I managed that from 3000 miles away, I have no fucking clue. Also, my room-mate Barry is in the hospital again. That was a postscript on the note. Seems he got into my medicine cabinet and overdosed on anti-diarrheal medicine. Apparently, it's hallucinogenic when you take forty or so tablets. Also toxic. So he's going to be there for a few days while the doctors figure out how to remove a brick of feces that has a density normally reserved for transuranic elements. And treat the claw marks around his eyeballs.
The only reason he's still my room-mate is that when he's on uppers, he cleans like a goddamned demon. And it only took breaking two of his fingers and threatening to perforate his testicles with an icepick before he learned not to sell my belongings on the street for whatever the new "In" drug is this week. Kids these days, what are you going to do?
I barely have time to process all of that when the phone starts ringing. I let the machine get it, because if it's for Barry, I don't give a fuck, and if it's for me, it's either the ex about to scream profanities at me (she's not the first ex-girlfriend, you see, and I have a detailed set of observations of their behavior patterns after breaking up with me... which is why I didn't bother getting another pet after ex #3) or a bill collector, or even possibly my editor. The man who sent me to the South American shithole I just got back from.
Fuck all this. I'm taking a nap.