Why Life Is Weird and I'm Beginning To Go Crazy...Part 2

Today I work my ass off, come home, tired and hungry. I take out some left over pizza, sit down and turn on the tv. The president is addressing the nation on immigration. This should be brilliant, I think. I love how the man is either too stupid to speak beyond monosyllables, or he feels the nation is too stupid to understand anything but monosyllables. I swear to god, I've heard more sophisticated use of language in my mother's kindergarden classroom. To bottom line his little speech (which isn't too tricky to do), the man is militarizing our southern border (though "Mexico is our friend and neighbor"), and implementing a guest worker program that will allow "hard working people" to legally come to the US and "perform jobs americans would not do" on a temporary basis. In other words, come and do shit work for shit pay (for which you will have to pay taxes) and then get the fuck out. Such compassion from these christians.

Between these racist, proposed immigration policies, and the surveillance scandal, I'm really feeling sick. I've actually started smoking again from stress, in part (though only in part) due to this bullshitous state of the union. I'm outside smoking, thinking fuck this all, and maybe I should just move to Spain (or Brazil, New Zealand, Thailand, or fucking Antartica) and why the fuck doesn't anyone care that we live under a dictatorship?

All of these things are really getting to me and I tell myself, cool it. For now, just cool it. Think of the fun you have when you're not working your ass off. At least you have fun, I tell myself. Then I go inside and see I've had a miss call. It goes like this:

"Hi _____. It's me, ______ (my stalker). You must think I'm absolutely bonkers at this point. If you don't I'm bonkers, or even if you do, call me back, please. I really want to talk and maybe hang out."

Fucking awesome afternoon. All the way around, awesome.

my opposite sex gay stalker & why life is fucking weird.

we're note passing at the pike. the topic: the self-obsessed blonde at the bar. we write in spanish things like preguntala si es una maricona and su amiga - que fea, no? he's watching us but we don't notice. he approaches out of nowhere and says, "what do i have to do to be on a napkin?" i write, "if you were king/i'd climb come down this ivory tower/find this place a golden world." perfect sarcasm passed off to him before exiting for the upteenth cigarette. five minutes later and he's outside asking for our names.

he's very effeminate. he's got blondish hair, dirty, carelessly spiked to precision. he wants to join us inside for the rest of our drinks. why not, we say. he stares at me from across his second martini. he wants our opinions on tom cruise. he's of the opinion that katie holmes isn't worthy of tom's affections. he believes it's strange that the couple has given a "silent birth." he knows a lot about tom. he knows a lot about scientology as a result of knowing a lot about tom. interested in other topics, i ask him if he reads. he says, sure, i read star and us but don't have time for other stuff. awesome, i think. he just stares intensely and drinks his martinis.

it's my day off, he says. something about hairstylists never work mondays. i noticed that, i say, which is why i have to wait until wednesday to get a cut. he says, don't wait. let me do it tomorrow. but i have my guy and i'm kind of loyal, i say. i'll do it for free, he insists.

hmmmm. this guy really wants to do my hair. weird.

i'll do it for free but i'll have to take pictures and you have to let me do what i want. hmmmm. what's that? i ask. oh, i don't know - whatever you want. okay, i say.

i, like a fool, give the guy my number and e-mail. what could it hurt? he's gay. i'm gay. he just wants to cut my hair and take some pictures, right?

we keep drinking. he keeps staring. i tell him, i'm stoked about gay pride coming up. a sudden frown crosses his face. he looks at me. he looks at my friend. he says, oh my god, are you two like...a couple? no, no, we laugh. she likes boys, i say. and you? he asks, eyebrow raised. i'm into the girls. as if that's not fucking obvious. oh, i see. he orders his fourth drink. from that point on, he simply stares. finally i say, seriously, why do you keep staring at me? i'm just so into you, he says. i get up to smoke. he follows me. really, you can trust me, he says. i'm one of the good ones. what the fuck? okay, dude. you are clearly off your rocker. we call him a cab because at this point he can hardly stand. the cab comes. we get him into it. see you later. good to meet you. send him on his way. forty minutes later and the fucker comes stumbling back into the bar. looking for me. ah, hell no. my friend sits his ass in a chair and we get the fuck out. the next day he calls me three times. today he has called me twice and e-mailed once. i saw him walk down my street once, and skateboard down it twice. i've only been home for two hours.

one day i'm attacked by a raging mother, the next i'm being stalked by a homosexual hairstylist with a fauxhawk and a gold pinky ring. i'll be lucky if i make it to the weekend without shooting myself.

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
a woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

- Anne Sexton