Dirty Hooker

Their shit is also magically delicious!

For a while, Devon couldn’t stop talking about the wonders of Colorado. The air is cleaner! There’s more space! Housing is cheaper! Leprechauns wash your windows for free! It was getting pretty ridiculous, so at one point I said, “I know, I know. Colorado is a magical land where unicorns fart rainbows.” Now I can have unicorn shit, too. Awesome.

I’m getting a tablet! It’s gonna be awesome! It’s coming soon! I’m running out of exclamation points (also known as exclamation marks, bangs and dembangers, in case you were wondering, and I know you were)!

Devon won’t tell me what kind he got me because it’s the only part of my delayed Christmas gift that’s going to be a surprise. The only thing I know is that it’s not an iPad, because he’d rather stick hot pokers into his eyes and sing Nazi marching songs while he skips around the block naked than buy an Apple.

Also, our ceiling is leaking again. It’s not even raining that hard. This bullshit usually happens during hurricane season. I’m going to cut someone.

+++++++

This shit’s cool. Trust me:

Women in reasonable armor
Boobs don’t work that way

I’ve got a bone to pick with all my friends who don’t drink booze.

Every year, Devon and I like to give the gift of liver disease. Last year we made homemade limoncello. This year it was hot-buttered rum mix with a bottle of rum.

You teetotalers have to make things difficult, though. You and your refusal to be felled by cirrhosis like the rest of us means I have to be creative and do stuff like bake cookies. It’s not that I don’t like baking cookies. Actually, I fucking love baking cookies, mostly because I fucking love eating cookies even more.

And this is where I run into problems. I’ve already had more hot-buttered rum this holiday season than you can shake a drunk at. If I make cookies for you non-drinkers, I’m also going to be double-fisting cookie dough until Devon has to roll me down the stairs when I want fresh air.

Please drink so Devon doesn’t throw his back out getting my fat ass down the stairs.

Devon and I noted this sad reality as we walked through the village, which, Devon said, has been able to maintain an air of seediness without being dangerous. The ratio of sex shops to Starbucks is also unusual, with Starbucks coming out on the rare losing end.

After a birthday party at The Otheroom, we stopped for pizza, mostly because I had to pee, and you can’t pee anywhere in Manhattan unless you buy something — or drop trow on the sidewalk, but that solution is fraught with perils of its own, like peeing on your shoes. The pizza place is where I saw these signs.

The people at Karavas Pita ‘n’ Pizza really want you to eat your goddamn pizza and leave. You can tell because they say it with three signs bunched together. In case you look at the sign and are all, “What does loitering mean? What am I not supposed to do?” there’s a helpful sign below it telling you exactly how much time you can spend eating your pizza (or pita).

But it doesn’t say how long you can stay if you’re NOT consuming food from Karavas Pita ‘n’ Pizza. If you’re getting a massage, maybe you can stay an hour and it’s not a problem. I’m not sure.

And then it has a helpful sign asking you to obey the other two signs, in case you weren’t sure they were for serious.

See, this is a business that understands communication.

If you clicked on the link to the New York article, don’t let the profile of this place fool you. It’s not nearly as charming as it sounds. The pizza is mediocre, and the whole place is covered in a layer of skeeze, including the bathroom, which made me want to boil myself clean.

Christmas made me a sad panda, but not for the reasons you think. I’m actually pretty OK with Mom and Dad being gone. Time is like that, and I have lots of awesome people in my life. What made me sad this year is that we were in Colorado, surrounded by people who love us and want us to be happy and aren’t toxic and evil, and then I had to come back.

The worst thing family did in Colorado was offer to get me and Devon a fertility specialist, because apparently it’s weird that after a year and a half I am not about to spawn. The worst thing that happened with my family involved police and a CAT scan.

I love all my New York and online peeps, too. You guys make this shit bearable. But this place is ripe with all the stuff that comes along with it. Devon feels it, too. We just want to know when it will end.

I haven’t written much about probate or the legal situation I find myself in. That’s stuff best saved for later, when I’m not in said legal situation. But I asked Devon to end me again, and he still won’t. I said that’s what I really want for Christmas, and he said I’m getting a tablet, and I said he could get me a tablet AND stab me in the face, and he said I was greedy. I said I would give him a blow job if he ended me, but he pointed out that that suggested he would only ever get one more, and I said, “Well, yeah, from me,” but that wasn’t enough to convince him. I have a life-insurance policy, but he didn’t even want that. I asked him if he was the kind of dude who didn’t want blow jobs and money, and he said he wants those things, but he’s not willing to end me for them.

He said I have to accept the fact that he’s not going to kill me, but that’s quitter talk. I accept nothing.

Later on last night, I asked Devon whether he would kill me if I were a character in Skyrim with really nice magical boots, and he admitted he would.

I have found his price.