city living

Despite the still beautiful weather, I'm finding city living a little dispiriting of late. First there's all the gross shit you see (and smell) on a daily basis: normal, business-suited men masturbating on park benches in full view of small children; dead rats on subway platforms, lying in neat red pools of blood, like they were shot by rival rat gangs or bitten by vampyres; used condoms; birds smashed beyond recognition.

Then there's men. Men everywhere in the city! Can't escape them. Today one, who I had just spent about 30 minutes treating very considerately, remarked, "sweetie, I've been checking out that leather skirt, and I just wanna say, nice." I would have liked to throw him through the plate glass door but since I'm basically a six year old, I said thanks. THANKS. Oh, for the days when male relatives would avenge such a slight, and I mean avenge with a flame-thrower -- or the 19th century equivalent of one.

Why do men say anything to me at all? That's what I want to know. I chalk it up to the babyface. That, I assume, is also why, when men do speak to me (and they speak to me frequently) they call me Sweetie or Honey or Darlin. Maybe, come to think of it, THAT'S why I feel six years old. (But there is, still, undeniably, the babyface.)

And then there's work. Work. The entertainment industry has its own variation of Misery Poker. It's like Seven Card "I had to work over Labor Day weekend for no extra pay so what exactly are YOU complaining about?" Stud.
Which is to say, work has been brutal and no one has any sympathy to spare. I've been reading a lot to take the edge off. When will I graduate to tequila and cocaine, you ask? Any day now, my brother. One more used condom ought to do the trick.