SUCH A FUSS!

If I hadn’t been left waiting on the corner of 16th and Valencia on Sunday night, this story would have already been over. But instead I waited there with my phone attached to my ear, so no one would notice how humiliated I felt… and then on Monday, to find that email of MySpace Guy canceling our date and trying to reschedule. I didn’t want to reschedule. I wanted to hold the miscommunication against him. He didn’t hear the “runaround” I was giving him. Instead, he’s agreed to my terms.

And now, after waiting for his email replies and preemptively believing he would again cancel, he has confirmed his attendance to the Threesome Date for this evening.

Little does MySpace Guy know that he’s been ripped to shreds on my blog. Little does he know that by an overwhelming majority, my blog readers have all voted against giving him a second chance. In one email he described the MySpace Dating/Date:

"just a nice conversation and some drinks. no
expectations, no pressure, just meeting new people. i don't really
know why people make such a fuss over it."

“Such a fuss”!?!?!?! Hahaha. The entire thing, I’ve made into “Such a Fuss”… if he only knew. But tomorrow, all this Fuss will be gone. Then on to the final MySpace Date for the year. Yes, then on to the next Fuss, the next topic for blogging. The next topic to occupy my mind for just a moment in time!

The Brother:

I’m surprisingly not as devastated as I thought I’d be, but still I think about him every night before I go to sleep. I think about calling him just to hear the sound of his deep voice and to hear what he’d say when no one replied back… and I wish we were back in the days pre-caller ID. I tell myself just to go to sleep… just go to sleep… and just go to sleep brings us to “My Living Situation,” which was so bad last night that I didn’t just go to sleep… I did dial his number, and I was lucky that it went straight into voicemail, so he’d never see that I’d called………..

My Living Situation: aka HELL

I hate it. There hasn’t been anyone living in the studio next door to me since I moved in, but now the fairytale has come crashing down. The building was once a Spanish style single family residence. The studio next door and mine seemed to have been a grand room at one point. It still feels like one room. A young couple moved in next door, and I don’t mean “young couple” in the “oh how sweet” sense. I mean two punk kids who try and talk over one another. They also have their little hat backwards punk friends over every fucking week night. They drink their forties outside my window and talk about stupid shit. I can hear everything. They blast rap. It’s like walking around my room on one of those ‘Footsie Mootsies’ from County Fairs to massage your feet at the end of the day.

Thus far, I’ve banged on their door twice and pulled back the curtains to give them the stare down on the fire escape once. I’m talking 2 in the morning on Monday and Wednesday nights (ended at 2 am only because I asked them to stop)… those Stupid Mother Fuckers. The KOIT Bandits are small potatoes compared to these guys. Needless to say, I dread going home. I lie in bed writhing. I think homicidal thoughts.

Today I’m going to hand deliver a letter of complaint to my landlord… who knows what good that’ll do, but I’ll start calling the cops afterwards… it’s just excessive noise. In all my days of city living, I’ve never had any neighbors so consistently loud, EVER! I don’t mind weeknight noise until 11-11:30… holidays and weekends, no worries, but fuck… 2 am?!!? 4 weeknights in a week and a half?!?!? Question: if you don’t call 911 for noise complaints, who does one call?

Highlights For Tomorrow:

Recap of the MySpace Guy Threesome Date!