(Transitioning from ONE house-sit to another – and the new one has a CAT – I HATE CATS! And why I can’t go to the gym today. And why I can’t have sex with the Jonas Brothers [well – NOT KEVIN], and why I am mad at President Obama even though I still adore him – but he dissed me. And did I mention I HATE CATS? This is the tenth week I have been – in essence – living out of my car – another six or so to go – unless I get more bookings . . . and here I am, going . . . )
I won’t be going to the gym today. I feel guilty about it but there it is. I am transitioning homes. Today is my last day in bucolic Boonsboro and I don’t want to go to the gym because I don’t like leaving the dogs more than once a day, and the thing is, I have to leave here around 4 to head to Frederick and meet up with the group of friends with whom I am attending The Book of Mormon at the Kennedy Center tonight. After which, I will come back to Frederick, get in my still-packed SUV, and head out to the lake house where I’ll be for another week (or is it ten days?). In any event, this departure will leave Sophie and Judah alone for about four hours – which is too much already in my mind, and so I don’t want to go to the gym which is another couple of hours by the time I drive there, workout, shower, stop at Wegman’s and drive back. Anyway, I need time to launder and change the sheets, give the bathrooms I’ve used a quick going over, vacuum, and make sure the house is in as good shape when I leave as it was when I arrived.
So, no gym. OH THE GUILT. I WILL NEVER LOOK LIKE NICK JONAS. Of course I won’t. Face reality, Charles. WHY SHOULD I? Reality. Ugh. Reality is like having to deal with cats. It’s itchy and nasty and always lurking somewhere to jump out and scratch or scare you. It’s demanding. It wants food and wants you to clean up its piss and shit. And too, it gets out and brings back dead things it has half eaten and leaves the corpses in your path so you trod, unsuspecting, on them in the middle of the dark night on your way to pee. I HATE CATS. I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT CATS. FUCK CATS.
Did I mention that my dear Judah, lovely dog, threw up a heaping pile of vomit last night just as Project Runway was starting?
Excuse me while I breathe a huge (and, I confess, cruel) sigh of relief that Timothy was kicked off Project Runway last night. It was his third week on the bottom, although, methinks he is more than familiar with bottoming – so to speak. Far be it from me to judge, but everything he designed looked like a piece of ridiculous, over-conceptualized, under-considered, un-edited shit. And worse, he’d parade it down the runway behaving like one of those insufferable children raised by overly-praising helicopter parents who never say to the child, “No. You are NOT the best at EVERYTHING in the entire world.” Poor Timothy NEVER got just how awful were his designs. And last night, his self-pitying weeping and horrification that someone might actually dislike him, that someone might find his unicorn fixation and self-involved, self-indulgent blathering annoying enough to incite attempted homicide was more than I could bear. Had they not voted him off, I, myself, might have had to lure him to Florida so that I might stand-my-ground on his sorry re-purposing, sustainable artwear ass.
Reality T.V. – right. As if reality has anything to do with anything anymore. There is no reality. The old psychological measure of “reality check” – as in, measuring whether or not one’s expectations and beliefs passed the “is it possible” standard, no longer applies. We’ve segued as a culture from an optimistic meritocracy wherein if one worked hard enough and had some measure of luck, anything was possible – to a delusional immoral majority – everyone will do anything to get to a place they are NEVER going to get.
The American dream is dead. But, culturally, we can’t face it. So we’ve a frozen and divided elected government – that can do nothing – which is EXACTLY what the 1% who run the world and control the wealth have in mind. Nothing suits their purposes and furthers their ability to strip-mine the resources of the country, all the while continuing to dangle carrots for all the rest of us – we peasants – pretending that if we just pull hard enough on those bootstraps, we too might get rich and or famous.
My odds (your odds) of becoming rich and/or famous are about the same as my odds (your odds) of having a sexual liaison with the Jonas Brothers. Well, with Joe and Nick.
No one wants Kevin involved in this. I mention this only because that damn Nick Tweeted a photo of himself after his gym workout. Now, granted, I am more than twice his age and absent the good genes he has – but I go to the gym nearly every day (not today though, I TOLD YOU WHY DAMMIT!) and spend at least an hour – cardio and strength – and I still look like shit. But see – REALITY – I am NEVER going to look like a “star” who has a trainer and a dietician no matter how many hours I work at it – so to expect that I would someday even CONSIDER Tweeting a pic of myself is UNREALISTIC. But, I can’t QUITE convince myself I won’t some day look good and looking good, somehow hook up with the Jonas Bros. Well, Nick and Joe. Like I said, no one wants anything to do with Kevin.
And while I’m bitching about not wanting anything to do with anyone. WHAT THE FUCK PRESIDENT OBAMA? The White House is “reevaluating” whether or not President Obama will meet with President Putin because of Moscow’s decision to grant asylum to Edward Snowden. Okay. BUT TELL ME THIS – President Putin has REPEATEDLY denigrated, arrested, jailed, seen abused and beaten and entrapped, and, in essence, LEGISLATED AGAINST the rights and human dignity of Gay People in Russia including an inability to guarantee Gay athletes safety and freedom from arrest at the upcoming Olympics – and THAT didn’t prompt a reconsideration of meeting with him? Like I said, “WHAT THE FUCK, PRESIDENT OBAMA?”
And it is JUST THIS SORT OF THING (and cats and lousy betraying backstabbing former friends and loved ones) that makes me retreat once again into my cocoon of healing – and wish it were news, social media, sound and reality proof – so that I might have a day where I do not want to scream at the top of my lungs – “SOMEONE PLEASE KILL ME!” Or kill some cats. Or get me the Jonas Brothers – well, NOT Kevin.