The Big Wait.

And I quote. Mainly from me:

For the most part, I have joined the ranks of the Unhappy Waiters and Killers of Time. Oh God, are there so many of them in our land! Students who can't be happy until they've graduated, servicemen who can't be happy until they are discharged, single folks who can't be happy until they've found a mate, workers who can't be happy until they've retired, adolescents who aren't happy until they're grown, ill people who aren't happy until they're well, failures who aren't happy until they succeed, restless who can't wait until they get out of town, and in most cases, vice versa, people waiting, waiting for the world to begin.

And so, once again my life imitates itself and comes around full circle like an innerestin sex act. All I can do is sit this one out. Several roads have opened themselves to me and I have to wait and see within the next day or so to act upon them.

I have changed. The old me would have done something brash. Odd - perhaps there is hope for this withered old borrowed flesh.

And so it goes.

"Crazy am I? I'll show you who the one is crazy."

---Henry Frankenstien

Through lies and manipulations of the Ugly Spirit, my life is in turmoil once again. Someone that I loved and trusted has shown me how corrupt and false she really is. Her excuse was my 'strange behavior' lately. The woman never bothered to stop and ask what the problem was, the physical illness that I had contracted and am keeping a secret --- She has believed a lie - how I hate her now. My heart is so heavy---so black. I have decided that I am to leave this God forsaken desert. I have always hated it here. Why kid myself...I do not belong here - never have. These people are complete idiots. In the following week will sell all my possessions and move out. But where shall I spend these withering days?

San Diego? Yes. I have always been happiest there.

Even though, at times like these...death seems like a nice answer, too.

bleh.

Meanwhile.

What's going on emotionally in my head. How I feel right now.

Home Is Where You Wear Your Hat.

Independent.
I have been tagged with that more than once in my life. Let me try to explain, because I have a myriad of thoughts racing through my mind right now and as they say, the best place to start is the beginning.
Everything that I have set out to accomplish since I have left Tijuana back in August has borne fruit. More perhaps than I have wished, perhaps. My plan was quite simple, to come to Juarez City, attain employment in Juarez, live cheaply, save as much money as I can and open a small bed and breakfast on the beach somewhere in Costa Rica. All the while seeing what was wrong with the old noggin' and taking advantage of the free mental health here in this desert waste.
I have encountered many sidetracks and temptations, but I have through all this stayed steady and sure to my original plan. Then most recent of these temptations have been the so-called assistant housing from MHMR, the local nut ward that I have found myself attached to. At first I was promised that the first two years were going to be paid rent free for any apartment of my choosing within their budget under $450 and I found a beautiful unit in downtown El Paso and was all set to move in. However, during this time I was racked with illness - headaches, sleepless nights, I couldn't concentrate at work, I was irritable - and I figured it all out after what happened yesterday. My psychoanalyst informed me that now I was to pay thirty percent of the rent for the apartment - which would roughly come to $150, the amount I am paying for my place in Juarez - I decided to think this over the only way I knew how.

I got lobotomized drunk.

With my friend Enrique at bar Buen Tiempo, we both drank and talked and drank and talked. Afterwards, we stumbled around the corner to Cafe Central and downed coffee and talked some more and that's when it hit me. I came with a plan and this plan has been working so far, so why fuck it up?

No, I have decided to stay in Juarez City for the next few years and save my cash - or at least until I have enough to open that business of mine down in Costa Rica. And who knows, new opportunities may open themselves before then?

Life Rot.

Things have their way of sorting themselves out - am I right? Karma can be so insidiously delicious in it's dealing of poetic justice.

Saturday - woke up in a puddle of my own sweat, it being so freakishly hot and that worthless fan being worthless and all - I showered, dressed and walked down to Cafe Central for my Saturday morning regulation breakfast of menudo and a taza de cafe. Trumped around in front of the Cathedral for a while and scored for a nice fella named Ruben. He of nineteen and willing. Smiling eyes and thin build. So it's back it my trap for a couple of hours of crimes against nature. And that wiry kid was very pneumatic in the hips - if'n ya take my meaning.

Afterwards, we munch out at a corner grease pit on hamburgers and burritos served by hideous transsexual halfmen that giggled and cooed at our every word - flashing silver capped teeth and their post-ops if you asked, I'm sure. Ruben and I shook hands at the corner and I went back to my lair and snoozed a couple of hours to meet the Juarez Irregulars at nine o'clock. We all had made a date to be in front of the Cathedral at nine to go and whoop it up at the Juarez County Fair. Never been - should be interesting.

Awaken by Kumbia King's Pucheco, I readied and hit the burnt and cracked streets and waited at the Plaza de las Armas adjacent to said Cathedral. The first to arrive was my good friend Alfredo - who after excusing himself to go to take a leak; never came back. Dumkoff!

So - I waited. And waited. And waited. Like a fucking idiot for two goddamn hours I waited - however some interesting people came and went on the way:

First was beautiful Enrique. Handsome beyond words. He invited me to drinks, I declined - had to wait for my friends - loyalties and all. However, hottie said he would visit me at my place manana, and I swooned as he walked away into the humid night.

Then, some walking wall of muscle that was just released from prison with a face like a bulldog - introduced himself as Hugo. After hitting me up for five pesos; asked if I were gay. When I confessed I was, his cold eyes went all dreamy and he started slurring "If you need any help, man - anything man, just let me know , I know this city...I'll help you, anything you need..." And he walk away. I smiled and said, "Okay, Hugo...sure." Then as he was across the street, a platoon of cops swarmed around him and beat the living crap out of him, threw him in the back of a paddy wagon and took off.

The greatest shock of all was the appearance of Toby Bustamonte. If you recall, Toby was that cholo I was dating from my job and he deteriorated into a homophobic asshole in the middle of the night. Well, he slides up to me - gives me the glad hand and pretends nothing ever went wrong. No way, Jose! I tell him that I haven't forgotten what he had said and it isn't cool that he just comes up and acts as if all is well. Scattah! To top it off, he is not only living in Juarez City, but peddling thy ass in the Plaza! Poetic justice or cruel irony?

The best by far was this little blond Honduran that just would not stop talking. He went on and on and on about crossing el frontera. If he wasn't so gosh darn cute I would've told his ass to cut. But he was a lamb. And every guy that sat and talked with me, this lecherous faggot would saddle up - uninvited - and ask blatantly if they want to have sex for money. Toby was about to pop him in the jaw, with the Honduran I had about enough and told the perv to leave the Plaza or I would break his arm. He left.

The rest of the evening was blah. Only Isidio and Arturo finally showed up. No Fair for me, I suppose. So, for something different we decided to go to this twink disco called Madelon - tweens gyrated to Brittny Spears and Daddy Yankee - Ugh. After two beers, I said good night went home and slept.

You know, the meds that MHMR has me on has some curious side effects. I don't care about anything anymore. I mean, not in a snotty vicious way - in a bland simple uncaring way. I kinda miss the chaos - then again I don't. But one thing the medication has taken away is my artistic spark - and it is noticeable - I have no drive towards any direction for anything. I am totally happy being by myself - rather than the screaming center of attention I was - isn't that odd? As a fact, I loath the contact with other people, I don't enjoy bars as much, conversation dries up, and I just want to sit and be alone - and think.

I really hope this is a phase.

Room to Dream.

A Series of Fortunate Events.

Saturday night consisted of mostly hanging with the Juarez Irregulars in Plaza Las Armas - short of funds, me - and Lolo and I scoping out the parade of manflesh and Rentboys that walked the humid summer air with the big yaller moon so big you could reach up and just goose it, ya dig? Much yap about boys to men and vaqueros to cholos when Enrique perchanced to stroll by. Enrique - the well dressed eye candy I had met in Freegay Disco the week before - Who was that, Isidio? I asked nearly spilling my beer as I ogled his Grecian frame and boyishly handsome goodlooks with torrid insect lust.

Shake hands - Hola, Hola - he takes off to make his rounds to the other bars and yours truly croons to his mates like a pining schoolgirl. Keep my eye on that one.

Flashbulb to the next day: I am sitting in my trap - pounding away at Porno - sounds kinda dirty, don't it? But, I'm typing away at my comedy screenplay Porno on my laptop when at my chamber door comes said rapping. To my shock and awe - standing on the bleached and cracked sidewalk is beautiful Enrique. Oh, do come in, I coo - and we sit for two hours and talk and chain smoke - get real friendly and get to know each other, understand what I'm saying? It seems he found out where I lived from knowing the vecinos, (that's neighbors to you stupid fucks that don't speeky the spanish) and seeing me enter my trap, assumed I lived here - pretty assumptious.

Welp, we talked of my script, my films, my school, my life - we talked of his job, his family, how he is studying to be a doctor and how he likes old school rock 'n roll. So, the hours melt away and he excuses himself and leaves - cool. It was so cool. No stupid meaningless sex - no drugs. Just interesting conversation.

Cool.

Next day at work, I relate this to my psychoanalyst and she is thrilled and agrees I should pursue him, which I will - AND I will be getting a rent free apartment for two years through MHMR, the local nut house organization in El Paso. Two years rent free! I will save every dime and fufill my dream of opening my own bed and breakfast on a beach in Costa Rica.

All this will come to pass. The medication that MHMR has me on is quite yummy and will keep me stable. Things are looking quite optimistic.

Karma Kandy.

I thought he did it just to despise me. But when I returned to work Tuesday morning from the three day holiday, Brian Wynn left early from the mission to go 'looking for work'. I later found out that he was transported to the far east side of El Paso with an ex-con named Christopher Wade and that area of town was well known and very notorious for meth addiction, consumption and sales. Wicked indeed.

And so he fell. Gone two days only to return dirty and spun, begging to be let back into the mission but only to be banished for ninety days without services from the caseworkers. Can't even come to eat...has to live on the streets like a dog or bum from friend to friend, if any are willing to put him up. I felt so cold inside because I am the one who had to type up his report into the computers data base.

To alleviate things I became friends with this little piece of eye candy from Florida named Steve Strunk. What a name. But cute as an eighteen year old white boy can get. Fair skin, steel blue eyes, brown hair, and a gosh-n-golly personality that melts you right there. Well, being a sucker for a soul in need, I orbited his planet of woe because I cared that he needed to get to Florida and fast - but as it got down to brass and taxes, can't help ya kid, got my own problems.

So, depressed on the Bryan thing, I went home and wrote more on my screenplay, writing being the therapeutic thing it is for my psychosis, though I thought of this Steve kid. Like a dirty old man. If I was only twenty years younger...even though would help the kid like a little brother. He's been used enough. Maybe it's time to take on an heir...

What a sappy old softy I have become.