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.