It was really humid. In those days (post-Ludlow, in the apartment, across from the Marina), I'd wash my face three times daily to prevent unwanted white-heads. They still came. I never cried about it. I rarely cry about zits (much to the surprise of my family. And quite the opposite of any reaction that occurs when testing my doomed fate of seeing any picture put forth by the creators of "Magic Eye", the book. Those things can suck my balls--see "Note Found on Floor" post.)
After a day of cruising for fat chicks (not really), I returned home slightly defeated and sweaty. Upon the arrival to my apartment stood a man built with a 12 pack and a mountain of chest hair for which you could donate for love.
"I'm from Seattle," he said, but dare I say, he had shifty eyes?
"Oh so you smoke Pot," I said, clearly stereotyping every shifty eyed, soul who ever donned the title, "Seattle-ian.--or Seattle-ite". In my naivete, I naturally assumed everyone from Seattle smoked pot...............................a curve ball:
"Crack actually..." as he rubbed the back of his head with a coy look in both his eyes--as if he'd just done something ornery.
"I had to quit it though, cause it made me crazy and I kept telling my dealer I was going to rob him. So I don't do that anymore. **creepy chuckle chuckle**"
In my life, I've been fortunate enough not to participate in the taking of Crack-Cocaine. You may call it good luck. There was a time in my life however, that I watched "Death to Smoochy" nearly every night for an entire week! And this I cannot explain. But on a said night (day 3 I believe) a violence came forth from a pounding on my door.
Shifty eyes. He had the look of a mad-man and spoke like a wild park ranger whose favorite bear was no longer stealing pic-nic baskets, but rather stealing small kids and eating them.
I invited him in. Not because I'm "nice" per say...it'd be more accurate to state that sometimes I do dumb things.
Turns out that earlier this day, the googly-eyed maniac had been walking down the street, gently minding his own business, when two homosexuals called him a faggot. ...and he said, "I ain't no faggot!!!!"
(I'm not sure what to call what he did next...I'll call it "air-bonging"...much like any awesome person plays, "air guitar", apparently when a crack-head is justifying the reason why he smoked crack, he may include a pretend hit of a crack-pipe...from a homosexual). He proceeded to "Air-Bong" a crack hit. Sitting on my love seat (next to me), he inhaled deeply and forcefully. A broken smile became a cemented image on his face as he held his breath, still smiling brightly with his teeth clenched tightly. It was a harmonious moment in time when all seemed right with the world...but not really.
When he let out his breath he casually told me he was there to rob me. Not having anything of value, I asked him what he planned to rob me of.
"Well I was just walking by and I saw your Jackie-O's"
"You mean my Apple Jacks? Well I can't have that. I'm calling the cops. Please leave."