drugs – The High Heeled C*ntessa

Weekend Getaway Gone Wrong

THE BELOW WAS WRITTEN PRE-WEEKEND GETAWAY (11/1/2019):

I’m going upstate for two days starting tomorrow, and you’d think I was going on a three-week tour of Europe or like, staying on the beach in Bali for 10 days. That’s how excited I am. I feel like a child on Christmas Eve right now… waiting for tomorrow to arrive so we can pack up and get the hell out of here. I haven’t had two days in a row off with my boyfriend since the last week of August. In fact, I think we’ve only had one day off together in the last 15 days….

I don’t know if I’m more excited for myself or for my cats though – I know they love going upstate and being able to watch birds (other than city pigeons) and squirrels/chipmunks and taking in that fresh, upstate NY air. We had to split our stay between two places, because after we realized we could go away on Saturday instead of just Sunday, every rental was booked. It’s cool though – one of the guys we’ve rented Airbnb’s from before loves us and so we texted him and he gave us a great deal and told us we can stay in one of his houses that we’ve stayed in before! The cats are going to be stoked – so much more room to run and play, not to mention I can walk them around on the leash outside.

I am really so excited. I’ve been saying this all week – this is the only thing that has motivated me through another dull work week…. the prospect of getting out of this hell hole city, grilling seafood, chilling in a hot tub, walking around a lake, and just generally not seeing anyone other than my boyfriend, whom I legit haven’t seen all week due to our work schedules/sleep schedules. I am going to grill shrimp and fish. I’m going to drink wine in the hot tub and by the fire I build. That is all I need in life sometimes.

In other news, I went back on my regular birth control after being off of it for the last 10 months. I finally bit the bullet after 10 months of suffering in my own body, and decided that it’s worth it to spend $200 on a monthly prescription that used to be FREE with my old insurance. Fuck it. My sanity was at stake. I have been gaining 10 lbs in water weight every month… 10 lbs in like a week. That is NOT cool when you’re only 5’2″ with a small frame. My stomach has been unbearably bloated each month, and I feel like I have PMDD in the sense that I’m PSYCHOTIC before and during my period each month without birth control. I literally feel like the world is ending, I hate everyone, especially myself, and the 10 lb. weight gain that I can’t control (no matter how little/healthy I eat and how much I work out) sure as fuck hasn’t helped with my self-esteem or anxiety. I basically feel I’ve been living in a prison for the last 10 months… and that prison is my body. I have been hating myself and my body 2 out of 4 weeks each month and that is no way to live.

I’ve lost 5 lbs in the last two weeks that I’ve started back on Natazia again and finally feel like myself. I finally feel comfortable in my own skin again, well, apart from the severe breakout of cystic acne I’ve been experiencing since I started the pill two weeks ago. I have huge, painful, red and ugly cystic zits on my chin/jawline right now that haven’t gone away despite my best efforts. I haven’t touch anything greasy or sweet, I’ve been exercising and eating healthy. I’ve tried hot compresses, icing the cysts, tea tree oil, witch hazel, benzol peroxide, Prid’s Drawing Salve… you name it, I’ve tried it. I considered going to the dermatologist for a shot of cortisone (which is supposed to make zits of this nature subside within 24 hours), but since I am now committed to paying $200 each month for BC, I don’t really want to pay however much that would cost. I’m hoping these zits will go away once my body is used to being regulated by artificial hormones again.

I’ve also stopped drinking alcohol during the week. In the last month, I have only drank four nights, and all of those nights were Saturdays or Sunday. I feel so much better having cut out alcohol during the week. I was using it to kill boredom while I cooked since I’m home alone every night while my boyfriend works. I will admit, cooking is more fun while consuming a couple of glasses of wine. But I would always binge eat after a couple of glasses and then hate myself the next day. Not worth it. I also feel more rested, even though I still only average six hours of sleep a night. But six hours of sleep is a lot better quality sober than six hours of sleep after downing half a bottle of red wine.

The morning before heading upstate – feeling the best I’ve felt in months… minus the zit that has been lingering on my jawline for 3 full weeks now with no signs of subsiding. After the stress of last weekend I have a few more zits hanging out now too 🙂

FAST-FORWARD ONE WEEK (11/9/2019)…

Last weekend certainly was not the relaxing weekend I thought it would be. I really should have known better since this is usually how things in my life pan out. We had a beautiful day and night Saturday – the sun was shining on our drive there, we dropped the boys (cats) off at the house and went to the local grocery store to get provisions to make dinner. We had a couple of glasses of wine and chilled before we fired up the grill and made dinner. We also started up the nice little fireplace on the deck by the hot tub:

6BBE173F-6354-41D9-8EB7-B5CC36F2F018 — Tuna chilling on the couch

The cats were happy, running around the house and enjoying all of the space they don’t have here in the city. They liked looking out the many ground-level windows and watching us from inside when we used the hot tub later that night. Dinner was awesome and I was finally relaxing for the first time in a long time. We watched a movie and decided to go relax in the hot tub. Everything was going great until we finally decided to call it a night and head to bed around 3am. That’s when I noticed Mr. Peeper kept going into the litter box and scratching furiously around. I went to clean it each time he came out, and found nothing but a couple tiny spots of pee (usually there is a large clump of litter where he’s peed). I didn’t think too much about it, thinking maybe he was feeling nervous or territorial in the rental, but then when I climbed into bed and tried to sleep, he kept going into the litter box and scratching. I couldn’t sleep at this point, because of the noise he was making and because I knew something was wrong now.

I got about three hours of sleep and then the next morning I awoke to the sounds of Peeps in the litter box again…. he would go in and out every 10 minutes and was producing almost no pee. I started Googling and posted on my Persian Cat Health Facebook group. Naturally, these are two of the worst things I could do for my own mental health. Everyone who responded to my post told me to get him to an emergency vet ASAP because it could be a urinary blockage, which are apparently fatal in cats if untreated for as little as 48-hours. It was Sunday morning, I was running on 3-hours of sleep on what was supposed to be an enjoyable, relaxing, carefree weekend, and now I was convinced my cat was going to die. I started sobbing hysterically and researching 24-hour emergency vets in the area. We were supposed to move to the second Airbnb rental that afternoon and go to dinner at Peekamoose with my parents that night.

I called my mom crying and cancelled dinner plans since I didn’t know if we’d end up at the vet for hours or what was going to transpose of the current situation. Peeper peed a little bit, so I thought maybe the vet could wait until the next morning, but then he started laying in his box like this:

69B88634-9A5B-433B-BA39-6301826D5592 — Nothing in my life ever goes smoothly or as planned… I really should have known better.

I spent the rest of the day stressed as hell, and then feeling guilty for cancelling dinner plans with my parents, whom I don’t see nearly as often as I really should. I was now feeling like a terrible mother to my cat for waiting to bring him to the vet, feeling like a terrible daughter for cancelling dinner plans with my parents who I know were looking forward to seeing me and my boyfriend and looking forward to eating at Peekamoose, and like a terrible girlfriend since I couldn’t relax and stop fretting about my cat and just enjoy what precious little time we have off together.

We packed up our cats and bags and headed to the next rental early that afternoon. The next Airbnb was in Stone Ridge, NY and was pretty awesome with a fireplace and brand new renovations/appliances. The cats seemed to enjoy this rental more than the first, because there were a couple of chipmunks hanging out that they could watch through the windows. Poor Peeps was still using his litter box every 20 minutes though and looked like he was straining to pee, and leaving nothing more than a drop of urine behind each time, so I was still on level red anxiety.

Dinner at Peekamoose was awesome as usual, however, I was feeling guilty that my parents weren’t there and also extremely tired since I was running on no sleep. That night, my sleep was again interrupted by the sound of Peeper scratching in the litter box and yowling when he peed. I couldn’t take it anymore when I heard him go in at 4am, and so I got up for the day. We were able to get him an appointment with the local vet that morning shortly after they opened. I was preparing myself for the worst, and praying he didn’t have a blockage or something that would warrant surgery.

The local vets were really awesome and after an examination, determined he did not have a blockage. I was so relieved. He was prescribed antibiotics and an anti-inflammatory – they thought it was most likely a UTI or cystitis. Apparently when cats get stressed, it can trigger bladder inflammation… awesome, right?! WTF. I am thankful we were able to bring him to the vet upstate, because the cost also would have been double what it was in Ulster county if we had brought him here in Brooklyn.

I know I get crazy about my cats, but they are my kids. I don’t have kids to worry about, so I put all of my stock into my pets – they are my life and one of the few things that bring me joy in life besides the few other things I actually like in this world.

After my weekend upstate went awry, it didn’t take long before the rest of the week followed suit. I’m never ordering from All Saints again. I bought my boyfriend’s present from All Saints and it’s been nothing but a fiasco. It took a full week for the order to even ship, and that was after I called customer service multiple times to see why I hadn’t received a shipping confirmation yet. Apparently the distribution center was backed up, but like, why didn’t they give me a head’s up after the order was first placed? The order I placed on 10/29 shipped ON his birthday 11/5, when that’s the day it was supposed to arrive. Then, ONLY HALF of the order shipped! They said they couldn’t find the pants I ordered in the warehouse so they were checking stores to see if they were available there…. 4 more days went by without them telling me if they had in fact located the pants, and so today, I cancelled the other half of the order (the missing pants). Like WTF All Saints?!

After I cancelled the pants today, I got an email saying they couldn’t cancel the rest of the order, because there was another problem with the warehouse or something. Seriously? Fuck this shit. I used to love All Saints and have ordered from them in the past with seamless delivery, but this has been a shit show and more stress I don’t need in my life.

On top of all of this, our heat stopped working (always on the coldest days this happens). So for the past two days, we’ve been dealing with our shitty building management company (literally THE WORST company in all 3 states), and technicians coming to fix the heat who still cannot seem to fix the problem in the long run.

We finally said fuck it. It’s time to move. So now, you can also factor in the additional stress of apartment hunting and moving into my life. We are looking at an apartment tomorrow and trying to get all of our ducks in a row for a December 1st move. We’re not even going to tell building management. This apartment has been nothing but a problem since the day we moved in. Fuck them.

I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here. No wonder I’m breaking out all over my face! I never get a moment to just chill and be before another issue or problem rears its ugly head and I have to find a solution. LOL. I guess that’s life, right? Imagine how boring our lives would be if we didn’t have a shit maelstrom coming at us 51 weeks out of the year?! I’d be so so SO bored. JK.

Indigo Took a Baggie in Ibiza

Recap: Indigo was picked up by Colombian drug traffickers after he abandoned the cruise ship and stole a life boat. He had a choice between being fed to the sharks, or serving as a drug mule. Of course, he chose the later, seeing as how it meant free drugs and a free ride to Ibiza. He landed in Ibiza and waltzed past harbor security with a suitcase full of blow, looking like Naomi Campbell strutting into a diamond mine…

As soon as Indigo had made the transaction (aka drug deal) and had received his cold, hard-earned payout (and, of course, after powdering his nose in the men’s room), he thought of the most expensive, posh hotel he could think of in Ibiza. Indigo had one of the waitresses at the cafe call him a car, and made his way to the Sir Joan Hotel, a five-star luxury hotel, where he booked a master suite for the next four nights and paid in full, using cold, hard, drug-cash. He’d never been in such a luxurious establishment before… he felt so posh it was almost like he was in a dream…he felt like Posh Spice, actually. He just needed some platforms and a bob.

After checking into his hotel room, he proceeded to call room service and order (and subsequently guzzle-down) a bottle of the finest champagne. He then took a 15 minute power nap, and when he woke up, he snorted a couple of lines in order to wake up more fully. He couldn’t possibly go out in Ibiza wearing the Bermuda shorts he’d borrowed from Fernando, and so he had the concierge order another car to take him shopping. If you’re wondering where his newfound wealth came from, let’s just say he got compensated very well for the drug transaction, darling! But don’t ask how much he made… that’s just uncouth. Let’s just say it’s enough to afford a luxury hotel suite for four nights, and have a little left over spending money for shopping and ecstasy.

Indigo bought some white linen tunics with embroidered yokes, and the tiniest denim cut-offs he could find…. his legs did look great after all, from days of not eating. He also bought some leather, Italian-crafted booties, Gucci sunglasses and some leather jewelry to adorn his tiny, emaciated wrists. He felt like a million dollars once he was fully dressed, and he was ready to have some fucking fun. Indigo gave himself a once-over in the mirror of his hotel room, snorted a few more lines for good measure, and then headed downstairs to the hotel’s bar/lounge area where he proceeded to park himself in front of the bar, making eyes at any man, woman, or child he thought might buy him a cocktail.

No one was taking the bait, or the queer bait for that matter, and so he bought himself a glass of champagne, and asked the bartender for a pickle back after he finished the champagne in three gulps. The bartender didn’t know what a pickle back was, and so Indigo had to explain it’s when you do a shot of whisky and wash it down with a shot of pickle juice to get rid of the aftertaste. The bartender had to send the bar back to the kitchen to ask the chef for pickle juice since no one had ever requested such a drink before in this establishment. Indigo was getting bored of the hotel bar – it was mostly rich older couples, a handful of younger couples on their honeymoon, and a few families eating dinner at the tables near the windows…. AKA BORING AS FUCK. Since he had no phone, he couldn’t even get on Grindr. Indigo decided now was a good time to bounce, and so he asked for his check. When the bartender turned his back to print it, Inidigo sprinted right out of there as fast as he could and out of the hotel’s main doors into the night. He was far too beautiful to be spending money on his own drinks. Fuck it.

Indigo hailed a cab and went to Amnesia. There was a line of botoxed posers and anorexic model-wannabes waiting to get in outside, but Indigo didn’t do lines (apart from the white stuff), and so he sashayed straight to the doorman to work his magic charm. Indigo looked pretty fucking hot in his daisy dukes and tunic, and he slipped the doorman a lil’ baggie of blow when he shook his hand. The doorman let Indigo right in, no questions asked. He turned around to acknowledge the losers still waiting in line, and strutted his tiny ass through the entrance.

Once inside the club, he scoped out the scene… when who should he spot but Lily Von Fustenburg! His arch nemesis – also the one woman Indigo went straight for. He had loved this woman for the past 10 years that he knew her, but she had rejected him in the most public of ways after a year of casual sex. Lily was a trust fund baby who had been cut off of her family fortune due to her rampant drug use, multiple stints in rehab, terrible public behavior that had been documented repeatedly by Page Six, and multiple arrests (including, but not limited to, shoplifting, drug possession, DUIs… you name it). Lily was rolling ballz and also spotted Indigo. She made a wobbly beeline through the crowd to him, her eyes flitting back into their sockets, and a permanent smile plastered across her face. God, she was hot. She was bleach blonde and about 90 lbs., wearing black denim cut-offs, platform boots, and a sheer crop top. She was the most perfect woman Indigo had ever had the pleasure of meeting – and right now, she was higher than a fucking kite.

Lily screamed above the thumping bass, “Oh FUCK ME RUNNING! You dirt-bag! A) What the fuck are you doing HERE, and B) Give me all the drugs!” Indigo was swept off of his feet, yet again. His knees went week and his stomach got butterflies as his heart raced and his palms began to sweat. How could one woman be so perfect? He emptied his pockets and handed over two vials of blow to Lily’s waiting hands. He would walk across hot coals for this woman…fuck, he would go sober for this woman. He would hold down a 9-5 job if it meant he could spend the rest of his life with this woman!

The last time Indigo had seen Lily, they’d had a marvelous night on the town, ending in the bathroom stall at Tao. Lily was going down on Indigo, when the stall door flew open. “Holy shit! Indigo?!” A scrawny Guatemalan boy stood in the door way, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Raymundo!!!! I thought you were working tonight!” Indigo exclaimed. Lily stopped what she was doing and recoiled. This was the last fucking straw. She wasn’t about to be Indigo’s fag hag. “You’re fucking the Guatemalan busser from Delicatessen? Dude, I know he gives you the best blow, and possibly blow jobs, but I don’t want to be your fag hag. I’m fucking done! This is it.” Lily got off her bony knees and marched out. Indigo stood there with his 9-inch rod fully exposed, his size 0 leather pants around his ankles (side note: Indigo is very well-endowed and known to be a very generous lay… in case you’re wondering and in the market). Indigo was in shock. His heart shattered into a million pieces. Meanwhile, Raymundo had gotten down on his knees and proceeded to gargle Indigo’s member. Indigo disassociated.

Indigo had went home with Raymundo that night after several more lychee martinis. He blacked out, HARD, and may or may have not been sexually assaulted. He woke up the next day in Raymundo’s top bunk bed, in a 6-story East Village walk-up with no AC, sweating like a whore in church, coming down from the blow, hungover from the martinis, and in the midst of a serious panic attack, wondering where he went wrong and wishing last night had never happened. He called Lily later that day, but she had blocked him on her phone and all social media. He sent an apologetic email, professing his love for her, and letting her know Raymundo meant nothing to him – he was only in it for the coke. Lily never answered his email. This was two years ago… they hadn’t spoken or seen each other since. Until this night…

Indigo embraced Lily in a warm bear-hug and kissed her forehead tenderly. She smelled of expensive perfume (Acqua di Parma, Oud), cocaine, and stale cigarette smoke. “Lily, do you have any more pills? I need to catch up to you and your friend there.” Lily was swaying, arm-in-arm with a dapper looking gentleman who must have been about 60, with salt-and-pepper hair, and a Patek Philippe watch – he was also rolling ballz. This time, it was Lily’s turn to empty her pockets and hand over the drugs. She gave Indigo a large pressed pill, which he swallowed whole and washed down with a sip of her margarita.

Indigo blacked out momentarily and the next thing he knew, they were all naked in a hot tub – on a yacht. The yacht belonged to the older gentleman who was with Lily – a Spanish real estate tycoon named Rodrigo Espinoza IV. They were all still rolling ballz when Rodrigo hopped out of the hot tub and said he was going to the bar to get them all drinks. Indigo had to use the bathroom, and so he hopped out of the hot tub as well and followed Rodrigo inside. The bathroom was adjacent to the bar, and when Indigo came out of the bathroom, he saw Rodrigo still standing at the bar. He watched silently as Rodrigo dropped something into one of the drink glasses.

Sure, he and Lily weren’t as close as they once were, but he certainly couldn’t sit around and watch the love of his life get roofied by this douche bag. He quickly hatched a plan. Indigo stepped out of the bathroom doorway. “Hey, Rodrigo! How those drinks coming?” Rodrigo handed Indigo a drink, and said “here, help me carry these.” Indigo made sure to keep his eye on the drink that had been roofied, as fucked up as he was, he wasn’t fucking around.

When they got back to the hot tub and into the water again, Rodrigo handed Lily the drink that was in his left hand. Lily took one sip and set it in the corner drink-holder. Indigo waited until the moment was right, and quickly swapped his drink with Lily’s. He downed the roofied drink as fast as he could…. he had to take one for the team tonight. He didn’t mind, he’d been roofied twice before – once by some bear at a gay bar, and another time, voluntarily by himself, just for fun. After 30 minutes had passed, Indigo started to feel very, very, EXTREMELY relaxed. More relaxed than he’d felt rolling balls.

He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the water. His muscles relaxed, his brain stopped thinking coherent thoughts. Suddenly, Lily was slapping his cheek, “Indigo, INDIGO, What the Fuck?! Wake up dude!” Indigo just barely opened his eyes and gave a crooked, half-smile, “I saved you bitch,” he slurred. He couldn’t wake up, even though he tried… and he felt FAN- fucking-tastic!!! He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and stress-free. Rodrigo chuckled nervously at the sight of Indigo, who was at this point, clearly under the influence of the GHB he intended to drug Lily with. “Wow, your friend is a regular Lindsay Lohan, huh? A real piece of work!” Rodrigo said, before excusing himself to the bathroom. Now, Lily was super embarrassed – Indigo was about to blow her chance and therefore also blow her future with this billionaire/next meal-ticket.

Once Rodrigo had disappeared inside, Lily slapped Indigo hard across the face: “WAKE THE FUCK UP!” Nothing could be done now though… Indigo was fucking dead (hypothetically speaking of course). Lily was beyond frustrated, but also slightly worried for him. After all, they’d taken the same pills and the same amount of drugs, or so she thought… unless of course he was holding out on her, and had a secret stash, and had taken more drugs without her (in which case, she decided she would fucking kill him – “sharing is caring” – am I right???). When Rodrigo returned to the hot tub, Lily tried to save the situation as best she could, and informed him that Indigo wasn’t ‘feeling well,’ and asked him to help her get Indigo into a cabin for bed. Together, they hoisted Indigo’s emaciated, tanned, glorious frame out of the water and carried him into a bedroom. Lily decided it was best that she spend the night in Indigo’s cabin, to keep an eye on him….even though she wanted to raw-dog Rodrigo and risk getting prego. She knew in her heart that this was the end of any future she might have had with Rodrigo, since he wasn’t getting laid and therefore would give her the cold shoulder tomorrow, but her friend was more important.

Indigo woke up the next afternoon around 3pm, groggy as fuck. He didn’t remember anything apart from seeing Rodrigo spike Lily’s drink and making the executive decision to drink it before she could. Lily was already up and dressed when Indigo walked out of his cabin onto the deck. Hell truly hath no fury like a woman’s scorn – Lily looked furious, and grabbed him by the arm as soon as she saw him: “We need to talk” she said, as she hauled him down the stairs into another cabin. “You FUCKING blew my chances with Rodrigo! I was going to get pregnant last night and become a lady-who-lunches, and never worry about how I’d afford drugs, EVER AGAIN!!! AND NOW THAT DREAM IS DEAD!!! YOU FUCKING BLEW IT! I was supposed to be the one doing the blowing! WTF happened to you?!”

“Lily – I SAVED YOU! I watched that geriatric, FUGLY, Spaniard douche-HOLE spike the drink he gave to YOU with GHB – so I switched our drinks so you didn’t get assaulted.”

“Well what if I WANTED to be drugged? Did you ever think of that?!” Lily screamed.

“You know what?! FUCK YOU. I’m sorry I tried to help you – clearly you don’t want to be helped. That’s why you’re a fucking 90 lb coke whore who got cut off her inheritance and now spends her days peddling coochie on yachts in return for fancy meals that you THROW UP and drugs. Don’t talk to me anymore… I’m done with you. I should have been done with you a long time ago.” Indigo stormed off into his cabin. It was only another 18 hours before they were set to arrive in Mykonos. He could do this. He just needed some more drugs and booze.

Indigo stormed off to the bathroom. He was out of drugs, having given his coke to Lily the previous night. He HAD to find something… anything, or he wasn’t making to Mykonos in one piece. He knew on a yacht this grandiose, some dumb yacht whore must have stashed something SOMEWHERE. He frantically searched the bathroom and found a baggie of four xanax in the medicine cabinet. BINGO! It was gonna be smooth sailing from here on out. Indigo put the pills in his pocket, and went to the bar where he proceeded to order a Johnny Walker Black Label, neat. He threw all four pills in his mouth, took a big swig of his drink and that was that my friend!

Indigo started to feel pretty fucking good. He went back to his cabin in a state of total relaxation and bliss. He didn’t a fuck about anything – life was beautiful and nothing mattered. He stripped naked, and got down on the plush carpet of the cabin floor. Ahhh… it felt so good against his naked thighs and ballsack. This was bliss. He fell fast asleep, face-down on the carpet and slept in dreamless state for the next 18 hours.

Indigo the Mule

As Indigo drifted further and further from the cruise ship, and after a few more generous swigs of the Tito’s vodka, he began to question his decision to steal only booze and not something of more sustenance. He really had no idea how long he’d be adrift in the life boat before hitting land, or before being rescued again. He was starving at this point too since he was now heavily intoxicated, and he began salivating at the mere thought of a pollo quesedilla from his favorite taco cart. He licked his salty thumb to satiate his hunger and blacked out in a drunken stupor, lulled to sleep by the gentle rhythm of the waves, still sucking his thumb like a raver from 1996. He may or may not have peed his Bermuda shorts in his state of blackout drunkness.

Indigo awoke to a thirst he had never known before. He’d never even been this thirsty after drinking a bottle of Jack Daniels to his face, doing 4 shots of Tequila, and eating 2 taco cart quesedillas before passing out for the night. When he awoke, he didn’t know where he was, his lips were stuck shut because they were so dry, and his entire face was covered in sea salt. He cracked open his crusty eyes to the mid-day sun beating down on him through the windows of the life boat (remember kids, this isn’t a blow up life raft he stole – it’s a legit life boat from a cruise ship… ). It must have been 2pm, but since he had neither a watch nor a cell phone, he didn’t know what time it was. Indigo would have killed for a bottle of Evian or Gatorade at this point. He was so thirsty, that against his better judgment, he decided to drink some seawater which he collected using a rope and empty Tito’s bottle. Fuck it – whats one cup of salt water going to do? Well my friends, saltwater is a natural laxative that many people use as part of the Master Cleanse. Since Indigo relies on coke and adderall for his cleanses, he was clueless as to the power of simple saltwater. He knew saltwater would lead to further dehydration, but he had no clue that the effects would be more explosive in nature than eating a fistful of Dulcolax.

About two hours after drinking the seawater, Indigo felt the most God-awful stomach cramps he’d ever felt before. The intestinal cramping he was experiencing now was even worse than the time he had drank a 12 pack of PBR, devoured cold McDonald’s the following morning, and than snorted a couple of lines of blow and had an explosion at his friend’s toilet. It felt like someone had both fists inside of his lower stomach, twisting and squeezing his intestinal tract. He was doubled over in pain… sweating profusely under the hot sun, already dehydrated and weak, and praying the end was near. He imagined that this is what labor must feel like for women, and he swore up and down he would never procreate if it meant that another human had to suffer this way. He started crying because his stomach hurt so fucking badly…. and then – he knew it was time…

He threw himself to the side of the boat, ripped down his Bermuda shorts and hung his bony ass over the side of the raft and had what can only be described as a volcanic eruption. The relief was almost immediate as he felt the 3-gallons-worth of vodka and seawater exiting him like the world’s most intense colonoscopy enema anyone had ever experienced. Sadly, he wasn’t finished yet, and had to repeat this process at least 4 more times. By the time he was finally done, he was absolutely emaciated from dehydration. His eyes were sunken into the hollows of his skull, his veins were popping out of his tiny arms and legs, he could see his heart beating in his stomach, and he felt like he was about to die. Basically, he felt like a principal dancer from the American Ballet Theatre feels on any given day. He felt fabulous darling – he looked like death warmed over, and that is tres chic.

Indigo was laying down, feeling up his rib cage and running his hands over his hip bones, imagining how well his size 00 Rag and Bone, women’s leather pants would fit right now, when he saw a strange reflection on the metal ceiling of the boat. Using all of his remaining strength, he lifted himself up and peeped out one of the windows. Another boat! It wasn’t a cruise ship, rather, a small fishing boat, but it was fairly close to him. He started screaming out the window, hoping that they’d hear his cries for help.

The ship blew its horn and began to move closer to Indigo’s craft. He was saved again! Thank Jesus. He probably wouldn’t have survived another 12 hours without water at this rate. The beat up fishing boat idled up to the side of Indigo’s life boat, and a couple of Spanish speaking men threw a rope ladder to Indigo. He climbed aboard with a huge smile on his face and said “Howd’y do Fellas’! You’ve rescued me for the second time this week!” The rough looking men gave each other sideways glances. They spoke no English, and unfortunately, the only Spanish Indigo knew was taco cart.

They gave him a jug of water and some Arepas. He guzzled down the gallon jug like it was his job, and picked at the Arepa… he didn’t want to ruin his girlish figure after all the hard work he’d just put into losing 15 lbs. in water weight. After all, beauty is pain, and his butthole wasn’t currently on fire in vain, darling. He overheard the men mention “Colombia” and assumed that’s where they were from. He also overheard “Ibiza” and assumed that’s where they were headed. Funny for a fishing boat, he thought. Why the fuck would a group of Colombian men be traveling all the way to Ibiza to sell fish?!

As dusk fell, one of the guys led indigo downstairs to the cargo of the ship. He walked down the stairs and into a space that was filled with tuna and sea bass on ice. The man motioned for indigo to hold out his hands, speaking commands in Spanish, and so Indigo did what he was told. He expected the man was going to hand him a beer or more food, but instead, he presented some zip ties from his pocket and proceeded to tie up Indigo’s wrists and then his ankles. He wasn’t really Indigo’s type physically, but given the circumstances and considering how hard-up Indigo was for a lil’ hanky-panky at this point, he figured he was down for a some LIGHT BDSM with a stranger. I mean, what’s the difference between fucking a stranger on a fishing boat at sea or meeting some dude who lives 10 blocks away on Grindr for some bareback action?!

Indigo was getting into it and playing coy with the man, who’s name was Diego. Just as he thought Diego was about to start undressing him and servicing him, he said something else in Spanish and then went back upstairs, turning off the lights, and leaving Indigo alone in the cargo hold, fully clothed, tied up, and totally sexually frustrated.

Indigo was so confused. He really thought they’d hit it off…. he was wondering if he wasn’t skinny or hot enough for this man, when he heard a voice in the darkness. “Hey, amigo! You know what this boat is, right? Una operacion de cocaine! Take a look around Amigo… here, let me help you…” And with that, the lights came on, and a man of small build was standing before Indigo with a switch blade. He cut off indigo’s zip tie restraints and motioned him towards one of the freezer’s piled high with fish. “Take a look, Amigo,” and with that, he lifted up the fish and scraped over the ice to reveal kilos upon kilos, of plastic-wrapped cocaine. Indigo literally blew his load right then and there. He had never seen such vast amounts of happiness wrapped up and stored under one roof.

The men officially introduced themselves to each other. Santiago (that’s the man’s name) was employed by the men upstairs to carry the drugs into Ibiza once they landed. He told Indigo he had two choices, be killed by the men running the operation and thrown to the sharks, or become a mule like him and smuggle the drugs into Ibiza. Indigo agreed to help smuggle the drugs… it wasn’t his first time and it wouldn’t be his last time to sneak large quantities of grade A narcotics past officials. He was experienced in this game, so why not help out where he could? He figured he could probably write it off as charity work if and when he ever had to file New York State taxes again.

And so, Indigo was brought into a meeting with Diego, Santiago, and Mateo (that’s the other guy in charge of this operation) to discuss the logistics of smuggling the drugs once they landed in Ibiza. Indigo was excited to be a mule, but he was more excited for the free drugs they offered him as part of his compensation package. They shook hands on the deal after an agreement was reached, and celebrated for the rest of the night with lines of grade A blow and cold coronas. Indigo entertained the men with an impromptu burlesque act, which involved him stripping naked, using a twizzler as a G-string, and spanking himself with a dirty dish rag as he writhed around and gyrated on the deck.

Five long days, many more one-man-burlesque shows, and many lines of blow later, the fishing boat finally docked in Ibiza. Indigo knew what to do. He’d been visualizing this moment every night for the last four nights. He had stored several personal baggies of coke up his derriere for extra safe keeping and his own personal use, and had several bricks of the coke stored in a large, hard-shell suitcase. He put on some Dior aviator sunglasses and an over-sized sun hat, and strutted off that boat and into port like he owned the fuckin’ place… he strutted like he was Naomi Campbell strutting into a diamond mine in the Republic of Congo, baby. Security didn’t even search his bag or have sniffing dogs at the docks… they were too in awe of his tanned and emaciated legs and extra-short Bermuda shorts. This was one of the easiest jobs Indigo had ever taken, besides of course the time he was a male GoGo dancer in the East Village, but that’s another story.

Indigo made his way to the nearest cafe where he was set to pass-off the suitcase. As soon as he’d successfully passed off the suitcase and received his share of cash for the job, he headed to the men’s room to “powder his nose.” And powder his nose he did… he walked out of the men’s room glassy-eyed, and ready to PPPPAAAaaaRRRRTTTTAYYYYY!!!! Indigo was flying high and made his way to the nearest club to get his freak on. He had cash in his pocket, coke up his ass, he was in Ibiza having paid nothing at all to get there, and life was looking up.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Indigo Wren: At Sea

When we last left our boy Indigo, he was drifting out to sea off of the coast of Tulum, on a hand-made raft, with a Corona in hand (even though beer makes him bloated, and he would have preferred a cocktail), singing Jeff Buckley’s “Lilac Wine.” If you’ll recall, earlier that morning, Indigo awoke naked, alone and afraid on the beach after a 3-day bender, not knowing whether or not he had been sexually assaulted or quite how he had ended up on the beach. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened though, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

The prior night, he had pulled a “Johnny Depp,” wherein he had smashed a champagne bottle on purpose, cut himself in the process, and wrote on the bathroom mirror of the club bathroom (in his own blood), “YOU LET BILLY BOB FUCK YOU!”, in reference to his ex-boyfriend (whom he happened to run into in the bathroom that night and whom had sparked this fit of rage/emotional breakdown).

Anyhow, it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life… and INDIGO IS FEELING GOOD, albeit a bit hungover. He’s feeling great – actually. You know why? He just discovered two grams of blow in his sock (that was the only item of clothing still on his body when he woke up earlier) that he forgot he had stolen from his friend the night before! Indigo is basically all set for whatever life throws at him now (or at least until the coke runs out and he crashes in a most epic way). Nothing could bring him down! Nothing of course except for his feelings of guilt, remorse, worthlessness, and despair over being 52 years of age and having no job, no money, no home, no friends, and barely any family. But who fucking cares about any of that nonsense when there are lines to be done?!

He didn’t have any straws or bills handy (obviously… he IS poor and almost naked), so he had to do bumps off of his hand. After the first couple of bumps, he rides that 15 minute high for all it’s worth, before deciding he needs a couple more. Indigo doesn’t stop doing bumps until his front teeth and nose are numb and his heart is beating life a jack rabbit trying to out-run a fox. Fucking vicious cycle, coke: you can never get enough once you start, and you’ll do every last bit once you have it.

Indigo knows that he has slowly been killing himself for years. Between the anorexia, binge-drinking, drug-doing, not-sleeping and level of stress he’s been running on, the prognosis for his future is no bueno. But what else is there to do? It’s a dog-eat-dog world, baby, and we’re all gonna die anyhow. Even the richest, smartest, prettiest, thinnest, and most loved people will all end up 6 feet under in the end… so why not have some temporary, feel-good fun when they opportunity presents itself?

Please don’t think too poorly of him though – Indigo wasn’t always this way. For a while, in his late twenties, he was able to keep his shit together to some extent and maintain some level of dignity. But, it’s a hard-knock life when no one loves you, you’re a freak of nature who may, or may not, have mild Asperger’s syndrome, un-diagnosed ADHD, insomnia, anorexia, and addiction issues – most of which are the result of being abused as a child and abandoned by those you counted on the most… but I digress. Life isn’t kind to fragile things, and Indigo was a fragile thing. But enough of that – this is getting way too personal for Indigo.

After the first gram of blow disappeared up his nose, Indigo feared for his life, as his heart raced faster and faster, his palms began to sweat, and he couldn’t think in a coherent train of thought for more than 5 seconds. He began to panic when he realized he had no cell phone, and no one around to hear his cry for help if he was, in fact, in the midst of a heart attack. He was now 3 miles off the coast of Tulum on a homemade raft. He didn’t know what else to do at this point… so he did more coke.

Boredom was getting the best of him – the idle mind is truly the Devil’s playground, especially for a junkie. As he spiraled deeper into his coke high, he began to focus on terrible things – things he couldn’t change or control, things from the past, present, and the future: the last 10 lbs he just couldn’t lose, no matter how much he starved himself, the ex-boyfriend he couldn’t make love him or be faithful to him, no matter how perfect he tried to be, the jobs he couldn’t keep, because he just didn’t give a fuck enough to go to work in the morning, the parents who were getting older and in a nursing home which he couldn’t provide-for or be there for, all the friends and lovers he had wronged along the way, the people he had ghosted, the people who had wronged him, the lies he told, the promises he broke… the list goes on. Indigo was broken on the inside, and no amount of coke was going to fix that; neither was any amount of alcohol, vacation, weight loss, plastic surgery, or money. He was a lost cause – a shell of a human with only a rotting, remnant of a soul in the cavern of his dark heart. Hopeless and alone.

But the world keeps turning, and, for now, he was stuck on that raft, alone and adrift at sea. A metaphor for his entire life really.

Night fell, the coke was gone, and Indigo was coming down HARD. He was crying and singing “On My Own” from Les Miserables, considering throwing himself to the sharks, when he saw a light on the horizon in the distance. He liked to imagine himself a young Eponine from Les Mis – eternally wallowing in unrequited love. Anyhow, he felt like he was about to die of despair, or of the coke sweats, when he saw a light on the horizon. A cruise ship! He waited to see which way the ship was headed – no point in screaming if it wasn’t coming towards him.

Alas, it was coming towards him! The lights were getting brighter, and bigger! The ship was slowly coming into view. This was his chance at salvation! He began to scream over the waves, “HELP! HELP ME!” By now, he was delusional, mind-fucked in a bad way, and totally regretting his decision to sail out to sea alone. He realized he didn’t actually want to die – he wanted to live, and he needed help. He needed a LOT of help.

The boat came closer and closer, and his screams and pleas for help became more and more frantic. Someone on deck spotted him and rang the bell for help. A lifesaver was tossed overboard in his direction, and he abandoned his homemade raft and swam towards it with all his remaining willpower.

They hoisted Indigo up to deck, all 130 lbs. of his 6’1″ frame, once he was safely in the lifesaver. He was dehydrated as fuck, delusional, still coming down from the blow, sun burnt, and emaciated. Despite the fact that everyone around him was worried about his health and well-being, having just been rescued at sea, he felt pretty sexy. He was so thin and beautiful from the dehydration that he almost didn’t want to drink the water they offered him, for fear of enshrouding his jutting hip bones and clavicle in a layer of water retention. He resisted at first, but they insisted he go to the ship’s medical center where they administered a couple of IVs and he quickly gained back the 12 lbs. in water weight that he had lost.

Anyhow, the ship he climbed aboard was headed to Miami. But Indigo hated Miami with a passion, and so he made a vow to himself to find a better ship. Fuck Miami man. The crew alerted the National Guard and the media about having found, and consequently picked up, a man floating in the Atlantic. They supplied Indigo with a low-cost cabin and card so that he could use the ship’s dining facilities, etc.. Indigo made his way to the nicest bar he could find and stalked out a well-dressed gay couple. That was his next meal ticket.

Indigo shimmied his way through the crowd to the handsome duo parked at the bar and introduced himself as the resident stowaway. Obviously they loved him – who the fuck wouldn’t?! They asked him if they could buy him a drink, and he said “yes darling, Cristal.” And so, Indigo spent the rest of the night wooing, entertaining, and serenading this gay couple with bullshit stories of his past while they supplied him with round after round of Cristal and occasional trips to the men’s room to imbibe in some blow. Around 3 a.m., the bartender told them he had to close the bar down for the night, and the couple invited Indigo back to their suite – for a nightcap.

Once back at their luxury suite, alcohol (and the second coke comedown he was experiencing in 48 hours) overtook Indigo. He started acting TOTALLY inappropriately, making offensive jokes about any and every minority you can think of. When one half of the gay couple would have their back turned to him, either making another round of mixed drinks, or if one of them was in the bathroom, Indigo would make blow job gestures at the other half of the couple. This obviously got the couple very excited and so they put on Marvin Gaye, and changed into their negligees. At this point, Indigo woke up and smelled the coffee… he wasn’t about this life. No fucking way. Indigo was no one’s fucking unicorn, OK?! He was never the third party to a threesome… that shit just didn’t fly with him and he had to get the FUCK OUT.

He got very weird-ed out, and had to make an escape. He went on a tirade and exploded, saying “WTF?! You think I’M GAY??? I’m BI… ALRIGHT?! ACTUALLY, I LIKE WOMEN…. YOU THINK I’M GAY??? I AM SO SO SO OFFENDED…. I am gonna be sick…” He stormed out of the cabin and slammed the door behind him. He honestly did feel very ill though, given the amount of booze and coke he had consumed, and he didn’t want to be alone in his delicate condition. Luckily, Indigo ran into a Filipino kitchen worker leaving the cafeteria on his way back to his cabin in steerage. He struck up a conversation about how much he loved tonight’s Brazilian themed dinner spread, and went back to the Filipino boy’s cabin for the night. He collapsed on the twin-size bed and broke down sobbing. The kitchen worker rubbed his back and hugged him, trying to soothe him with words of comfort as he continued to sob and babbled on about how alone he was in this world. Eventually, he cried himself dry. Indigo fell asleep getting spooned by the 5’2″ kitchen worker… nothing to see here folks. He just needed a good cuddle and a good cry – sometimes we all do.

The next day, Indigo woke up alone in bed. He looked over at the alarm clock on the night stand – 2pm. He got out of bed and found a note that the kitchen worker had left him:

“Indigo – you are such a beautiful soul. I enjoyed your company last night and hope you are feeling better today after a restful night of sleep. I left some coffee in the pot for you, and some homemade honey buns. I left you the keys to my cabin in case you want to hang out here while I’m working. Hoping I can see you later. XOXO, Fernando.”

Indigo felt ashamed and embarrassed of his drunken behavior. He was in such a vulnerable position last night though, having not slept for two days straight and in the midst of a major comedown. He decided Fernando could be a good person to know while on this ship, and so he decided he would see him again that night.

Indigo rifled around Fernando’s cabin, and found a couple of $20s, which he quickly pocketed. He left the cabin wearing Fernando’s clothes – which were 3 times too small for his 6’1″ frame. His t-shirt was up to his belly button, and the Bermuda shorts he put on were basically diaper length on his long legs. He looked at himself in the mirror before leaving: “Damn sexy!” he said out loud, before he sashayed out of the cabin and walked upstairs to the bar on deck.

He ordered two Bloody Mary’s and a shot of vodka. No better way to start the day! He was in vacation mode being on a cruise ship and whatnot. After he got his swagger on, he meandered down deck to the hot tub / pool area, which full of old people and children. He got very dirty looks from all of the parents and geriatrics …. I guess they just didn’t understand what real fashion is.

He swaggered over to the hot tub, which was full of 65-year-old white men with hair coming out of their ears and belly buttons. “Mind if I join you boys for a soak?” Indigo said, as he lowered himself into the water. He got a few sideways glances, and a couple of the men left the hot tub. Indigo called over a waiter and ordered another Bloody Mary and a shot of vodka. He sunk deeper into the hot water so just his neck and head were out, relaxing in a state of complete bliss. His eyes slowly closed… he was so relaxed…he fell fast asleep in the water. The next thing he knew, he woke up to angry screams. His eyes jumped open to see the other men who were in the hot tub with him scrambling out. He looked around and saw a large turd floating in the water next to him. Oopsie… he was so relaxed he had accidentally relieved himself in the hot tub! Indigo climbed out and looked around – everyone was staring at him with looks of disgust and anger. A pool boy quickly walked over to Indigo and told him he was no longer welcome in the pool area. He was too embarrassed to argue, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and left.

He decided to check out the VIP cocktail lounge, “The Captain’s Club.” Indigo still had a towel wrapped around his waist and his 3x-too-small crop top on, and he was barefoot when he sauntered into the VIP lounge. The lounge was pretty busy with the lunch crowd when he entered; there were a lot of older women dressed in Pucci with Chanel or Birkin bags, and older gentleman wearing Gucci loafers and smart jackets. They were all casually sipping on martinis or champagne and enjoying a gourmet meal. All eyes turned to Indigo when he walked in. He felt like a model on the catwalk as he sashayed through the crowed of diners.

He moseyed right past the maitre d’ and belly-ed on up to the bar (literally – his bare belly was rubbing against the counter). “May I help you sir?” said the bartender rather indignantly. “Yes, I’d like a pickle back and a Bloody Mary, extra spicy please.” The bartender informed Indigo he could not serve him while he was barefoot and wearing a towel. Indigo was about to open his mouth to argue, when someone tapped his shoulder. He turned around and the maitre d’ was behind him. “My apologies sir, but there is a strict dress code we have to enforce in the VIP lounge. I’m afraid you must have on shoes and pants to be served or seated in here.” Now it was Indigo’s turn to become indignant. “Are you accosting me because I am gay? Discriminating against me because of my sexual orientation?! I’d like to speak to your manager!” Everyone had stopped eating and was staring at the scene unfolding in front of the bar. The maitre d’ walkied for the manager, and the manager walked out of the kitchen doors and over to Indigo. “Sir, I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience this may impose on you, but we really cannot have customers walking around barefoot and wearing towels in this area of the ship. You’re more than welcome to go upstairs to the pool bar dressed like this, but you’re going to have to leave here until you’re dressed in proper attire.” Indigo hadn’t been this publicly shamed since the night he was turned away from 1Oak twelve years ago in front of a crowd that included Lindsay Lohan and Brandon Davis.

Indigo exploded: “You’re all fucking losers! A bunch of corporate, 9-5 assholes who don’t know what real art, fashion, fun or life actually is! I’d show all of you mother fuckers how to have a good time – if you were worth it! But you’re lame, boring, paid fucks who get off on money and and ugly fucking Chanel jackets. Go cry into your piles of money – you might be wearing $2,000 jackets and carrying Birkins, but you’re old, ugly, and fucking vanilla, BITCHESSSS!”

And with that, two security guards were called and promptly escorted Indigo to a holding cell where he was locked up below deck. Indigo was pretty drunk from all of the Bloody Marys he had consumed at this point, and so he took a nap since he had nothing better to do. He was awoken by the sound of someone calling his name, “Indigo! Indigo! It’s me, Fernando – they sent me down here with your dinner. I made you some rice and beans and that feijoada you liked so much at dinner last night!” Indigo was so happy to see little Fernando standing outside of his cell. “Fernando! I’m so happy to see you – you’ve got to help me get out of here – I have no idea why they locked me up!” “Oh, hunny… I hear you misbehaving very badly at the pool and in The Captain’s Lounge! People talking…”.

“Fernando, babe, just help me get out of here… I don’t have any money, but I can give you something else 😉 “. And so, Indigo gave Fernando a quality BJ through the bars of his cell, and in return, Fernando sneaked the key to the holding cell off of the wall in the officer’s office and released Indigo from the cell. By now, it was midnight, and most people had retreated to their cabins. Fernando invited Indigo back to his cabin for the night.

Indigo couldn’t remain on this ship though, now that everyone was against him. He especially couldn’t end up in Miami, which is where the ship was due to dock the next morning. He decided his only hope was jumping ship. And so, indigo stole a couple bottles of Vodka from Fernando’s mini fridge after Fernando was passed out on his cot. He put on another t-shirt and shorts that belonged to Fernando (again, 3x too small), and headed up to deck. He made his way around deck to where the lifeboats where hanging, and climbed into one. He wasn’t quite sure how to work the rigging, but luckily, he had brought along a large knife he confiscated from the kitchen. He cut the ropes on either side and the boat smashed down about 10 feet to the water. He was a free man again.

Indigo sailed off into the night, sipping from his bottle of Tito’s and imagining his new life in Paris… because he was determined to get there come hell or high water.

The Tale of Indigo Wren: The Last Hipster Standing

In additional to cooking and bitching about my life, I also like to write short stories and comics… this one I’m very proud of… hits close to home.

I haven’t finished the pictures yet, but here is the text to my newest short story….

*** DISCLAIMER*** THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY BASED ON NO ONE AND/OR NO INCIDENTS IN PARTICULAR, AND IT IS ESPECIALLY NOT BASED ON MY OWN LIFE… BUT I KIND OF WISH IT WAS…

THE TALE OF INDIGO WREN: THE LAST HIPSTER STANDING

Indigo Wren was one of the first settlers to move to Williamsburg in the late 90’s, when all there was, was a corner-store bodega that sold 40s through bullet-proof glass, and you risked getting knifed if you were out after 7 p.m.. These were the days of milk and honey – long before Apple and Whole foods moved onto Bedford Ave., and before multi-million dollar high-rises took over the waterfront. Indigo staked his claim as the original hipster, and moved into an illegal apartment – a loft in an old warehouse – the only one still standing in the year 2019.

Now, at the seasoned age of 52, Indigo looks back fondly on the days of yore – a.k.a. any time pre-2004. Ah yes! The days when rent was only $500 a month, there were no bridge & tunnel kids, no European tourists, no condos, and no fucking yuppies… life was good then. Back then, you could go to a real warehouse party – the kind where you weren’t charged $75 just to enter, there were certainly no models and bottles, and where you had to crawl through a literal hole in a wall to enter. And, the drugs, oh the drugs! Back then drugs were still legit. You would blow your load if someone blew on your skin… they just don’t make parties or drugs like that now.

Alas, Indigo now finds himself at a cross-roads. When his rent increased to $1,000 in 2005, Indigo’s parents consented to help him out and pay half. However, Indigo’s parents have recently entered a retirement home, he still only works part-time as a performance artiste and a hair artiste, and now his landlord is being bought-out by a new development that plans to build condos priced for Wall Street bros and Russian hos. Life is no bueno…

Now, what’s a boy like Indigo going to do?! Indigo racks his brain for ideas: he tries to sell his plasma, but is turned away because he doesn’t meet the minimum weight requirement. He tries to sell his sperm, but is also turned away by the sperm bank after testing positive for narcotics, and because no one wants sperm from a 52 year old man with a liberal arts degree from a community college. He tries to donate blood, but is also turned away after he says he occasionally engages in homosexual intercourse in the bathrooms of the Knitting Factory, after becoming inebriated… of course (Sssshhh… don’t tell his boyfriend!).

Hair cutting isn’t gonna pay the bills; and neither is his performance art, which involves getting naked on stage and rubbing cloves of garlic over his scrotum, while chanting “OOooommm Shanti” (can you say ‘tres avant garde’?!). In a moment of poser-weakness and desperation, he asks a friend working at a monastery in the Catskills if he can come live, study and work for free as the Gong Boy. Sadly, his friend says the position for Gong Guru has been filled by a 26 year old girl with a tight ass and trust fund.

Down to the wire now, with only 30 days before he needs to have vacated his loft, Indigo is at a loss for ideas. He has too many neck tattoos to work a corporate job. Besides, you can’t get one of those unless you graduated Ivy League, or mommy and daddy know someone. He can’t work as a waiter, because his anorexia prevents him from dealing with food, other than his weekly intake of one taco-cart quesadilla. Alone in his apartment, he diligently scours Craigslist applying to job after job, using his neighbor’s WiFi, and doing occasional bumps of coke to boost moral.

Listen, we all have our vices, and I’m pretty sure it’s OK to spend $100 a week on blow when you only spend $8 a week on a taco-cart quesadilla…. anyhow. Indigo relentlessly applies to job after job – he stays up for 56 hours straight because he’s so stressed, and also because he has done so much coke, before he finally crashes in a state of complete exhaustion. He has applied to so many jobs at this point, he can’t even remember where or what he has applied for.

The next day, Indigo wakes up with a mouth as parched as the desert, a half-eaten hamburger on his nightstand, hungover as fuck, and in the midst of a major coke comedown. After downing 2 liters of tap water, he checks his AOL email account and sees that a recruiter from the MTA wants him to come in for an interview. Whatever, he has no pride or options left now. He decides to go for it, and sets up an interview for 1 p.m. the next day.

Indigo spends three hours planning the PERFECT interview outfit. He decides on a pair of teenage girl’s black, super-skinny jeans, suspenders, a white button-down, which he will wear buttoned-down to his navel, a coke-spoon necklace (sterling silver, dahling), and a plaid fedora from Goran Brothers. Oh, and Jeffrey Campbell platforms. He arrives to his interview 20 minutes late, and fucking kills it! He gets an offer on the spot, and agrees to start tomorrow (hey… MTA has to meet a diversity quota too).

Indigo arrives to work the next day, 1 hour late, extremely hungover from celebrating his new job the day before, and dressed totally inappropriately. He decided to wear a neon-yellow pair of coveralls from his days as a 24-year old raver, a train conductor’s hat (very Burning Man/Steampunk chic), a rosary (don’t ask…),, and some platform sneakers (for comfort). Everyone laughs at him when he shows up. He gets a write-up for taking a smoke break on the L train platform only 20 minutes into the job, and no one wants to sit with him at lunch. It’s basically like he’s in 6th grade all over again.

Indigo decides to leave work an hour early so he can go out for happy hour margaritas with his boo (they’ve been on-again-off-again for the last 8 years or so). He goes to his boyfriend’s apartment and puts on his sexiest underwear to surprise him when he gets home from his job. Indigo goes looking for some sparklers they keep in the kitchen cupboard (he wants to play bottle waitress), when 3 condoms fall out of a trinket box he was looking through. His throat gets tight and he feels himself begin to burn from the inside out with rage, disgust, and a sadness so profoundly deep he hopes you never have to feel it. His heart begins to race and his palms become moist with perspiration.

Indigo decides he is going to maintain control over his emotions and play it cool until his boyfriend gets home. He decides to wait to confront him… after all, this must be some kind of mistake. They’ve been exclusive for 8 years! He lays the condoms out on the coffee table and proceeds to drink two bottles of champagne to his face while he waits – to settle his nerves, as one is wont to do.

He waits another 30 minutes and as soon as his boyfriend walks through the door he explodes, throwing the condoms and a glass of champagne into his face. Naturally, his boyfriend attempts to gaslight him with some bullshit excuse, but this is the last straw for Indigo, the straw that broke this lil’ camel’s back!

Indigo storms out wearing only a thong, 7″ platforms, and a silk kimono. He calls his side-piece, a 25 year old burner named Cricket Avolon, and they go to happy hour to score some $5 margs. One thing leads to another, and they order 3 grams of coke, some special K, and a few ecstasy pills for the road. They end up at Cipriani, where they both blow the same hedge fund bro in return for a meal and some champagne, before making their way to The Box to see some girls piss in martini glasses and drink their own piss on stage. Finally, they end up at the crack-den that is Members Only circa 2016.

Indigo forgets what day it is, he forgets he has a new job and bills to pay and rent payment to make, and he forgets that he is broke. He stays out until 1 pm the next day, and then crashes at his dealer’s house somewhere… who knows where really. When he wakes up at 9 pm the next night, he has 20 missed phone calls and 6 voicemails from his job and his parents. He pops a couple of xanex before heading back to his apartment, to ease the comedown of it all. He decides he will fix things with work tomorrow.

Indigo is still coming down from his near OD the day before, and emotionally deranged from his personal problems at home. Nevertheless, he persisted. He pulls himself up by the nipple rings, puts on some guy-liner and scented body glitter, pops a couple of addies, and marches off to work as though nothing ever happened. HR calls him in immediately and terminates him on the spot. He doesn’t even argue, he just leaves with a new plan brewing… this ain’t his first rodeo and it won’t be his last… he is used to these things happening to him by now.

He’s given up working dead-end jobs, and he hates this awful, fucking city where everyone is fake as fuck, consumed with greed, living on someone else’s hard earned dime and therefore has the luxury to pursue artistic adventures for little to no pay, or just an anorexic escort. He calls up Cricket Avolon and he invites Indigo to go to Tulum with him. Out of other options, and thinking he can probably score a sugar daddy (or mommy) and some quality blow, Indigo agrees. He packs light – a sombrero, some adderall, and a few thongs. His landlord can go fuck himself and charge some other naive loser way too much money to live in the shitty fucking dungeon of a loft that he has called home for the past 23 years.

After arriving in Tulum, Indigo convinces all of his trust fund friends to bring him to an elite party, where he proceeds to get mega, fucking TRASHED. He runs into his ex-boyfriend in the ladies room… powdering their noses. He ends up making a total scene and breaking a Dom Perignon bottle over the sink before threatening his ex with the broken end. He accidentally cuts himself in the process, and decides now is the right time to pull a Johnny Depp, and writes a message in blood on the mirror: “You let Billy Bob f*ck You!”. He is quickly escorted out by security, while shouting to everyone who can hear him “I’ll show you what a REAL fucking party is!!!”

Indigo wakes up penniless, naked and alone on the beach. He thinks he may have been sexually assaulted, but he doesn’t know for sure. He spends all afternoon building a raft out of the palm fronds and drift wood that litter the beach. The last anyone ever sees of Indigo Wren, he is floating out to sea on his raft with a corona, singing “Lilac Wine,” by Jeff Buckley…

And that, my friends, is the story of Indigo Wren, the last hipster standing.