fun – The High Heeled C*ntessa

Trigger-Warning Friday Night Thoughts

It’s Friday night, and I’m out for a walk because I have nothing better to do.

I see all of the couples and groups of friends headed out for happy-hour drinks; I’ve also passed by several bar windows where a solitary person drinks alone at the bar.

I am craving a celebratory, end-of-the-workweek drink, or five. The “five” part is why I’m on a break.

How is it that some hours pass by so slowly, but some weeks, months or even years fly by in a blink? I was out for a walk earlier this afternoon, and it seems like a lifetime ago. This afternoon I spent sedentary, working at my laptop while the sun went down in a spectacular fashion that I nearly missed. I ran up to the roof when I saw a red glow in the windows of the high-rises across the street and knew the sunset must be amazing. It seems like the hours in between my two walks were an entire week’s worth of time.

I gave a homeless man $10 tonight, but only because he had a dog sitting on his lap.

I’m entertaining thoughts of xxxxxxx and Xxxx but instead I corral my train of thought to the units of Botox I’ll be injecting into my forehad on Monday morning, and exactly how much that’s going to cost me. When did I become this person? When did I get this old?

I decided not to cross under the BQE and walk through Greenpoint tonight, as has been my go-to walking route for the last couple of months. I walked earlier today, and I don’t need to go that far. But then again, how am I going to pass the time once I’m back home?!

I would love to cook something extravagant, but my fiance won’t eat it all, and I am also on a diet: trying to lose the same 10 lbs I’ve lost and gained, and lost and gained, over and over again for the last eleven years of my life. The same ten pounds that determine whether I look skeletal or curvy, at my height.

My fiance keeps asking me what I want for my birthday next month: I want snow, and I want the thigh-gap that I had in Fall of 2018. Simple things, really – but two things he cannot possibly wrap up and hand to me come February 18th.

The warm weather fucks with my head much like the malfunctioning bathroom scale does. As a person who spends a lot of time living in my own head and imagination, it is hard to conjure up pleasant winter memories of the past or even future winter scenarios when it is a balmy Spring day in January. Global warming will destroy us all, and we deserve it. Humanity has been a scourge on this earth for the last couple of hundred years.

What am I going to do when I get home?! I have the energy to walk another 8 miles, but I’ve walked these same streets on a loop for the past 11 years, and I’m bored by the same sights and smells.

I’m bored with life sometimes. That is my problem. I honestly think this is why people have kids – boredom. I would be lying if I said I haven’t considered what life would be like with a child in my advanced age – having a kid. But there is no way in hell I am ever going to survive being pregnant for almost 10 months. I also don’t want my future child dying in a water war or nuclear holocaust or wide-spread famine. I also do all of the household work and emotional labor now, and can’t imagine having a kid on top of all of this work I already do. I’d be doing all of the child-rearing.

If I had one super power, it would be to eat whatever I want and never gain weight. Right now, I’d eat an entire, large Margarita pizza from Rome to Brooklyn. Those of you who doubt I could do so, clearly don’t know me. This is why I don’t have a thigh-gap right now.

I really, really want a cocktail. A cosmo would hit the spot, or that purple gin drink that they do at Citroen in Greenpoint. I’m jonesing…

At least I’m not tweaking.

I am really considering going to the liquor store. One drink. One, celebratory, end-of-the-workweek cocktail. Drugs have no calories though…

My mind is not normal.

These are the thoughts I entertain daily. How many calories are in a cosmo? Too many. Maybe a vodka seltzer would be a better option.

I am home now, listening to the Dandy Warhols and reliving ages 21-22. Funny how music brings you right back to where you were and who you were with when you heard it. What you were feeling… I love music. It is one thing I have always been and always will be passionate about.

Depeche Mode concert is in t-minus 4 months as of tomorrow. Must get skeletal.

I have a new record player and five new records. Maybe I can take up record shopping in used record stores as a hobby. I need a hobby that is healthy and not expensive though. All of my hobbies are expensive and/or not healthy; or they straight up bore me. Maybe I’m boring…

Isn’t that what they say? “If you’re bored it’s because you are boring”?

My Summer of Love – the Real Story

I’m a regular reader of the Guardian, and a couple of weeks ago I happened to come across a call for readers to submit stories about “their summer of love” romances. I was bored at work with time to kill, and I had just celebrated eight years with my boyfriend and felt compelled to submit my own story about the summer of 2013.

I thoroughly enjoyed typing out the full story about my wild summer of 2013 and was really excited when I finally hit the ‘submit’ button, although I instantly regretted not having saved what I wrote, since I entered the text directly on the Guardian’s website. I texted my boyfriend to let him know I submitted the story of how we met and that I would die if they actually published it.

The full story was probably about three pages long when all was said and done, with all of the scandalous details and humor that make for good reading. I was very proud of the piece that I entered and also felt nostalgic with the sweet memories fresh in my brain.

About two weeks went by, which was just enough time for me to have forgotten that I submitted the story, when I woke up this past Monday morning to an email an editor at the Guardian. I was so stoked that even though it was 7:30am, I woke up my boyfriend, whom was sleeping next to me, to tell him the good news. The editor stated they would need to edit my piece to be shorter in length, and THIS IS WHAT THEY ENDED UP PUBLISHING.

Don’t get me wrong – Its really cool to have my little story and our picture on my favorite news site…it’s actually fucking awesome. But the integrity of the original story was stripped since they had to edit out the bulk of the story itself. They basically just summarized the larger story I originally entered, and added sentences that were not even there to begin with. Like honestly, do you think I would ever use the phrase “…my heart fluttered”? I’m not mad, just disappointed I guess, because the little ditty that was posted sounds corny as hell. Here is the real story of my ‘summer of love’:

MY SUMMER OF LOVE

Before we get to the summer of 2013, I have to provide a bit of background. I moved to NYC in Fall 2012 as a hopeful 24-year old with big dreams. I had saved enough money working as a manager at Hollister and living at home for the past two years, that I didn’t need to have a job lined up before I moved to the city. I planned to pursue writing and/or work in theatre (which I did do, to some extent), but after a couple of months, my savings was running low and I needed an actual job to pay rent. During this time, my college romance of almost 3-years was on it’s last legs. We had been doing long-distance for the better part of the three years we’d been together, and moving to the city was a new start for me.

One of my sister’s friends hooked me up with a job at Highline Ballroom (a now-defunct, mid-sized, concert venue/late-night club on weekends) since she was friends with the owner. I was hired as a server, and my first shift was in early December 2012. I was nervous as fuck – I’d never been a server before, and I certainly didn’t go out to clubs back then. I didn’t know what to expect when I walked into my first shift, dressed in the requisite ‘all black’ outfit that I’d just purchased earlier that day at Forever 21. One of the first people I met was the manager, who helped me with my paper work and showed me around the venue. Immediately off the bat, I found him (and his Italian accent) incredibly attractive, and I probably became nervously shy as I didn’t want to look like an idiot – doing or saying the wrong thing – in front of someone I found hot.

As the days at working at Highline turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, I gradually warmed up to some of the servers I worked with and even came to enjoy certain aspects of working as a server. It was really cool to get to see some of the better bands that were booked play free of charge, as I waited tables. Some highlights were once serving Jack White a Stella, and a show I worked where Zedd (who was just beginning his career, and who I am also convinced was high on E at the time) told me I have beautiful eyes. I also always enjoyed doing hospitality for the bands, because that usually meant left over booze after they’d cleared the greenroom at the end of the night.

It was a fun job at times, or at least the kind of job where you and your coworkers have fun together, as you commiserate about how shitty the job can be and support one another through all of the personal struggles everyone brings to work each day. All of us servers were around the same age, and this was a temporary job as we pursued various other passions – music, makeup, acting, etc. Someone was always crying in the ladies room pre-shift, or having a break down in the back hallway by the lockers. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…

As the job wore on, it also became evident, that it wasn’t going to be enough to cover my rent and bills. There were some weeks with 3 or 4 dark days (this means no shows scheduled and therefore the venue is closed) and I’d only have two shifts that week. Some concerts (seated jazz shows, for example) I could make bank in tips ($250 a night was a good night for me… I know some servers reading this right now will scoff at this, but for me, that was a great night). Other shows (hip-hop, standing-room-only shows, for example), were absolutely atrocious to work, and I might walk away with only $25 in cash tips. Please keep in mind that I was also only making an hourly rate of $5. Yes – you read that right: $5….

On the shitty nights, when we’d all busted our asses and chased after tables who tried to leave without paying, only to make $30 in cash tips, we (the servers and a couple of bartenders and bar-backs) would all go out to one of two local watering holes on 14th Street: McKenna’s, where they had a great buy-1-get-1 special until midnight, or Woody’s. What else are you going to do with $30 in tips? In NYC, that is basically enough to buy maybe two days worth of groceries, but after such a rough night at work, buying a few rounds of drinks so you could forget how shitty your life was for a while, was a much higher priority.

Early on during these group outings, I remember trying to casually get more information on the hot manager. “Do you know if he’s single?” I’d casually ask one of the servers who had been working there longer than me. The response, or general consensus rather, was that he was most likely hooking up with one of the bartenders (** he denies to this day that there were never anything other than friends, to which I still say “Sure, Jan”***). Anyhow, this was not the response I was looking for, but then again I was still in a relationship myself, at the time. My sister’s friend, who had set me up with job, also inquired if there were any hot guys I worked with. I told her “not really, apart from one of my managers.” She had worked for the company at one of their other venues before having a baby, so I asked if she knew who the Italian manager at Highline was. Unfortunately, she’d left a few months before he’d started, so she had no idea. It seemed impossible to get the information I was looking for…. I needed to know more about this man!

By late winter of 2013, I had broken up with my ex-boyfriend for good, started fostering two feral cats (yes, they were legit feral and one hid under my bed all day), and I was officially struggling to make ends meet on my shitty server’s salary. I was literally going hungry, because I didn’t have enough money to pay rent and buy groceries, so I became pretty emaciated living on a bag of frozen peas and some rice one week, and a loaf of Wonder bread the next. It’s comical now to look back on, but there was nothing funny about only having enough cash to buy either coffee creamer or a roll of paper towels because I couldn’t afford both. I already had to call my parents a few times to help me with rent, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them I also didn’t have enough money for groceries either, so I just made due with what little I had.

It was around this time that I started having brief conversations with the hot manager as I lit candles during pre-shift, or, if there was a lull in work while the concert was in full-throttle, we would chat in the service station at the end of the bar. How I cherished these brief interactions! I would replay them in my head long after the fact, wondering what he thought of me, or if he might find me attractive as well. He asked me about my writing and the blog I kept at the time, he asked me what I felt about the Lesbian slam poet we had performing one night – he generally seemed to take an interest in what I thought and felt, and I really appreciated that. He would later admit that he read my blog from start to finish, going back several years in entries, because he wanted to know more about me and my life. At the time, I didn’t think he’d ever like a girl like me… short, quiet, nerdy, not exactly a ‘cool’ girl, and certainly someone who never went to clubs or parties (back then, at least….).

How could he? He worked in nightlife where he was surrounded by hot women – whether it was the bottle servers who were signed with modeling agencies, or the burlesque dancer who performed in nothing more than sequin pasties and a G-string during late nights. Never in a million years, did I think that he would like me when I physically compared myself to the other girls working there. But this was just my 25-year old lack of self-esteem getting the best of me. Self-doubt is a real bitch.

I was absolutely elated one night, when he asked me if I’d like to start hostessing during the late-night parties, in addition to serving during regular shows. I definitely needed more money, and it would be a chance to wear a sexy dress and heels instead of the regular black jeans and boots I wore while serving, and fucking loathed. He later confessed he asked me work late-night because he wanted to get to know me better and spend more time with me, but back then I was convinced he knew I was poor and just felt sorry for me.

Keep in mind that through all of this time, I was still convinced I had no chance with him. Also keep in mind that I was newly single, and finally making up for lost time. My last relationship had also been my first, and I’d never had the opportunity to be single in such a big city with so many hot men. I’d also never really been on proper dates, since my ex boyfriend and I met as two broke college students . NYC was my oyster for a few months, and I was living it up. Until the dating scene got the best of me and chewed me up only to spit me out again.

It was really easy to meet people as a single woman, working in a concert venue/nightclub, and I threw myself into the dating scene. But I quickly learned, that many New York men are dickbags, and became disillusioned with the whole scene just as quickly as I had initially been intoxicated by it. I got pissed when a guy I was casually dating didn’t text for almost an entire weekend when he went to a friend’s wedding with a date who was really pretty (I stalked that bitch on Facebook and my heart fell thinking of them hooking up). There was the hot Israeli musician who did sound check at the concert venue, who took me out for drinks and bragged about all the hot models he’d banged at the Day & Night brunch parties. That left a bad taste in my mouth. There was the the shaggy, blonde-haired French guy that I went on several dates with who just disappeared into thin air after I was unable to see him one night. That one almost destroyed me for some reason….

I think a lot of the turmoil and angst also had to do with how depressing my life was for a while there. I lived alone with two foster cats that wouldn’t even let me pet them. I barely made enough money to pay rent and feed myself and was shelling out what little cash I did have on expensive food for the two foster cats who both had digestive issues (explosive, insanely smelly diarrhea). I would come home from working at the club to an empty apartment at 2 a.m. and often cry because of how stressed I was over money and how lonely I felt at night. The one constant I did have to look forward to each week, was getting dressed up to work as a hostess and see the hot manager, even if it was only as we stood next to each other at the podium in the lobby of the venue chatting.

Towards the end of Spring 2013, Christian (yes, he has a name) would often ask me if I’d like to grab a drink at the end of my shift, once I was cut for the night and before taking a cab back home to Brooklyn. I remember this literally being a magical experience (even though we’d basically be screaming into each other’s ears to have any sort of conversation over the insanely loud club music) as we stood at bar-left and each had a gin and tonic or glass of Prosseco. I remember one particular evening, a remix of Lana del Rey’s ‘Summertime Sadness’ blasting, as confetti dropped from the rafters, and drunk club-goers squeezed around and in back of us passing by. That’s when it really hit me – I had butterflies in my stomach and a major crush on this man.

He would later admit that just as I thought I had no chance with him, he also thought he had absolutely no chance with me. We both had crushes on each other from day one but both thought it would never happen for whatever reasons we told our selves. A couple of weeks after this magical moment at bar-left, he finally asked me out on a date – well, at least it kind of sounded like a date?! It was a bit unclear, since he told me I could bring a friend or even two friends. I remember we were standing at bar-right during pre-shift when he casually asked if I’d like to go on a sailboat tour of New York Harbor, and then added that I was welcome to bring a friend. I was quite confused in that moment – did he want or expect me to bring a friend? Maybe he only wanted to be friends with me and that’s why he suggested that I bring a third party? I said ‘yes’ to the boat trip right on the spot, and then pondered as to whom I could drag along, if anyone. After thinking it over for a day, I decided that this was MY chance to make a move, and determined I would bring no one – I wanted him to myself.

The night before our first date, happened to be the 4th of July, and we both happened to be working at a Verboten party (a rave, for those who are un-familar) that the venue had booked. Now, this particular event happened to go from about 10pm to 6am, and every patron is either rolling balls on MDMA or drinking their ass off. It is already a really difficult party to work if you’re into this type of music and scene, since you cannot partake in the fun and games. It is also extra hard working events or parties that fall on national holidays – it seems like everyone but you is out celebrating and having a good time and you start to feel really sorry for yourself.

As the night wore on, I guess several of the other servers and bartenders were also feeling sorry for themselves for having to work on this particular night, because several rounds of shots and/or drinks made their way from behind the bar to service station at the end of the bar for us to knock back on the sly. By the time the lights came up and the patrons had left, I was pretty fucking buzzed…or drunk, rather. I had to keep it together enough to do my receipts and tips checkout with Christian, before taking a $25 cab back to Brooklyn, as the sun was coming up and it was already hotter than the hubs of Hell. I remember I ordered a burger from Bad Burger, a 24/7 burger joint in Williamsburg, because I was drunk and starving after a long night of working. I got home, devoured half of my burger, threw the other half on the floor for my foster cats to enjoy, and passed out, fully-clothed and with my makeup still on, on my couch.

I woke up at high-noon, my mouth as parched as the Sahara and reeking of Jameson and Fireball. I was pretty fucking hungover, and all I could think about was how sloppy I’d been the night before. I prayed my manager would still even want to take me out on a date, and knew I had to redeem myself by looking extra good. I remember enlisting the help of my fashion-savvy sister to help me pick out the perfect date ensemble that afternoon: I wore a strapless, navy blue bodysuit and seersucker shorts from American Apparel, and a cool pair of wedges my sister loaned me.

I called both my mom and my cousin as I walked from the subway at 14th street to the Gansevoort Hotel, where I was meeting Christian. I confessed to my mom that I was going on a date with my older manager, but swore up and down that I was not going to so much as kiss him, lest things turn awkward at work. I believe I also told my cousin the same thing… I’m not sure who I was really trying to convince though: them, or myself…

The date went down in history as the most perfect date of all time. We had a gin and tonic each on the rooftop of the Gansevoort hotel, than took a chartered sunset sail around New York Harbor, during which Prosecco was freely doled out by the staff. When the boat docked again around 9:30pm, we were the last ones off the boat and pretty tipsy. We took a cab across town to a wine bar, where we had a charcuterie and cheese board and wine, then after that, we took another cab downtown to a second wine bar, Another Room. It was here that we started discussing painting, friended each other on Facebook, kissed for the first time, and Christian told me that he was a painter himself. He asked if I’d like to go see some of his artwork, at his apartment, which conveniently happened to be a short, three minute walk from this wine bar. Now that is clever planning!

I was on a roll myself now – high on adrenaline, wine and those butterflies in my stomach. The last few months of dating had been so shitty and had broken me down so much, that I really felt I had nothing more to lose at this point. I felt liberated! ‘Fuck it,’ I thought to myself. Whatever happens, happens. And so I went over to his apartment (to see his paintings, of course) and then I spent the night.

Because nothing in my life ever goes smoothly, because I never seem to have any actual down time, and because I am a glutton for punishment, I awoke in his bed to an 8 a.m. phone call from my sister, wondering when I was coming over to help set up for my niece’s first birthday party. We got up, he hailed me a cab, and I hightailed it back to Brooklyn, where I was gainfully employed running errands in the all-ready-86-degree weather. I was slightly hungover and had my baby niece in tow, booking it down Bedford Avenue, pushing my niece in the stroller, with a shit load of helium balloons trailing behind us, as I secreted red wine from my pores and still felt high on happiness from last night. I was elated when he texted me later that day to say he had an amazing time and couldn’t wait to see me at work later that night (yes, we both worked another party that same night).

It’s hard to believe that eight years have gone by since this particular summer. Like all couples, we have had our fair share of ups and downs. Lots of water has passed under the bridge over the course of eight years – there have been some pretty heated fights, a near constant level of insanity on both parties’ behalf, a lot of love, some general hate thrown in for good measure, a ton of fun and memorable moments, the stresses of daily life and work, and a lot of personal growth for the both of us. Eight years seems like a century sometimes – I mean it has been most of my adult life. But it also seems to have passed by in the blink of an eye. It’s crazy to think that fate brought us together in that shitty fucking venue, and even crazier to think that the feelings of attraction were mutual at first sight on the day we met back in December 2012. Every time I hear a song from the summer of 2013, whether it’s Daft Punk’s ‘Get Lucky’ or Lana del Rey’s ‘Summertime Saddness,’ I am immediately transported back to bar left, sipping on my gin and tonic, screaming over the music to be heard, and falling in love all over again.

Tips for Surviving A Recession

***DISCLAIMER***

I started writing this post like two or three months ago (I want to say right around Thanksgiving), before Australia had totally burned to the ground and before Trump decided to provoke Iran, thus destroying any chance we have at all for a future. Let’s be honest here, I don’t think humanity is going to make it another five years.

Since this post was initially written, the holidays have come and gone, the New Year has arrived, and I have decided to stop buying fast fashion, or any new clothes at all… yes, I will continue wearing the same damn shoes until I receive warnings from HR about how my foot odor is offending people at work.

I have also decided to become a vegan (not sure how long I can last without cheese or eggs, but I will try), and give up alcohol and other illegal substances. I am also going to try to be more consistent with this blog. Cheers, kids.

Daydreaming about Robbie Williams….

TIPS FOR SURVIVING A RECESSION (Blog entry from November, 2019):

I wanted to write this blog a few months ago when I started reading about another oncoming recession all over the news. I figured I have some viable tips for those of you who were too young to really experience the recession of 2008 firsthand, or those of you who weren’t affected the first time around (consider yourselves very lucky). I survived the great recession of 2008 – just barely though: I haven’t touched my student loan debt, I don’t own a house nor can I afford to, I work just to pay bills, I throw money to the wind each month, renting an apartment I will never own, and at this rate (and given a number of other extraneous factors such as global warming, imminent nuclear war / terrorist attacks at the hands of Iran, and societal collapse on the horizon…) I doubt I will ever have children. C’est la vie…. at least I’ve got my cats.

Anyhow, I’m currently sitting here browsing slutty clothes and 7-inch platform boots on DollsKill.com. Hey – life is short, and no matter what, I’m not going to be able to afford a house or kids, so I might as well purchase some cheap thrills while I’m still semi-young (not that I’m young) and decent looking (not that I am that either). I can honestly say I never spend money on lunch or coffee… I don’t even eat lunch. I think I deserve some frivolous party shoes once or twice a year to compensate. The press is always bitching about Millennials wasting money on Starbucks and avocado toast, but when you’re $50K in the hole with no future in sight, you kind of have to live in the moment and treat yourself to the tiny luxuries that you CAN afford. If we never went out for a night of drinks once every month, or bought a new winter coat we desperately need, our quality of life would be even more miserable than it already is, just trying to save and pay our bills.

I digress though. I graduated in 2011 when the recession was at its’ worst and the unemployment rate at its highest. The times were basically rock bottom in terms of available jobs/work. I have two worthless degrees in fashion merchandising and theatre. I still sometimes hate myself for not swallowing my pride and my passions, and just going to school for engineering or to become a doctor. At least then I would have a lucrative career. JK…. I would never. I’d rather continue to struggle and live paycheck to paycheck with enough time to still pursue some of my passions on the side (i.e. this blog, a social life, cooking, my cats, etc.).

When I graduated, and I’m speaking generally here, one was lucky to even find a part-time RETAIL job. I’m being serious. This isn’t a lie or exaggeration, kids. Even jobs that required no degree and minimal experience were extremely scarce and hard to come by. And finding a job in your own home town (if you came from a small, rural town)???? FORGET ABOUT IT. I started working at the Shiseido makeup counter at Macy’s, which was a 30 minute drive from my parent’s house where I lived after graduating. I got “lucky” (I use this term very loosely here… ) to have a friend who worked for Abercombie & Fitch as a manager and hooked me up with an interview there after I’d spent the summer of 2011 playing with makeup. I thought I’d scored big-time, because at least the job with Abercrombie required a 4-year degree, had benefits like a 401K and insurance, and paid time off. Little did I know, I was in for a real ride….

One day, when life affords me the luxury of no longer having to work a 9-5 day job, you can read all about my days with Abercrombie/Hollister on my old blog, which is currently incognito on the inter-webs. I had to make the blog private for the purposes of my current, corporate job…. since I didn’t hold back in terms what I wrote about or discussed online back then. I could write a book about my time with A&F/HCo., and one day I truly hope to do so…

Enough about that though. I eventually saved up a decent chunk of money and moved to NYC with no job lined up in the fall of 2012. This is where the struggle truly began, and how I learned to thrive (or just barley scrape by, rather) in the midst of the economy’s worst recession since the Great Depression of the 1920’s.

It took me three whole months to find a “job,” and then, the job I had was working only part-time at a night club/concert venue as a cocktail waitress and weekend hostess. I never knew if I’d be working 5 seated-shows a week (the most lucrative type since people would order food and drinks), or only 2 standing-room-only shows with an audience of underage kids (the least lucrative shows… obviously). My paychecks ranged from $120 on a terrible week (i.e. 4 dark days and 2 nights of hostessing) to $480 on a decent week, working 4-5 seated shows. Of course there were take-home cash tips, but those were usually spent going out for after-work drinks at the Irish dive bars on 14th street with my fellow co-workers, where we would commiserate over how little we’d made that night, how awful the crowd was, and how depressed and poor we were working at this shitty venue when the lot of us aspired to so much more in life (i.e. artistic endeavors, full-time employment… sugar daddies…).

My rent was only $650 when I first moved to NYC (don’t ask… I literally had the most baller apartment for what is the BEST DEAL ever heard of). My rent quickly increased to $800 after a couple of months, and then to $1,000 after a year. My fickle work as a server wasn’t allowing me to even make rent, so I swallowed my pride and went back to HCo. on fifth ave, working as a manager, where at least I had a consistent paycheck and health insurance.

Between 2012 and 2016 when I finally landed a decent job, were the toughest four years of my life, financially speaking. This is when I really honed in on my skills as a chef, learning how to survive on one bag of frozen peas a week and a handful of uncooked rice. I learned how to scrape together just enough money to pay rent doing whatever it took – whether it meant counting spare change, taking on babysitting jobs in the morning before working closing shifts at Hollister, or forgoing what most people consider household essentials, like coffee creamer, paper towels, and well…. food in general.

Given the current state of the economy, and the fact that things have been slow as hell for me at work in the last month or so, I’m growing nervous that it’s true that another recession is on the way. This time, I’ll be prepared though…. bring it on baby. Nothing can hurt me now. You know what actually makes me feel even more carefree these days? The fact that we’re probably all going to die in a nuclear war or from complete global destruction due to climate change before I ever even begin to pay back my student debt….

MY TIPS FOR SURVIVING A RECESSION

There is no such thing as job security. Never get too comfortable – it can be taken away from you at any time through no fault of your own. Never take your job for granted either, even though you hate it (we all do). You need money to pay rent and bills and to purchase enough food to survive and/or enough alcohol and drugs to make you occasionally forget how fucking shitty and pointless your life is. No job is permanent and any job can be taken away in the blink of an eye (usually when you least expect it to). You could be laid off if the economy tanks and your company can no longer afford your position. This happened in the last recession… workers who’d been with the same company for 25 years and were only 3 years away from retiring lost their jobs and their 401Ks. Pretty shitty, right? This is why I wake up each day with the fear of God in my heart. It’s better to be scared about losing your job then it is to be too confident that it can’t happen to you. It can happen to you, and living life with anxiety over job security simply prepares you for the worst. It happened to me once and it wasn’t even the recession. The start up company I worked for in 2016 tanked after five months and couldn’t afford to pay me. No notice… no nothing.
Girl, you better WORK. One does what one must to make rent and put food on the table. Even if this means selling yourself short of your credentials/qualifications/education/desired salary, or, in some cases, literally selling yourself (I’ve never done it, but I know girls who basically have sex with someone they’re not really into, in return for having their rent paid or fancy dinners here and there or like, a Mysterland ticket and nice hotel). I’m not saying this is noble or respectable, but sometimes desperate means call for desperate measures. If you’re young and attractive and don’t have a family to hurt, stripping is always an option too. In a major city it will definitely be much more lucrative than elsewhere, and people less likely to find out if you’re trying to keep it on the down-low. If you’re attractive and young, in fact, I highly suggest capitalizing on it while it lasts – because it doesn’t last forever. You might as well make a decent living off of what your mama (or your plastic surgeon) gave you. There are always ads out for bottle servers, hostesses, bartenders, etc., and in this city at the right venue, you could make a SHIT TON of money doing any of those service jobs. You don’t really need experience if you’re young and hot and/or know the right person. It’s also good to be flexible in tough economic times, and willing to do shitty work. I mean, if your standards are too high and the economy crashes, you’re not really going to survive if you’re not willing to do some less-than-savory jobs to make ends meet. For example, I cleaned houses and a church on a weekly basis at one point in college, because it was impossible to even find a part-time retail job. I’m not making this up. In 2008-2009, I cleaned a church rectory on a weekly basis, and then a few older ladies at church inquired about me cleaning their personal residences, and I did. It honestly wasn’t a bad job – kind of gross to clean someone else’s toilet and bathtub, but the money was decent and not taxed, and old people are generally very sweet and lovely to talk to. I would do it again. Hell, I would probably do it now, if someone asked me if I had availability to do so. Could always use some extra spending money…
Learning to live on a bare-bones diet. Have you ever cried because you’re so hungry and all you have in your house is some white rice and mustard? I have. Have you ever had to choose between buying paper towels to clean your counter tops, or some coffee creamer so you didn’t have to keep drinking your coffee black? I have. It’s all about priorities – and sometimes we think that we can forgo food, or at least eat minimally to save money, especially when we also prioritize thinness. Well, when your parents already put some extra money in your bank account but you used it to pay rent and then foolishly bought a couple of $5 vodka sodas at McKenna’s (because you don’t know how to tell your friends that you’re broke), and now you don’t even have $6 to buy a box of pasta and some Prego at the local grocery store, shit really hits home. You’re going to have to learn how to get creative with some frozen white bread and a couple of teaspoons of Parmesan or how to make a meal out of lentils, curry powder, and some frozen corn last you three days. On the plus side, you won’t have to worry about the next time that you can afford to get drunk and order a pizza at 2am, since you’ll likely be malnourished as fuck.
Interviewing: It’s not you, it’s THEM. Just because there isn’t a real availability of viable, living-wage paying jobs, doesn’t mean there won’t be hundreds of listed positions and interviews which you’ll desperately go, on trying to make something work. You’ll probably apply for jobs you have no interest in whatsoever, just because you need a paycheck: part-time retail positions at a shoe store that sells ugly clogs, a dog-walking position, a nannying position, even though you hate kids…. the list goes on. If you’re like I was (and still am), you’ll apply for and go on hundreds of interviews and you won’t get offered any of the positions, even though you are mostly likely A) qualified, B) experienced, or C) could easily do whatever is asked of you. I started to think it was me and beat myself up. I decided I wasn’t getting hired because I was too old, too ugly, too short, too fat, too nice, etc., etc.. I honestly probably wasn’t getting hired, because they were saving the position for the assistant manager’s brother-in-law who just graduated and wanted the job. Jobs go to those with the personal/family connections when there aren’t many jobs to be had. Don’t take it too personally or it will really wear away at your self-confidence.

Korn and Corn

I love rock concerts – they’re the perfect excuse to dress the way I wish I could dress all day, every day… what can I say? Old habits die hard.

Once again, I haven’t written in a while because I’ve been too caught-up in the daily grind of working to pay bills and maintaining my apartment and cats. I try to go out and party when I have an opportunity to do so, taking advantage of the fact that it’s summer, but then I feel guilty when I spend precious hours of free time recovering from a night out on the town or I end up spending a Saturday doing a weeks-work of cleaning and errands. The life of a working woman is not all it’s cracked up to be, friends.

I was in the midst of writing another installment of Indigo Wren, but I kept getting writer’s block, so I decided to throw in the towel for now.

I haven’t taken any vacation time this summer (not long weekends, not a trip to the beach, neinte, nada, NOTHING!), and therefore I am more excited than any person my age should be to have two days off of work mid-week so I can go to a Korn/Alice in Chains concert in Jones Beach… WTF. That’s what my vacation is this year… a rock concert. SAD.

Is that sad?! I think it might be, but I don’t care. The only other thing I have lined up to look forward to is a week in Maine – the last week of August. I cannot wait to spend a week on the coast, sea kayaking, biking, and drinking cocktails and eating seafood. Based on how fast the rest of this year, and especially this summer, has flown by so far, I know it will be here in the blink of an eye. Even more thrilling than being “on vacation” though, is honestly just being off of work for a whole week. Hell, I’d even take a stay-cation at this point, just to spend time away from work and out of the office. Brutal. Also, getting out of this putrid, summer-stench, dirty, ugly city will also be amazing. The entire city currently smells like expired yogurt, dehydrated, homeless person piss, dog diarrhea and rotting fruit. Fucking foul. I almost threw up one day walking up the subway stairs because I was mildly hungover and a dog (or human… who knows in this neighborhood) had diarrhe-ed ALL OVER the subway stairs.

Sorry… I know that’s gross, but alas, that’s the reality of life in this shitty city. I am SO looking forward to sleeping-in this weekend. I never thought I’d consider sleeping until 8:30am “sleeping in.” LOL. Who have I become?! Sometimes I don’t know or like this person. Then again, sometimes I DO like this person, because at least she is less prone to blacking out and losing her debit card or starting fights.

Sloppy presentation, delicious food… I made lentil “meatballs” Swedish style!

58640076850__7D34DB42-8C51-4B26-9B15-5A1AAEBE923D — Lentil Swedish “meat” balls

So, every time I made my lentil balls, I usually make them in tomato sauce, like I would traditional, Italian meatballs. I had a brilliant idea a few nights ago, to switch it up and prepare them like Swedish meatballs. I went out and bought all of the accoutrements of a typical Scandinavian meal – potatoes, beets, dill, creme fraiche, etc.. When I got home, I had to run the dishwasher because literally every piece of silverware was dirty and every single plate too. I never realized how fucking long the dishwasher takes to do it’s thing! I boiled the lentils, and then thought I could do more prep work and peel the beets, etc., until I realized even my veggie peeler and my cutting board were in the dishwasher. I tried to wait it out, but I was starving to death, especially after a glass of wine, and ended up ordering Thai food. I’ve realized I don’t like Thai food as much as I used to…. the red curry was too coconut milk-y and made me feel hella sick.

I also made some crab cakes this week, which are always a hit in this house, since my boyfriend, myself, and the cats love crab meat. Anything for my cats….

C0FF1E1A-EED5-4F22-8407-9EF5F74D8147 — (^^^ Alexa kept playing emo songs when I was cooking). The secret to moist and delectable crab cakes, is adding a couple of tablespoons of mayo to the mix.

The real showstopper this week though, or technically last weekend now, was the sweet corn risotto and sea scallop situation I made:

IMG_0946 (1)

I made the risotto first (you can modify this recipe by using chicken stock in place of seafood stock, and obviously subbing in sweet corn kernels in place of the shrimp). Yeah… I’m too damn tired to write out a recipe tonight.

I walked 3 miles to Whole Foods and back again in the 93 degree heat to get sea scallops. Despite the fact that there are a couple of closer fish stores, Whole Foods still has the best seafood in the area. I pan seared the scallops in butter (recipe for scallops can be found HERE).

There was a ton of risotto left-over since the scallops were the main feature of this meal. I love to cook enough food that I have leftovers for a couple of days…. even though cooking brings me a lot of joy and it’s something I enjoy doing every day, it’s comforting to know there is prepared food in the fridge in case I get stuck working late.

What else have I been up to lately? Not much…. klutz-ing around as usual. I decided to do a fake tan (St. Tropez), as I was sick of seeing how lovely everyone else looked all bronzed and golden and sunkissed. Needless to say, the same thing that happens every time I fake tan happened again – I looked like I was radioactive and/or sprayed with agent orange. I don’t know why I always convince myself that maybe ‘this time will be different than the last’ when I decide I don’t want to be pale anymore.

Agent orange color – bruises from dancing on tiled flooring.

58561958884__36921EC5-2BC7-4FDB-9EC4-382C76AD6365 — Allergic reaction to some mosquito bites I got at Knockdown Center basement…. looks like cigarette burns

IMG_0949 (1) — And finally, back to my natural skin color, after the tan wore off… but the two week old bruises still persist.

I live such a charmed life.

Tuna and me, sporting devil horns… just two peas in a pod!

B87E4F98-4AA3-4D21-ACBB-DA24AB3F65EA — When your kitten has been watching Fox News again

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….