Ahhh...Crap.

Dear God,
This letter is to inform you of your recent breech of our contract. As a reminder, the terms of the contract were quite clear.

You requested that I, Patrick Doyle not attend church on Sunday's (thus my excommunication), sway any of your followers to leave the church with me (they can do that on their own), or wear white after Labor day (it's in the gay handbook). In return, you were to hold time indefinitely so that I would not turn 36.

I don't want to do this, but I'm not above going to your competitor for a better deal (although I'm not a big fan of pentagrams or goat's blood).

So God...I suggest you turn yourself around and pull a Cher and "Turn Back Time" and all will be forgiven. Don't make me come up there. I may be a year older now...but I can still kick your ass.

Patrick


P.S. All will be forgiven if you can provide me some "Earth Moving Birthday Booty" within the next 10 days.

A Friend in Need...

Ok...This is a drunk post. After having a very late night cocktail and waking up...Well let's just say...I'm feeling a bit over the top. Woooooooooooo----hoooooooo!!!!! I can't really guarantee my clothes are going to stay on. So somebody pass me a cup of coffee.

All my life, my grandmother has had crappy little sayings spewing out of her mouth that were supposed to inspire me. You all know the sayings I'm talking about. Those little items of wisdom that make you just want to puke.

For example...growing up, my grandmother didn't like me playing with one of the neighborhood boys (ironic as currently...she can't stand me "playing" with any boys). She felt that this particular friend was a bad influence and wanted me to keep away from him. When I would question her, she would state "Birds of a feather flock together."

Yeah...that pearl of wisdom was wasted on me as I never understood what birds had to do with hanging out with a friend. It was almost as bad as "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree" line that was used when she found out I was sexually active (my mom had to explain it).

However, last night...I realized the full potential of one of her sayings. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Last night...my friend was that friend in need. While we were out painting the town (i.e. drinking way too much in the local gay bars) I took her to one of my preferred hangouts...Therapy. The bar is a nice place that has two levels. Apparently, while I was looking at things on the second level, my friend thought it would be funny to go behind the bar of the first level. That her hand happened to stick to a bottle of vodka was just coincidence and that the said bottle made it's way into her purse was just an accident.

The next thing I knew...I was the friend in need, convincing the bar staff that she was just "that drunk", and didn't realize that the bathroom was on the other side of the bar. That her bar in her home town allows customers behind the bar and that she forgot where she was.

Yes...A friend in need...

So where is my friend today? Sleeping off what could only be described as "frat house consumption" as I am working my day job. Where's my friend indeed? Why isn't she here covering for me while I sleep an extra few hours?

Now if you excuse me...I'm going to look busy today. I feel a hangover coming on.

Relax...It's Just Sex

Something is really bothering me lately about my neighbor. He's a nice guy, generally quiet, and causes no trouble, but he still bugs me. He's having more sex than I am. This is unacceptable, and I now feel that I need to have more sex. This is a competition and I'm a very competitive person.

If this asshole is going to scream at the top of his lungs (along with his girlfriend) each and every night, I'm going to do it twice a night. Hell...I'll host an orgy if that's what it takes! Line up boys and take a number. I don't need to know your name, just how flexible you are. Take it like a man. Quantity over quality!

Or is it worth it? In my life, I've discovered their are two types of sexual interactions. The first type of sex, is that type of sex that is completely physical and chemical. The kind of sex where you are ripping of each other's clothes, and working hard at working it hard. The act itself is physically gratifying, but when it's over...It's over. You get up (or sleep and do it again in the morning), but it's casual. "Thanks man...It was great. I'll call you." The whole thing is just a step over masturbation, just with a friend (or in some cases a stranger). It's satisfying, and at times very good...and it's very easy to come by.

The second type of sex is so much more involved. It's the kind of sex where just the kiss between the two (or more...I'm not judging) of you causes such an explosion of pleasure in you. You can feel the passion building in your chest even before hands touch any more personal areas. The kind of sex where you spend just as much time memorizing the face of your partner as you do his other areas. Those types of moments where everything is seamless, and emotional, and when you finish...it actually takes you a few minutes to recover enough to form words. Satisfying...and intoxicating...and only happens with someone very special.

So I'm posting this question to you. If you could only have emotional sex once in your life. Only once, and from then on, all sex would fail to measure up to the sex of that one experience...would you want it all...knowing that every time you have sex afterwards, you would be disappointed?

Giving It to Myself

If you had scrimped and saved $1000 that you could spend on yourself for a birthday present...What would you get yourself?

This is about what I have to spend...And it's been so long since I spent money on anything...I can't figure out what to spend it on. Problem is...I just don't feel right spending money on myself. Go shopping with me and watch what I do. I'll pick something up, think it's perfect for what I need, and put it back down. I just don't spend money...Ever. Hell...I can't seem to bring myself to purchase milk in this city when it's over $4 a gallon. I've been unemployed for too long and I'm not used to spending money.

But I'm no longer unemployed and I figure, I have to get some things for myself.

Should I get a couch (as I have nothing to sit on in the apartment.)?


Should I get a bed (I sleep on an air mattress)?


Or should I pay a bill (I still owe money.)?



So what about you? What would you do with $1000?

Is This Door Warped?

Yesterday night, I got the email from one my best drinking buddy/ confidant/ currently single and bitter about it friend from college, letting me know that her cat "Freeway" had died just one month short of her 18th birthday. She was one old cat.

Freeway (AKA Free, 4-land, Freebase, Free-some, Free Bird, Free For All, and my favorite...Free Your Willy) had been taken care of by her uncle Patrick several times while her mom gallivanted across the globe. Free's mom studied abroad in Spain, and Freeway lived with me for the semester. While her mom went to the Woodstock II concert, Freeway and I bonded on the couch for 4 days.

After I met the man who was to become the "Ex" I always mention here, my good friend asked if I would be willing to take care of Freeway one more time while she and her roommate (who owned the condo) were out for the holidays. I was more than happy to agree and packed my suitcase to stay in the house where Freeway was living.

In my past experiences, most times it's better to pet sit in the pet's regular home. The animal takes it much better, and it's always nicer to not traumatize the animal. However this particular week, the cat would be just as traumatized at home.

December 1996, the Ex and I had been dating for 6 months (can you call it dating if you are spending nearly every night together?). I was working at the Hyatt hotel as a bartender for some extra cash and was scheduled to work the coveted New Year's Eve. The Ex was also working the same shift, and we were getting ready for work.

My Ex and I were still in that ultra considerate stage of the relationship. You know the part, where you go above and beyond the call of duty, trying to please the other person. Cook breakfast and serve it in bed. Flowers just because. Free massages. (Fuck...I miss that. I'm digressing.)

Out of consideration, my Ex decided to clean the cat litter box while I was taking a shower. It would have been a really sweet thing, until he called out to me from the other side of the door. "First of all...I love you. Second...I'm really sorry."

Ten words that always mean something bad has happened. My ex, in his most considerate way, decided the best way to clean the cat box, was to flush the flushable litter down the toilet. Rather than scoop the foul mess, he just poured it into the bowl and hit the flush lever. The toilet overflowed in a matter of seconds and he had a minor flood on the floor of the bathroom.

Freeway, looking at the flood had immediately shot for higher ground and was on the stairway. She wanted no part of the water, so we moved her cat box to the dining room. I figured no other harm was done and we cleaned the mess. Since we couldn't find a plunger, we left the clog until we were able to go to a hardware store the next day.

The Ex and I left for. The next morning, I discovered something about the condo. The downstairs toilet randomly runs. The downstairs toilet had been running all night. By the time the Ex and I had arrived with a plunger, the entire first floor had about an inch of water covering it. Freeway, was now staying at the top of the stairs, with a look on her face that said "bring my food and litter box directly to me". It took the Ex and I nearly 12 hours to extract the water from the carpets and upholstered furniture. The cat, refused to come downstairs, and my Ex was forbidden to ever clean the cat box without supervision again.

I painfully told the story to my friend the cat's owner, and neither of us dared tell the condo owner of the events. Who wants to know that your couch soaked up a mess of toilet water? My friend even kept her mouth shut when her roommate asked if the closet door seemed warped.

The cat however, never forgot. In the remaining year that she lived there...She never stepped foot on the first floor again. The condo owner remarked that she couldn't figure out why she was so shy. The cat just wasn't taking any chances of another flood.

Goodnight Freeway.
The rest is silence.

That Wasn't Me

In college, when I first started performing comedy, my mentor pulled me aside and told me to always play my strengths. Find what it is that makes you funny, and use it to your advantage. And like most comedians, once you get it, you don't change.

During my first semester of theater school, I discovered that I had a knack for making sexual situations funny. It was sophomoric, but it was the start of the my comedy persona (or as I will refer to it..."the immaculate connection!"). Ironically by playing the big gay slut on stage, I got the laughs, and the reputation. Suddenly I'm the new McDonald's. Over 1 billion served. Line em up boys...this ATM takes deposits.

But really...I'm a good girl. Pure and untouched as the freshly fallen snow. Yeah, I may have a few teeny, tiny tire tracks. Hell, some people would say I've got more that a few tracks, but I'm not the winter Olympics. I'm single and turning 36. People should expect that I've had sex with a few people by now. Apparently, my comedy persona does a few people nightly.

It was at MAK's 30th birthday party that I discovered just how small New York is, as I learned my reputation had moved here before I did (and probably got a better apartment). Within seconds of meeting someone, he asked if I was the guy who was making out with someone at a local bar.

Now, I'll admit it. I've done that way too often. I've made out with some of my best friends. But I'm not about to admit this to a person I am meeting in person. Instead I answered the appropriate answer of: "That wasn't me." I realize now I need to do a little rumor control.

• You may hear that I was asked at the party if I was wearing makeup. You may also hear that I answered "no...but if you want, I'll give you a facial".
  
  That wasn't me.
  
  
• Any situations involving blowjobs in the bathroom while party guests were talking in the bedroom...
  
  That wasn't me.
  
  
• The story of one guy reminding the other that they had made out at a bar a few months ago...
  
  That wasn't me.
  
  
• You may hear I left the party with another party attendee at 12:30, but left the building stairwell at 1:30.
  
  That wasn't me.
  
  
• Anything you hear about my getting 4 different numbers in one night...
  
  That wasn't me.
  

I hope this clears things up.

Checking Your Mate

"Where do you see yourself in three years?"

A gentleman who works for the NY Times asked me that question the other day. It stunned me, as I didn't have an answer. I debated about answering jokingly with:

"Turning 39, bald, bitter, and alone because I had wasted my time on narcissistic losers who treated dogs on the street better than me." Uhhh...maybe that isn't so funny after all, or just a little too close to the truth.

35 was the year of changing my life completely. In what can only be described as my kicking and screaming through the whole process, I made it thorough only slightly bloodied and emotionally scarred. Everything is supposed to be perfect now. But it isn't.

When I first got out of college, I fell into a career in financial aid administration as it was what I had been doing to support myself. I was going to be a director, and I was very quickly on the fast track to do so. The comedy was never looked at as a career for me as much as a creative outlet. Life got me down...make fun of myself on stage and get paid for it. I enjoy comedy work, but I enjoy a steady paycheck more. In the end, comedy actually worked better for me. And I've never regretted quiting my financial aid career.

Yesterday, I received a "kiss off" letter. I've only told a few people this, but in November I had been contacted by a television network about doing some comedy work. The producer had read some of this site (I really need to edit things) and asked that I come in to read some of the posts for the camera. Since then, I made it through three auditions, and got a rejection letter yesterday. Ahh...well. Fuck it. Right?

Still, back to the question...."Where do I see myself in three years?" I've got no clue. Career wise, I need to start planning. If I've learned anything in the last year, I know I need to define a goal to put myself on the track to getting to that point. The minute I rest...that's when the layoffs happen. The career world is like a big chess game and over the last five years I've been playing Pixy Stix. So I've got to plan my moves better.

Until then, how about you?

Where do you see yourself in three years?

The Day the Earth Stood Still

On November 22, 1963, my grandmother was dusting the living room in the house when the telephone rang. It was her friend calling to tell her to listen to the news. It was while wearing her cleaning "house dress" and with her furniture polish that she found out that Kennedy had been assassinated.

April 10th, 1970, my mother was already back in high school after having given birth to me (much to my grandmother's disappointment). While ironically in her history class, she heard that the Beatles had officially broken up. My mother honored them later by getting "stoned" (there is a joke in there somewhere).

November 18th, 1978. While sitting in the living room of my father's house, playing with my Matchbox cars (the grey one that moved fast), I looked at the television which had the news on. They were playing news footage telling how Jim Jones had ordered his followers to drink cyanide laced grape koolaid. The death count was more than 900 people.

Growing up, my family would remind me of newsworthy moments in time that were so significant, they can still remember exactly what they were doing when they heard the news.

February 15th, 2006, 7:53 pm. I was sitting at the Townhouse bar, talking to Charlie, the blogstalking bartender, when Famous Author Rob Byrnes uttered these words.

"I've had enough to drink".

Quick...what are you doing right now? You're going to remember it for a lifetime.

Hurting Until It Throbs

As I was beginning to type my Monday night fear factor moment, I picked up a pretzel stick and bit into it. It felt like I bit into a bunch of rocks. Now that I'm in agony, I've made an emergency dentist appointment.

I live in mortal fear of the dentist. Luckily, this guy uses gas. Somebody kill me now.

Boo-ty Call

If you are looking for a SAINT Valentine's day post, you won't find one here. However, if you are in a relationship and happy....this is one for you.

Boo! I'm not usually one to get scared easy. I get scared by things like broken condoms, leaving your watch on a trick's nightstand, or running into an ex. Things that go bump in the night (like sex partners) usually intrigue me, and I like to hear about the unexplainable. Probably why I wasn't freaked out when I saw the ghost in the house on the Cape (aka...The Cape of MA).

That being said, there are moments when fear can take hold of me. When I was a small child, my father invited my classmate Michelle, and her family, to come over to our house. We rarely had company in my father's house, so I was more than elated to have a visitor. I believe he was helping her mother in her political endeavors (while I go to hang with her daughter). Michele and I were both 8ish, and to entertain ourselves, we started telling ghost stories in my room upstairs. Sitting in the dark, we tried to come up with more ghoulish stories to "out scare" the other. Had my mother been there, she'd have joined in.

Now as a child, the only thing that really scared me was vampires. I started reading Dracula when I was 8, and ended up sleeping with a rosary around my neck for about 3 months. Seriously...the blood suckers scared the shit out of me. So you can only imagine my horror as my fellow story teller started telling a story of a vampire.

Within minutes, I could feel the hissing undead breath of new vampire on the back hairs of my neck. Goosebumps broke out all over my body as the cold damp earth stench of his hands, from his clawing out of his grave, penetrated my nostrils. This thing was thirsty for 8 year old boy blood. He was the Stranger (always with a capital S) that all our parents warned us about, and he was in my room right then. That was when the flashlight went out. I should say...that's when Michelle turned the flashlight off. In a panic, I demanded she turn the light back on! She didn't answer. And that was when I felt the cold dead hands of the vampire touch my neck.

Now in theater school, I took a class by a professor that intentionally would make you mad, to get better emotion from you. One time he made me so upset, I let loose with a sound that would seriously have been declared inhuman. That was the sound I made as a child when the hands of the vampire touched my neck.

In actuality, it was Michele (who later had to get a DNA test to find the father of her child...just saying) putting her hands on my neck to scare me. I screamed. I screamed like Charles Manson had just broken into my window and I was bolting for my bedroom door in the dark. Good thing I knew my room well and didn't need the light to find the doorknob. Otherwise, I would have died of a heart attack in that room. In my mind, Michelle was dead, and every man was for himself at this point.

I flung the door open, bolted out the bedroom door, and took the five steps to the stairway to go down the stairs. In normal circumstances, it would only be five steps to reach the top of the stairs. That particular night, I had left my shoes in the hallway. I tripped over my shoes, and went sprawling head first into the open stairway (still screaming).

For a moment, I believed I had learned how to fly, but then gravity took over, and I hit the stairway. Down I tumbled, breaking a few stairway posts on the way and what felt like my arm in the process. I came to a rest at the bottom of the stairs, and looked at my grandmother who was already running to my side. Yeah...this would be fun to explain in the emergency room. Dead girl with no blood left in my bedroom, a family who had invited her in (so she'll be back at the next sundown), and me with a injured arm and no crucifix!

Michelle's mother ran upstairs to see if Michelle was ok, however Michelle had smartly ran to the bathroom and acted like she had been in there the whole time. She could lie with the best of them, and had it not been for my wailing hysterically, she would have gotten away with it. Needless to say...I would need revenge on her later.

My arm, although severely bruised, was not broken, but that was all for playtime that night.

It was also the most scared I had ever been.

Until last night...(I'll continue this later)

Faster than a Speeding Bullet

I'd like to go on the record as saying:
Guns don't kill people. Idiots do.

He must have been hunting snipe.

Mirror

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

In 18 days I turn 36. I'd say 36 years old...but that doesn't sound like a positive thing. 36 years young? That sounds like I'm trying to avoid the inevitable.

Somehow over the past six months, I've begun to notice my age. Glimpses in the mirror (where did those wrinkles come from?), comments from others (the fucker who asked if I was 42...who will die a horrible death) and maybe because the last 4 guys who have asked me out have been approaching their 60th birthdays.

On a recent television commercial, a woman is lying about her age and fools everyone into believing she is 28 when she is actually 36. When did 36 become old and how the hell did I become an adult? A few weeks ago, I was sitting in a bar having a drink with a graduate theater student (yeah...we have a few of those in this town) who was discussing about her life antics. I listened politely, but really felt so disconnected from it all. The difference emotionally between 20's and 30's is a lot more than I thought when I was her age. Retirement, security at older ages, not wanting to ever own a futon again...those are things I think about. She is still trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life (uhhh...so we have one thing in common).

A thing I hate about gay culture is just how youth focused it is. 35 is a strange cut-off to old age. Over 35, and you are supposed to disappear. Single and over 35...why bother anymore. Might as well just cut it off as you aren't getting laid anymore.

Who the fuck determines what beauty is? If it's the magazines, why the hell are people my age and older even supporting that trash in the first place? Beauty comes in all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors. Look young today? Hold onto it, because in 5 years you aren't going to look like that anymore.

In the meantime...I'm going to buy some anti-wrinkle cream.

Somebody Pardon Me?

When going to school where my father lived, I was required to go to a private Catholic school. The Catholics believe that if you sin, don't confess, and die, you will go to hell. I learned very quickly that "hell" lay within the brick walls of Sacred Heart Elementary School. It wasn't the teachers who made it bad...it was the students.

The school is in a very wealthy neighborhood, and the students I went to school with were very aware of it. I was raised by a starving artist mom and a sadistic father, so you can guess where I fit into the pecking order. The unwritten rules of pecking said the kid with epilepsy, and the "little bus" kids were just below me.

But even below us, were the new kids. A teacher of ours stopped our class one day to ask why we felt the need to tease the new kids mercilessly. One of his new students had asked her parents to take her out of the school and send her elsewhere. She couldn't take it anymore and the staff was getting questioned as to our behavior.

As I look back at it now, school is a lot like prison. The administrators and staff know some of the things that go on, but really have no clue how bad it really was. While in gym class, your regular clothes in your locker would mysteriously be ripped apart. Your books and personal belongings would wind up in a toilet. And the code of conduct demands one thing...never tell. Tattletales are the lowest on the pecking order and have no friends ever.

I've been thinking of this since Tunagirl's kids are getting teased in school. Sure, mom's just found out, but how long has it really been going on? And how do you tell a 6 year old that if she can just stick out her prison sentence, it will get so much better when she gets older. Add to it, I wonder how much this bullying actually harms the learning environment. Isn't it part of life's education to learn how to deal with bullies?

Hypothetical Question

Have you ever gone out, had one too many drinks, taken someone home, had sex, fallen asleep and woken up next to his business card?

Me neither.

Pencil sharpener

The Back Story:

In 2001, after getting the approval from my doctors, I joined a gym. I never had had a serious problem with my weight before, but after recovering from having cancer, I put on weight. A serious amount of it. I packed 230 lbs on my 5'6" frame.

Hey, don't blame me! My doctors asked me to put on weight and steroids cause weight gain. Of course...eating ice cream, cookies, any high fat foods, and 3000 calories a day doesn't help. Remember the girl that turned into a blueberry in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"? Paint me blue and that was what I looked like. A lot in the middle and a whole lot of back. Cushion for the pushin. I ended up being really unhappy with how I looked (especially when a guy told me "I just love a big ass").

The last straw.

People who know me can attest to one thing about me. Once I get a goal in my mind, nothing will stop me from getting it. Nothing. I will either die trying, or I'll get what I want. Granted, I may be "goal lite" when I'm deciding on my next goal, but once I have one, I am determined.

My goal when I joined the gym was to get back into the shape I was before I had gotten sick. Five months after I started, I was working out 3 to 4 hours a day. Maybe it was a little obsessive working out so many hours, but I lost 85 lbs. in 8 months and was running a six minute mile. I respond well to cardio.

After what can only be described as a serious battle with depression followed by money problems, I had to quit the gym. I was able to keep my weight down, but after a nearly 2 years of not working out, I had lost my cardio stamina. I can still run, but not nearly as fast or as long.

******

A week ago, I joined the gym. Although I actually enjoy going to the gym, there were a few annoyances I had forgotten about the place.

First and foremost...the buff girl/guy syndrome. This is where you end up working out next to someone significantly hotter and fitter than you. You could be in a long line of treadmills, with nobody on any of them. You will be in your first mile on your workout when some pretty little 20 something freak of nature with about a cup of body fat on his body takes the treadmill next to yours. Now he could have taken any of the 30 treadmills, but he takes the one exactly next to yours so he can feel superior as he runs five miles in the time it takes you to complete 3. This is the same guy who has to lift exactly 10 lbs more than you on every machine. I always want to smack the smug smile off of that asshole.

Another thing I find really annoying at the gym is "Sweaty Guy". You all know him. This is the guy who sweats so much that not only is his treadmill soaked, but the treadmills on both sides of him are just as sweaty. This is the guy who unfortunately will end up next to you. The worst part, he never cleans off the equipment when he is done. You sit on a machine after he gets up and nearly slide off as the seat is so wet, it's a mini waterslide. One pool I don't want to splash in.

But the one thing that aggravates me the most at the gym is something that only men can relate to. The guy in the picture is the guy I want to see in the locker room.
In reality, this picture is the guy I actually see in the locker room. I call them the shower trolls. All men know them. These are the guys that have memberships to the gym, yet have never worked out since the day they joined. They take a four hour shower, only to stop to spend 20 minutes in the steam room. If it wasn't for their increasing heart rates and the risk of heart attack, they would never leave the steam room.

The other day, after working out, I went into the steam room. Now I usually spend 5 to 10 minutes in there, leave, shower and go home. This is my usual routine. Now I'd be a liar to say I have never hooked up with someone from the steam room, but it's a very rare thing for me to do. I'm usually too tired after running. And never in the steam room.

So in the steamroom on Sunday, I am sitting on the ceramic tile bench when the guy on the bench to my left makes a production of removing his towel. He drapes it across the bench and "stretches" his chest out, before laying down on his back. He takes his left hand and scratches his oversized belly before grabbing his "unit" and smacking it against his stomach a few times.

I sat there with my mouth a little aghast, but said nothing.

Thinking I was interested, he took it a little further. Pretending to stretch, he picked up his legs over his head and braced his heels on the wall over his head. I looked over at his sorry naked self and thought to myself..."as if!" But I'm not one to keep silent when I see something like that. Now I could have been really mean and said "I'm surprised you could even touch your toes." Instead I decided on something more subtle.

"I love your impression of a pencil sharpener".

Memed

Something Fishy happened over the weekend and suddenly I've been tagged! So fine...here you go woman. I hope your children embarrass you in public.

Four jobs I've had:
1. Office Temp
2. Waiter
3. Financial Aid Administrator
4. Phone Sex Operator

Four places I've lived:
1. The Cape of MA (Yes...I lived there...go ahead and challenge me on it.)
2. Denver, CO
3. Cleveland, OH
4. New York City, NY

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. The Color Purple
2. Groundhog Day
3. The Color Purple
4. Groundhog Day (get it?)

Four TV shows I like to watch:
1. Desperate Housewives (downloaded to the IPOD)
2. The Amazing Race (NOT THE FAMILY EDITION!)
3. I can't remember the last time I watched a television show on the air.
4.

Four sites I visit daily:
Craigslist
Google
The New York Times
MSN


Four places I'd rather be:
On Top
On Brad Pitt
In a Porno
Back in bed (see above)

I don't really hate anyone enough to tag them with this, although if you are turning 30 this month and complain that you are getting old, I will kick your sorry ass back to Ohio.

The Ghosts of the Past

Imagine if you were to disappear from the world today, what you would leave behind. Think of your home. If a stranger or even a friend walked into your home to find any evidence of where you are, what are they going to see? Dirty dishes in the sink? What food in your fridge? Pictures of you and others? The box of "special" movies hidden in the closet?

This was what I went through a few days ago. In October, I came to NYC for what I thought was a job interview. I only found out after I got to the city that I was starting work that day. Since then, I've worked every day except Thanksgiving, and Christmas Day. A friend was nice enough to mail me a box full of my clothes, so I would have something to wear. Otherwise, I've not had the chance to go back to the cape and get my belongings, nor have I had time to think of exactly what I had up there.

Walking into that house was like walking into the house of someone who had suddenly died (ironic as well since the prior resident had died in an accident). That it was "me" that died was even more strange. As I walked into the house, to my left was my old computer, still plugged in. A used coffee mug next to it from me gulping a cup right before I left. An old paystub and some receipts were on the coffee table, and the bed unmade. My clothes were in the closet (I had forgotten what clothing I even owned), and the boxes from Cleveland were sitting in the dining room collecting dust.

The look of the place was the wierdest part. Looking on the kitchen counter and seeing the appropriately wilted flowers "Dick" had bought me. Finding my old work clothes from the restaurant (in a pile of unwashed laundry). Just seeing the house as if someone had only left yesterday, but in reality has been gone 3 months. It just made me wonder what kind of story that house would tell an outsider.

It didn't feel like home anymore. Not because both the heat and hot water were both shut off, but because I hadn't seen the place in so long. The house seemed bigger, and somewhat different. I was glad to pack my things into the van and finish up. I was originally planning on going into town and seeing the area, but knowing that the majority of the businesses have been boarded up for the winter, and that only 3 restaurants are even open, I found the idea very unappealing. Going to see a ghost town is one thing. Going to see a ghost town that used to be where you lived and worked...a whole different aspect. It's a funeral I didn't want to see.

So if you were to disappear today, what would someone see in your home?