Day Thirty-Seven.

After losing Aaron 4 I’ve had a bit of a hard time finding my own personal dealer of drugs. And after losing Phil I’ve kinda felt less comfortable about chugging robitussen. Can’t really trust that Klaxxon-Smith shit anymore, you know? And all the medical marijuana clinics have been moved out of Lake Forest and Laguna, so I’ve been kinda screwed there.

Leo stopped by my desk today, however, and left me a note. It said “Mr. Nice Guy” and had a phone number listed. “Gimme a call,” he said, “you know, if you’re either into that shit.”

Either he’s trying to sell me pot or it’s gay blowjobs.

Guess I’ll find out tonight.


Aaron4 hasn’t returned my calls in three days. I’ve drank all the beer and smoked most of the weed. Chaz let me nig a few bowls but now he’s running low, too. We don’t know what to do. I mean, if Aaron4 was going on vacation he’d tell me, right? And you’d think he would text or email me his new number if that changed. Do drug dealers even have business email? I’ve never seen one, come to think of it.

Groupon for weed would be great, too. I’d murder a person to see groupon for pot— Groupot, if you will. Hell, I’d murder somebody to see groupons for murdering somebody who could make groupons for weed a thing. Maybe there’s a kickstarter just for me out there.

And now all I want to do is talk to Katy. I’m getting worried about her and the things she could be doing with that rockin’ body of hers.

She was already signed on Skype when I finally got my laptop set up. Her most recent status update on Facebook was, by the way, “tired of all the mexican food in Argentina”. Katy worries me sometimes.

We were having some incredible sex in her car once and she whispered into my ear, “I want you to cum inside me” and I was like

“Sweety, I’m wearing a condom. Do you want me to, uh, cum through it or…” And taking off the condom was going to be so unsexy in the back seat of a dark car that it would have involved me being in the unsexy position of having to pull the condom off of my uncircumsized penis as if it were some kind of diseased leach and then disposing of it and then getting back into the moment where she’s interested in me coming inside of her.

Katy started today’s Skype session in a familiar way: I couldn’t see a goddamn fucking goddamn thing.

“Take the sheet of paper away from the camera and just tell me what it says,” I said. Katy’s visage flooded my bandwidth.

“It’s a wedding invite,” she beamed.

“Who’s getting married?” I asked.

“Sure you want to know?”

“Sure you want to hear about my Saturday?”


“Nothing— just tell me.”

“It’s your ex,” she said, “Your ex-girlfriend Samantha.” This was indeed news. Sam was my ex-girlfriend, sure, but she was also— or is also— friends with Katy. They have nicknames for eachother. Even Katy and I don’t have those for each other. This was serious.

“I’m so happy for her,” I lied. What a slut. How dare she find true love before me? “Who, I said, “Who is the lucky guy?”

“Some guy named Sam. I think he was her rebound from you.”

Seriously? Who rebounds to marriage? And she’s been dating her rebound for five years? And her rebound has the same name as her? Come on. That’s not fair at all.

“Good for her,” I said. So happy for her. Just tickled. Glad somebody finally wanted to lock it down with Milk-Breath. She, by the way, had milk-breath. That’s why I we broke up. I mean, that’s why I broke up with her.

Update: In a fit of relative sobriety I let Katy know I’m moving to Truckee.

“I’m moving to Truckee, I think,” I said. I knew but let her think I was only thinking of it.

“What’s a truckee?” she said.

“Cold place in Northern California.”


“My parents called me today,” I lied, “and offered to send me to college up there.”

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah, I really wanna do this,” I lied again.

“Good for you,” she said, starting to balloon up like her old self.

“We’ll find a way to work this out,” I continued to lie.

“Sure we will. This will just turn out to be another adventure.”

“Yes, an adventure where I go somewhere and you stay in the same place doing the same things every single day.”


“Day in, day out.”

“No, I didn’t hear you.”


And that was that.

Day Twenty-Four

Letting Katy know about my offer was a tepid experience. Here, I saw it as so:

1) Let Katy know

2) Tell my roommate I’m not going to be around to pay the rent much longer

3) Hide it from my bosses and co-workers until my “last” paycheck

4) Call Aaron 4, my fourth and current drug dealer named Aaron.

The first thing on that list was to call my drug dealer, Aaron, so I did that first. Aaron’s a different kind of drug dealer— he asks you to call him an

Aaron’s a stupid piece of shit. I can’t stand Aaron’s shit, no siree.

Aaron’s my drug dealer. He’s a lingerer too. He comes by maybe twice, five times a week and he stays for nearly an hour each time. I can’t believe it.

“Aaron,” he says, when he picks up the phone. Yeah, I know that’s your name.

“Hey man,” I say, putting on my best stony voice, “Can you uh, help me out with 20 pages of homework?”.

“Sure man, no worries,” he says.

And then there’s an awkward pause. What am I supposed to say? Should I tell him to hurry up? Do I tell him I’m leaving in an hour, so hurry up? And this boner-salad on the other line leaves the conversation open with something like “Sure man, no worries”. Of course there are no worries— I’ve got nothing to worry about. That’s why I’m going to buy pot from you. And you don’t walk around with a gun on you, skin-and-bones, so I know you’re just a pussy.

I mean, while I’ve got you here in this awkward pause, remember a very short while back I asked Aaron for help with 20 pages of homework? God damn please don’t be stupid: I wasn’t asking for help with homework, I’m sure you picked up on that; Aaron would be the worst kind of help for homework. Aaron’s a Class-A Day Tripper harboring paranoid delusions involving cops coming around every corner with uzis. Oh, and that’s straight from the horse’s mouth. Because he’s worried the government will link our next pot deal to 9/11 or something, he makes his clientele ask for help on homework or assistance with blowjobbing. So, “Aaron,” you’ll say, “20 pages of homework. I need you A-SAP. Also can you break a 50?” basically means, “I would like 20 dollars’-worth of marijuana. Also, I’m writing you a check.”

And the awkward pause is over, and it looks like I come up to bat with something stupid to say. “Take your time man, I’m doing nothing all day.”

Might as well have written him an invitation to prop his feet up on my ottoman and pet Bruce for an hour-and-a-half.

Bruce is one of the cats.

Why not; it’s my story.

Was that proper use of a semicolon? I wasn’t too sure because the “why not” part deserves a question mark— but then again it doesn’t because the part of the sentence that’s before the semicolon needs to be justifiably related to the part after the semicolon.; both sections unite and become one Super-Sentence capable of describing how to use a semicolon while somehow still miraculously failing to use it correctly.

“Charlie Brown,” God booms from the clouds, “Now it seems it is YOU who is the boner salad.”

Thanks, Imagination-God.

Aaron takes his time, man, because I’m doing nothing all day. He gets to my house 45 minutes after I asked him for help with my homework, which I might have actually needed help with 13,140 hours ago.

This scraggly motherfucker knocks on my door all discreet and all, like he’s going to pull a fast one and not get busted by a cop with a rocket launcher. I go to the door and let him in, making sure not to open the door too much so as not to let Bruce out.

“Hey man,” he says, going for the fist bump. Man, this guy is thin. Aaron’s got a white-power buzz-cut and is always sporting some aviators. And he is thin—good lord. He’s always wearing childrens’ sized clothing that still manages to look baggy on him.

Of course I fist bump back; I want my weed.

“What’s up man, how’s it going?” I feign interest.

“Nothing much man, got some Super Silver Haze for you,” he grins back, looking around my apartment like you’d expect a paranoid drug-dealer to. Except he’s not looking for cops; he knows the place is safe.

“Yeah well, here’s the twenty,” I say, stepping in front of his general view of the apartment.

“Where’s Bruce?” he asks. Oh no. No no no no. He loves this cat. And he only met the cat yesterday, since we got the cat yesterday.

“I think he’s in Chaz’ room,” I say.

Good, I think as he leaves the living room. Now I can talk to Katy on Skype. I check my laptop— she’s not signed on. Great. Just what I needed: more paranoia.

Maybe this Alan Thickhole fellow is just a darker skinned version of me. That’s it. Maybe she hooked up with him once and she’s just not over the heavenly night he gave her. That’s the theory.

Plan 1) Create a new Facebook. Tag Katy and Alan in a picture. Have Charlie wait it out.

Or Plan 2) Get Alan’s phone number. Call him from a pay phone and pretend to be Katy or one of his friends and ask him about Katy. Ask if they’ve had sex or something.

My head is spinning. I can’t believe I’m thinking about this. But I want to know why she wanted to see him again.

3) Forget about all of this. It’s nothing. It’s just the weed talking at this point.

She’s fucking other guys. I know it. And it’s not just in Argentina: it’s here in Orange County, too. That isn’t the weed talking; That’s Charlie Brown putting the pieces together and figuring it all out for once.

And while I’ve been sitting here writing all of this…Aaron still hasn’t left Chaz’ room. He must really like our new cats. Or Chaz.

No, wait. 4) Ask Katy, simply, “Did you hook up with anybody when we broke up?” Plain and simple. Right? Honesty is the way to go at this point, God help me.

No, wait. I can tell her I had a dream about it. Have to fix this. Or forget this.

5) Create an alias and add his friends and then message him on facebook and ask him what he thinks about Katy and if he knows if she’s single or not or if she’s a good lay or something.

A. Fake profile. Add Thickhole.

B. Profile asks about Katy, “Hey man, is she single?” He responds back “why would I know that?” Respond back with the following:

“Haven’t you two, um…”

He’ll spill after that. He’ll have to. Hard to get out of that one, I think.

Why does this shit matter to me?

6) Do nothing but monitor the situation.

7). Do nothing. For real.

What if she made a mistake or she’s embarassed? And that’s why she’s hiding it? She mentioned him to be but…yeah, lied about who contacted who first. Maybe she just doesn’t want to hurt somebody like me. Or me.

Seriously, what’s taking Aaron4 so long? And Katy still hasn’t signed on. And nobody knows I’m moving but me.

I need to stop making lists. They make me seem crazy.