Day Forty.

For those in need of a recap: Katy is back in town tomorrow and Chaz is out of town in one month— with me following to leave for Possumcunt, Ohio two months afterward.

“I’m leaving early but the rent has been paid for the next three months,” Chaz told me. “So you basically have the place to yourself for two months after I’m gone. Consider it a parting farewell gift.”

Good. I didn’t say that part out loud but good, regardless. Chaz is a fucking tool. And he knows he’s expected to pay rent for the two months he isn’t going to be here even though he’s on the leash. Lease.

What wasn’t expected, however, was the feast Chaz had prepared for the evening.

“Dinner’s great,” I told Chaz.

Chaz has never cooked a meal like this before. And what was odd was, well, his girlfriend wasn’t here.

“It’s a shame Torrie wasn’t here for this.”

“I know what you’re saying, man.”

“This is the best Mexican Mother’s Day ever.” I took a bite of steak and savored it, as one should always do when having steak.

A pregnant pause filled the air.

“Where is Torrie?”

“My girlfriend is out of town”— Hey, that’s the name of this blog!

“Well it seems like you two have been getting along recently.”

“How so?”

“I haven’t heard crying in over two weeks.”

“Oh, you noticed that too?”Chaz slid the bong across the table. “Smoke up, son,” he said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I said.

I took a bong rip as Chaz got up from the table. “There’s more in the kitchen, hold on.”

This is a good time to tell you that the meal was delicious. The meal was delicious.

Chaz came back with a sausage on a plate.

“This one’s all you, buddy,” he said.


“I smoked this sausage just for you, Charlie.”

“Well then it looks like I’m going to have to eat it.”

He set the plate down right in front of me. Then Chaz did a curious thing: he watched me eat the entire sausage. He didn’t consume any food while it happened. He didn’t blink once. It almost looked like he held his breath for three minutes. His gaze simply never broke that of the sausage’s— even though sausages don’t have eyes I hope you’re getting the point.

After I finished the smoked sausage he asked, “How was it?”

“It looked like a dick but it definitely didn’t taste like it.”

“Good. Good.

I slid the bong across the glass dining room table. “Your turn.”

Chaz took a hit.

“I cheated on Katy,” I said in the midst of his bong rip.

“I know,” he coughed. What. What?


“I said—,” he took another hit from the bong, “I know.”

“How could you— have you been reading my—” Chaz stopped me mid-sentence.

“I was at the party, Charlie. Everybody knows you fucked one of the Mexican girls from the Panda Express.”

“But I didn’t—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, it’s OK.”

But there weren’t any Mexican girls from the Panda—”

“Stop, Charlie. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying to you. I didn’t have sex with one of the—”

“Calm down, pal. I’m not going to tell Katy, don’t worry.”

“You can’t tell her I had sex with a Mexican girl that works at the Panda Express because I didn’t have sex with a Mexican girl that works at the Panda Express.”

“I know, Charlie. Nobody did. That’s the story I’m sticking with.”

Arguing with Chaz was going to be pointless. Back to the steak dinner:

“It’s the least I could do,” he said to me in between bites of coffee steak and steak tar tar. The least he could’ve done was pay rent and give me back the money he stole, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. After all, he did make nine different types of steak for dinner tonight; might as well not let some of that animosity slip. Just for the evening.

“I’m a bit disappointed in the flat-iron. It’s tender but lacking in some taste— flavor, if you will,” he said.

I took a bite of the flat-iron and agreed with him. It was still good, but the taste of… game pervaded the piece. “It’s no big deal,” I said, “and how pissed can a guy be about a day where he hasn’t heard the cats whining.”

“Or my girlfriend,” he said. He took another bite of the flat-iron. “Decadent silence, my friend.”

Roommate,” I corrected him. “We’re roommates, not friends.” That wasn’t really accurate since the guy was terrible at being both. Chaz let that one slide for some reason. But he was a great cook. At least he had that going for him.

“Roommate, friend, chinchilla, cat. What’s the difference, right Charlie?” He took a bite of rib-eye— at least, I think it was rib-eye. Looked a little thin for rib-eye but it definitely tasted delish; no A-1 required.

“When’s the big move-out?” I said.

“There’ll be no evidence I was even here by next Friday,” he said. I switched plates to one with veal on it. At least, it tasted like veal.

“Yeah,” he said, “If I don’t end up with that place in Santa Ana.” This was the first I’d heard about a possible move to Santa Ana. He chomped on some quarter-house— this thing was fucking lung-sized, it was so goddamn big. And he made two! “I’m looking at something studio apartment-sized, if not a bit smaller,” he said with his mouth still full of meat.

The lights cut out.

“There goes the power,” he said, “But at least we still have cable.”

I was floored. Chaz may have prepared an epicurean’s delight for dinner but he hadn’t paid the fucking power bill? Come on.

“Dude, you used our electric money for cable?”

Your electric money. For cable.”

“We can’t even watch TV if we don’t have power, Hannibal.”

“Hey, Hannibal here made you a fucking delicatessen epicurean’s delight for dinner, you ungrateful fuck.” He must have had an angry look on his face but I couldn’t be sure because he didn’t pay the electric bill.

Sent from my iPhone.

Day Thirty-Six.

I broke down today and told Chaz everything; that I’m moving; that Phil died; that I don’t know how to properly use semi-colons.

Everything is better now. He forgives me.

“You can make it up to me,” he said, “by finding us a new drug dealer…”

Nobody but Chaz knows I was there. And you. And I didn’t kill him or anything. I think.

Todd’s calling me. Hold on. Maybe Todd deals drugs now. Not worth picking up the phone to find out, though.

Okay, anyways: Phil died but my mind keeps going to other places. Like, this one time Katy and I were having sex and I called her a whore.

“You whore,” I said.

It wasn’t dirty sex or anything, but Katy was being a whore.

“Don’t—” she said, “don’t call me a whore. I’m not a whore.” I pulled out.

“Dude, you’re having sex with me. Right now.”

“But that doesn’t make me a whore.”

“You were being a whore.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were blowing me not 30 minutes ago.”

“So what,” she said.

“So what,” I said, “So what is that you blew me to the song ‘Caress Me Down’”

Katy wasn’t having any of it. So much for sex the rest of the night— Katy wasn’t much of a slut.

“Baby, I didn’t mean—” she still wasn’t looking at me. “Hey, roll over, slut”. Katy rolled herself back over to look at me.

“Don’t call me a slut, either.”

“You were being one, though.”


“It’s just dirty talk, baby girl.”

“What? No, I couldn’t hear you.”

“It’s just baby talk, dirty girl.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“I’m making a website about us.”

And then I keep going back to that Alan Thickhole guy. The skeleton in Katy’s closet. Maybe this is the reason I break up with her— I thought it was going to be about the facial hair. That was what this blog was about, originally: it was about how my girlfriend grows better facial hair than me.

“You would never write about that,” she said.

Fine, your next boyfriend can tell you about the mustache, I figured. I only first realized the facial hair thing when my blowjob had a little tickle to it. It was like getting blown by a Super Mario Brother.

Every girlfriend, January is the ringer month for them. Christmas happened and fate has always brought me Libras so by January 1…I’m poor. My last girlfriend said it came out of nowhere. Bitch, I wrote this joke two girlfriends ago.

And she asked me “how long have you feeling this way” and when it comes out of nowhere you never want to answer that question— neither the truth nor a lie will save your poor ass now— you can’t pay rent and your new home just became this corner.

And I just told her, to minimize the damage, “uh, a month or so ago” even though I’d been considering it since my first tickle-me Elmo blowjob. They hate that because even though you tell them something close to the truth you now become a sort of criminal mastermind. To them you planned out every last “I love you”, every kiss, and every conversation you’ve had in the last month like some sort of movie villain.

“Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?” Oh god, I hate hearing that. Followed by “I would have done anything for you. Anything for us.” What is this bullshit. Anything for me? I’ve got three things I don’t want to bring up in this break-up conversation that you won’t do for us:

1) Birth control

2) Anal

“And what’s the third thing?” they say in my head.

“The threesome with your best friend.”

Oh shit, did I say that out loud.

“You didn’t just say that.”

“You asked! I shouldn’t have told you, but those things are awesome. And if it means breaking up with you and rolling the dice with a gutter-snipe or two then so be it.”

I’m friends with none of my exes.

None of them date men anymore either— or boys in my case— that’s fucking the truest thing I’ve put on this website. When I told my therapist this he suggested it had to do with my mom or something. Doctor, don’t suggest Freudian shit in this day and age; you’re a fool. I know I’m pretty much claiming to be the foreman of the magic lesbian factor, but pretty much everybody knows that whole wanting to fuck your mom and kill your dad thing is bullshit. Right?

Day Twenty-Three (2).

No. The first person I’m telling I’m moving is Chaz, my roommate.

I know I’m going to move to Goochland, Virginia without even taking the trip there. Yes, Virginia, the home to not only one city named Threeway but home to another city called “Needmore”, which may explain why it has two Fourways. Hey, it’s better than living in a Waterproof, Louisiana, which seems spiteful towards Mother Nature, the bitch.

West Virginia is a freak show, by the way. They’ve got Left Hand, Pinch, Hoo Hoo, Big Ugly, Gay Bash…OK, I made that last one up so I’ll take responsibility for it. But I refuse to take responsibility for Big Chimney, West Virginia. I almost skipped over Boring, Oregon but I needed something the polar opposite of Surprise, New York. That’s where Al Queda could have really sealed the symbolism deal, by the way. Yonkers has always bugged me as Cat Elbow, which might as well go by Pussy Weenus, New York.

Where were we?

Another craigslist ad was already printed it out so I could show him I could be assertive while sober— a fallacy, by the way. So I knocked on his door with the ad folded up in my back pocket and my pants in my bedroom.

“Who is it,” he said.

“The fuckin’ Gestapo— Chaz, open the door,” I nazi’d. I heard the knob lock click and the door opened. Smoke billowed out of the room.

“Come on in,” he said— so I did.

“Sup bro,” he said, hopping onto his bed, reclining with his legs out, shoes still on, all unsanitary-like.

“When did you get the hookah?” I said.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“What about all this smoke?” I asked.

“What smoke, Charlie.” Fuck, Bald Knob, Arkansas.

“Well, I mean, the smoke is gone because you opened the door, Chaz-hands.”

“There was never any smoke in the first place,” he reasoned.

“Okay, great. I must be crazy.”

I forgot to mention Whynot, North Carolina. Probably because it’s so close to Tick Bite, North Carolina and so far away from Horneytown, North Carolina. Christ, I need to get back to the topic at hand. I mean, I can’t tell you which states Eighty and Ninety Six are in, but I can tell you that the City of Town and Country is nowhere near On Alaska, which happens to be in Wisconsin.

Seriously, where were we?

“Must be,” Chaz said. “What do you think about cats?”

“They’re shitty animals,” I didn’t say.

“I want to bring kittens into our apartment, he continued, “They’re free so I’ll pay for them.”

“Sure man,” I feigned, “I’m down for motherfucking kitty palace.” He must have missed the three months I had prior spent bitching about the smell of cat piss the previous tenants had gifted our carpets.

“You’ll love it once they’re here,” he reiterated.

And it’s like, it’s not like I don’t know how cats act after 23 years of sharing this planet with the inferior species. I know they’re capable of holding kitty grudges and making kitty casseroles out of their litter boxes. I also know they’re incapable of paying the bills as well as showing true compassion for something they can’t possibly kill. But if you’re more interested in the pros and cons of kitty ownership, then know that they are truly interested in licking their entire bodies from the highest and most obtuse place in your house. Also, most cats can’t sniff out cancer like the ones on TV because if they did then my mom might still be alive.

They are awful pets. Just a crappy species, on a whole. So Chaz brought them home this evening and he tells me he’s going to pay for their food, water, shoes, etc etc. Which is great, but it still doesn’t change the fact that kitty casserole is on the menu for the next 16 years.

Wait. No. Just three months. Because I’m out of here in three months.

Did I mention to you guys that South Dakota has room for Potato Creek and Pringle. And that Vermont found room for Breadloaf, Mosquitoville, and a little place known as Satan’s Kingdom?

I forgot to tell Chaz I’m moving. This crack thing needs to stop.

Day Eight (2).

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Chaz says, the nerve of him. He found out about rent today. I mean— he found out I know he hasn’t been paying rent. Our rent. Not even my half.

That’s right: he’s been taking my rent money for three fucking months and he hasn’t been paying any rent.

“I’ll have my dad write you a check,” he says. What a fucking disaster.

“Why,” I asked, “haven’t you been paying rent?”

“I messed up bad— I’m bad with money— I’m sorry,” he said.


He blamed his girlfriend who was, by the way, crying and smoking all of our weed in the living room.

Chaz put his hand on my knee, like how your rapist uncle would. “Smoke a bowl, son,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“It’s on me,” he said.

“No, I think I bought this sack,” I said.

“I remember giving the money to Aaron,” he said, invoking the name of our Holiest of Drug Dealers. I pushed his hand off my lap.

Who’s money?” I asked. Chaz was silent. Maybe he gets the point, I figured. The asshole. But he proved me wrong next by saying:

“With my money.” He started grabbing for my knee again; like your rapist uncle who is also blind. I pushed his hand away again and yelled.

“You owe me three thousand dollars!”

“Technically I owe the rent office six thousand dollars,” he said.

“You’re not even the least bit sorry,” I said.

“I told you I was.”

“But you’re not.” He wasn’t, I promise.

Chaz paused, his mouth agape. “You have to pay the rent,” I told him.

“That’s— I could pay up what I owe. My dad will write that check.”

“And then keep paying rent like you’re supposed to,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he wasn’t, “I can’t keep paying rent” That was bullshit— he has a great job working for his dad’s company and for him to keep up paying rent he’d have to start paying rent in the first place.

“So what are you going to do?” I said.

“Move out,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

“You can’t do that,” I said.

“The lease doesn’t have to be renewed in August with me on it,” he said, taking a drag.

“No, the cigarette.” He took another drag.

“I can smoke,” he said.

“But not in my room. Get out,” I said. Chaz took another long hard drag and tossed his cigarette on the floor, stomping it out.

“You’re not being too cool about this, Charlie.”

“I smoke cigarettes too; I know what it takes to be cool.”

“No, you’re not being cool about the rent thing.”

“I’m being remarkably ‘cool’ about the rent thing right now.”

Chaz lit another cigarette.

“Stop that,” I said. He threw his cigarette down and stomped it out.

“I’m going to LA for the weekend, so we’ll talk about this later,” he said.

And just like that— like my father— he was gone again.