Too much time has passed.

Busy busy busy.

Got a new (second) job, been spending the last week in a long send-off for my friend that is moving to Colombia… and having a huge mental store of all the insane shit that has gone down in the interim. Oh what fun!

First, we have Miss Florida. Yes, the Miss Florida, the competition to send scary, dysfunctional, mentally handicapped and embittered women on to become our U.S. representatives in some little thingy called Miss World. I had to work this, see. And deal with the women. … and take apart their stage with a very angry French set designer. I cannot even begin to describe the *fun* I had… because little existed. While I do utterly and inexplicably love my job, I do not often love the client.
While the women in the event were … questionable, my main concern was with the audience. The parents, boyfriends, husbands and families of these critters were amazing. It was like watching the spectators of a dogfight, but perhaps in more Gucci. People screaming, holding signs, yelling “Go, (enter trendy female name,) go! You can do it!” They would throw down anything in their hands if their particular vagina didn’t win, storming off to grasp a cell phone so tightly it bled battery acid and scream at whatever hapless victim made the mistake of answering their phone.

Moving on, because reliving this makes me have the PTSD twitch.

So. I also had a fabulous day on the bus this week… a day where, on all six buses I rode, a new crazy was there to make me smile. Or flail in horror. Whatever, it’s all relative. So, a simple breakdown:

Bus #1, Route 42
“Heeey man. I’m … on drugs, man. What … awww… I’m so many drugs, man. I’m drugged, man. Man, dude… I’m sooo fucking wasted.”
He spent most of the ride babbling this while randomly throwing punches at his own backpack.

Bus #2, Route 2
Random woman: “What?”
Random woman: “I don’t understand you.”
Random woman: “WHAT?”

Bus #3, Route 7
WWJD Lady: “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus is the ONNNNLLLLY answer, people. Why y’all goin’ to this damn house of Satan? Why! Why must you ruin yerself for Jesus! God loves you, alla you!”
Grinning college kid: “Lady, this is a SCHOOL. Satan is what, like, the smart one?”
Grinning college kid #2: “Haha. She said “God loves Allah.”

I then was at work, and magically… nothing happened. Of course, I had to eventually leave work, sooooo…

Bus #4, Route 7
Hippie: “Hi.”
Me: “Hi?”
Hippie: “Can I bum a smoke?”
Me: “Can you roll one?”
Hippie: “Dude, look, ok, I’m sorry, I like, I am on probation for that shit, ok? Dude, like, ok, let’s just … nevermind, ok?”
Me: “This … is a tobacco pouch. With tobacco in.”
Hippie: “Oh… no, thanks. That shit’s bad for you.”

So … I’m not sure exactly what it was he was after, then.

Bus #5, Route 1
Junkie: “Hey… what day is it?”
Skater kid: “Um, Thursday?”
Junkie, to old man: “What day is it?”
Old man: “What the kid said. Thursday.”
Junkie: “…”
Old man: “The hell is wrong with you?”
Junkie, to me: “What da–“
Me: “Thursday. Thursday. The day after Wednesday, and the day before Friday. Thursday.”
Junkie, to skater kid: “Man, you got any weed?”
Skater: “No?”
Older lady: “You need to lay off the crack.”
Junkie: “Fuck you! It’s meth! I loved meth!”

And finally… my personal favorite had to come last, of course.

Bus #6, Route 10
Drunk hobo #1: “See that girl over there? I’ma tell her I love her.”
Drunk hobo #2: “I… don’t …. I dunnnooo.”
DH1: “Hey! Hey! I love ya!”
Me: “… ok.”
DH1: *to random guy* “Have a beer with me!”
Guy: “How about no!”
DH1: “Ok! Hey, lady! I like ya! I love ya! I want summore of ya!”
Me: “…”
DH2: “I don’t think it’s working.”
DH1: “Hey, lady, have a beer with me. I just wanna tell ya I love ya.”
Me: “I don’t drink beer. I don’t love you.”
DH1: “Look, I know I’m hotter than any guy you’ll get.”

Keep in mind he looked like a half-dead hybrid of Jimmy Buffet and Gary Busey. Not kosher.

Anyway! This is long enough. I’ll slap something else up tonight. I am typing this half asleep and have more to post later.


How sad…

Yesterday I was certain of it. I was SURE.
I was going downtown to take some pictures, and expected something fun and weird would happen to me … but … it didn’t. Nothing happened. At all. Not one crazy, no drug addicts, no freaks. Not. One. Thing. As utterly mind-boggling and distressing as this is, it did sort of renew my peace with the town, and the only drunks I ran into last night were my friends. (Hi, guys! Love you!) But hey, I got a few photos out of it (231… heh, I’m not an addict! I can quit whenever I WANT) so what the hell, I’ll throw them up here. Oh! And on a good note, I got a job interview. Unluckily, this place has, and always will have, a VERY high potential for stalking behavior and creepiness from patrons. Yes, people — I’m going back to a cafe. A rather unwise choice considering my reputation as a magnet, but all the more amusing for anyone that notices this blog, here. Once the theater reopens, we’ll see what happens.

So, I think I’ll try again today. If I REALLY want to go nuts, I’ll go out tonight to Miami.

Oh, Key West…

What a weekend.
Truly, no matter how often I consider moving away, I know that I’m a true Floridian. I’ve been up each coast, straight through the middle and out. From the ‘Glades, the Keys, the swamp and woods, the gulf, to the lights of Miami … I’ve been there. And damn it, it’s home.

Luckily for me, I went down with some of the finest folks I know and had a wonderful time. It did, of course, lead to overhearing some of the more fascinating conversations the south has to offer.

(Two drunken blond beach bunnies)
“I didn’t know he was a transvestite!”
“Well why not?”
“Was I supposed to reach down there and feel around for it or something?! I need to do that from now on.”

(As I’m taking a photo, a young man approaches behind me.)
“Hey, yo. Hey. I want yo money!”

(Weird half-naked tourist on pier at sunrise.)
“I, ahh, does not know you, but ahhh, you want, ahhh, lotions? On?”

(Old man outside of bar to younger man.)
“Ohh yeaaah, I remember that girl … she’s the one with the light-up thingers in her nipples.”

(Random drunken woman on phone.)
“Hahaha! Oh my god, so like, he really did just stick that thing right in there and swirl it around! Ewwwwww, gross.”

(Man to other male friends in see-through shirt.)
“You know, now that you’re forty, you can have sex with Claudia. She’s twenty. It’s the right thing to do.”

(Ryan gets an honorable mention as well, from the closet of our hotel.)
“Hee hee. Hee hee hee hee. Tequila. Hee hee. I love tequila. Hee hee hee.”

Those are just a *few* of the things I heard that day, but I’m sure I’ll remember many more.
But all in all, it was amazing. Just amazing. How can I resist this place? It has the attitude I adore coupled with the enjoyable places I can’t deny. Mm. Going back is necessary.

One a side note, on the way here I was given another special surprise. Now, considering that I was in a minivan with not only my mother but my kids, this guy had some balls. He pulled up to the driver’s side of the van, lifted his sunglasses annnd:
Man: “Hey. Hey there.”
Mother: “I think someone is talking to you.”
Me: “I know.”
Man: “Hey… who is that beautiful lady with you?”
Mother: “My daughter.”
Man: “….” *stare*
Me: “…”
Man: “Sorry, I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t help it. Just… wow.” *stare*
Mother: “Uh huh.”
Man: “Y’all have a nice day, now.”
*man rides off, looking behind him*
Me: “Did that seriously just happen?”
Mother: “You’re a Larrett.”
Me: “Right.”

Ah, nothing pleases me more than teaching my kids how not to flirt. Generally, doing so at a red light through your prospect’s mother is not the best idea.

Wow … just. Wow.

My apologies for nothing new as I had promised. I spent the weekend with a man that does NOT much care for the nutcases that love to harass me, so I was blissfully devoid of such occurrences. Of course, he left yesterday, so it was only a matter of time…

So. Here I am at the place to be, the Haus, with the kids.
We’re just out and about, enjoying a day, watching a movie… nothing unusual. That is, until I made the ever-distressing mistake of stepping outside for a cigarette. It usually turns out to be a poor choice on my part. My timing is always wrong, it seems.
Out I go, to be met with the lady that works the nail salon next door. We were discussing the Michael Jackson funeral, her hoping it was over and me fairly amused by some of the reports coming from my friends on Facebook of how deeply disturbed and saddened they are about all of this. So while talking about the people that have killed themselves in his name, a rather haggard woman approached me and asked for a cigarette. I obliged, because I was caught up in conversation and not really paying her much mind. Until she spoke.

“Hey! What was that you were talking about? Could you say that again? And can you light my cigarette? My hands are REALLY sweaty and I can’t touch it.”
(Can’t touch it, but you want to hold it and smoke it…?)
“Uh… I was just talking about some of the reports of fans killing themselves and such.”
“Well … did you see what they looked like?”
“… Uh, no. I didn’t.”
“Well, did you hear their voices?”
“Well, you need to see what they look like or hear their voices.”
“It was just a printed article. And the folks are kind of … dead…”
“Well, you see, it’s because I know what’s going on at those compounds in California.”
“Oh… right…”
“Yes, see, they hold people hostage. They’re breeding babies in petri dishes.”
“Ah … ok.”
“Yes. And see, babies from petri dishes are not humans. So they are holding hostages and they’re a cult. I’m a scientist, so I know what I’m talking about.”
“So as a scientist, imagine… when you’re fifty years old, what if someone approaches you and says you owe child support on this thing? Right?”
“Imagine. Fifty years old. Child support. You have to keep an eye on these people. Hear what they sound like, see them. I’m telling you.”
“They’re not humans.”
“As a scientist, Michael Jackson’s fans … you need to hear their voices. I bet.”
“Well. I should, uh.”
“Alright, just remember, if you hear them, THEY ARE BREEDING BABIES. In petri dishes. “
“… yeah.”

Not sure what to make of that, but there you have it. I have a feeling the crazy for today isn’t over just yet.

It has come to my attention…

… that it’s rarely ever anything but a homeless man that REALLY gives me a lot of trouble. I’ve had your average asshole hit on me at a bar (as most of us have) and random passersby deciding I need to have a chat with them about dating or drugs, perhaps some God or maybe even a smattering of why the government is beaming death rays into our skulls in order to keep the black man down. Anything remotely nutty, I’ve heard it.

But it’s the homeless men … the true lovers of that which is me … that seem to absolutely, without a doubt have a need to provide me with a reason for this blog. Granted, I’m sure other rants will slip in here from time to time (hospitals, pets, people … they all have a place here) but it’s events like the following that really get me:

So today, I decided to go meet with Travis for a cup of coffee. Seems innocent enough, yes?
This requires me to trek through the badlands of Homeless Man territory. The hub of activity for those that seek cigarettes and beer money. So! The meeting was uneventful. Ran into an old friend, chatted for a while … nothing bad. Upon my departure, we said our goodbyes and went off to our respective buses at the terminal. Which, as you’ll notice, most of my problematic stories will stem from that singular location.

On the bus I go, wary already, having been “flagged down” by a very discontent looking individual with an obvious crack addict twitch. I decided to leap onto the bus as a means of escape. It worked. For a moment. Until *he* arrived.

He smelt of urine and something … foul. Even more foul than that which exists under the bed of a serial animal hoarder. More foul than a week old diaper. Something laced with Satan’s ass on a hot day in the middle of the sun.
He sat down behind me. Of course. Because this story would not be in existence if he kept a distance, oh no.

This is the BEST I can assume as to what he spoke of:
“Hey … hey. Fifty. Fifty. You. Fifty. You see … *mumblemumble* there… and it made … but if you’re not sure, honey. Well. Packages are for them. *mumblemumble* is made of it. You’re missing the point, honey. I mean it. Look at your hair … why *mumblemumble* it’s so pretty in here. Isn’t it dark? Oh, lord…”

This continued for a while until he said this nifty tidbit:
“I’ll kill you.”
The words every girl wants to hear whilst traveling alone on a dark bus.
So… drastic times call for cunning measures.
Not wanting to make a scene and possibly enrage my soon-to-be assailant, who was obviously mentally deficient enough in the first place, I made a move. I chose the darkest, nearest stop possible and pulled the cord. I gathered up my things and got ready to stand. As the bus pulled over, he rushed out the door and stood waiting. The doors closed. I sat back down.

To try and describe the look on his face is a bit beyond my capabilities. I’m not familiar enough with utter and complete insanity to make an attempt. Needless to say, it was … interesting.
Aside from a random car of asshats honking at me to “come ride the best cock in town,” which was soon offered to another woman down the road, I made it to Undergrounds without and rape/murder/beatings.

I don’t know why they choose me. I’m not the most attractive girl around, or the most flamboyant and dressy. I don’t even wear make-up, for fuck’s sake. There is just a thing, a something, that has caused this to happen from a very young age. Even at the age of seven, a homeless man attempted to stroke my hair on a city bus as my aunt stared in angered confusion.

Either way, it happens. It’s life. Tomorrow is a new day to do it all over again!

Ah, yesterday.

… was a very odd day. This entire MONTH has been full of bizarre, horrible and distressing occurrences. Between my lovely hospitalization and apparent near-death, Rob’s death, and so many other little bits and pieces of utter hell.

So yesterday, I decided to take my guitar out to get some new strings and a little bit of tuning, perhaps some picks and a book. I realized I was running out of time, so I could either do that or see the kids — obviously, I went to see the kids. … sadly, this meant that I happened to get on the same crowded bus as an apparent masturbatory fiend. He of course chose me to be his unwilling victim, which was … just wonderful. I got to sit on a bus for twenty minutes while WankMaster 2000 stared at my crotch. It was … special. So special.

So! I figured screw it, I’ll head downtown and get some good old chocolate and espresso. Always cheers me up a bit. All was mostly uneventful (aside from a guy insisting to me that I had to sell him some weed, which I did not have, nor do I *ever* have for that matter) and a homeless woman that tried to use my guitar as a seat. (“Hey! Don’t sit on that!” … “Oh, sorry, I thought it was a chair.”) When the time to go rolled around so I could go to a DIFFERENT coffee shop, as is the life of a non-drunk Fort Lauderdaleite, I had this wonderful exchange:

“Hey, lady! Hey!”
“Uh, hi.”
“Hey! You got a guitar in that case?”
“Hey! Hey! You know why I like you?!”
“No. But you’re going to tell me.”
“Yup! I like you because you must be a serious BITCH to walk around town like that!”
“Hm. Alright. Bye, now.”
“No no no no no! Where you going? Don’t just walk off when—“
At this point, I put my headphones back on, because Front 242 does wonders to block out the rants of a man that smells of vodka, and continued to my bus. Apparently this was not good enough for him.
“HEY! Come back here! HEY!”
“I have a bus to catch, sir.”
“No you DON’T! WHAT BUS, HUH?” (Because, of course, I’m going to tell him where I’m going.)
“A bus. Goodbye.”
This has gone on for half a block, now, as he follows me down the road. Then this happy bit came. I was running late, I’ve had a BCD from hell (bad Crohn’s day, ahem) and I’m still recovering from the month’s general attitude of fuck you.
“You know what, bitch?! FUCK YOU. You’ll never GET ANYWHERE IN LIFE WITH AN ATTITUDE LIKE THAT!”
“Oh really?”
“So. Excuse me for being, oh, presumptuous, but you, a homeless man that reeks of vodka and just asked me for a cigarette, you that is sitting on a bench with your worldly belongings, you that is wearing mismatched shoes for lack of money … YOU are telling ME how to be a successful person?”
“Uh huh. Have a nice day, sir.”
“Your fucking attitude SUCKS, BITCHWHORE!”

… And so, I continued my way to the bus. I almost wanted to feel bad, as someone that likes to be a Genuinely Nice Person™, but he was a true dick in the finest sense of the word. Maybe he was having a bad day too, but really — no need to do that sort of thing.
So. The bus terminal. This is not known for being a place of leisure and joy. You don’t have to be there long to extrapolate that fact. I got to dodge a pimp fight, some moody teenagers, a happy woman in a wheelchair that insisted she was Jesus’ lover (hey, at least she was nice, she earned a smile) and some other sundry individuals.

The bus ride there was decent enough … until I got OFF said bus. It was … hm. Let me just give this:
“Hiiiiiii, there, uh.”
“Gotsa smoke?”
“Gotsa light?”
“Gotsa pussy?”
“It was worth a shot.”

So now I’m here getting coffee. And chainsmoking. And chainsmoking…