brought to my attention that my previous blog post had a typo in it.
Excerpt from "Fun with Incompetent Landlords,"
I live on Elmwood/North. I have about 250sq feet of pure bachelor pad; a vintage 1917 Murphy-In-a-Dor bed folds out of a closet for entertaining the boys. The landlords told me my apartment was like a penthouse studio. They never mentioned I also had
I was going to post about what happened last night when a couple of my friends and I lurred a straight boy to his doom at Marcellas.
As I was typing though, the ex popped into SPoT with his friend. Of course, I'm seated facing the door and I see them before they see me. I didn't recognize them at first; he shaved his head. However, the bright pink "Friend of Dorothy" shirt he was wearing gave him away. We both got that shirt on Pride2006, the same night we broke up.
We didn't say hi. I don't think I was supposed to be here. Hmmm...
They get in line, and the tension is obviously tighter than a thong on a fat old drag queen They start talking, kind of forced casual whispers. They are more uncomfortable than me. I'm just perched on the stage, watching this all. In an attempt to make it non-related to the fact that I'm here, they make some statement about SPoT and head to the door. The ex walks past me again.
I nod my head... He shoots me a quick nonchalant glance. I musta pissed in his wheaties.
They're gone. I go back to my work.
I'm going to get a text message tonight. Or twenty. I hate alcoholics.