Days In Monsterville

All right, so clearly this daily blogging thing needs some work.

I’m in Los Angeles. Again. The last time I was here was for the video game show E3, and I ended up in a bathroom, unbelievably tired and strung out, listening to a grown man snore while I contemplated my latest (and greatest) spiritual depantsing. Now I’m here to see wrestling: wrestling, wrestlers, and a video game.

And here they are, these feelings again, like errant pieces of luggage, in this hotel room with me. She was beautiful, and smart, and hott with two Ts as the man says. She likes video games and The Simpsons, but not me. And I swear I thought I was over it, over every stupid bit of it after a period of equal parts mourning and moping.

The note arrived amid a sleepless—and I by this I mean it was an insomniac special—night. The walls trembled as my roommate snored mightily, cutting not lumber but swathes of forest. I sat in the bathroom, on the toilet, and with headphones on, preparing for a bleary, blank-eyed Thursday. The snoring cut through the walls, was barely impeded by Mark Knopfler musing about having a case of old damnation for when you get here, my friend. And I sat there and I read her note and lost the beat.

She wanted to be friends, but I’m not built that way. So before we were anything we were nothing, and I’m something, sitting in a towel, drying off and trying to think of what to ask a grown man who goes around hitting other grown men with steel chairs.