Excuses, Excuses. More Ramblings. Part Two.

July 1- 16. A vehicle to despise. After moving into the studio, I started focusing on preparing to sell the Jimmy my mom left when fleeing for stateside medical care upon the discovery of breast cancer.

(Side note: I only moved in with Mr. T in the first place because Mom had to leave. I couldn’t afford our rent and wasn’t yet comfortable enough on the island to get my own place. Mr. T generously opened his home to me— a half-built, bachelor-pad dream house. Anyway, had to get that out because I don’t take living with someone lightly.)

The annoying thing about the Jimmy (whose name is Laverne) is that she's a stick shift, and I can’t drive a stick. Or at least it’s been quite some time since I learned. And the island probably isn’t the best place for me to brush up on my manual driving skills, what with its steep switchbacks and narrow thoroughfares. So, the “helper”, whom I will henceforth refer to as Señor Espina, was going to help me sell it, and in doing so, he would drive it for his personal use, which per our verbal agreement was responsible and not excessive. This worked out well for me because he could go deal with the mechanics and report back. I just had to make decisions and shell out cash (of which I had more than usual due to working my little white ass off) for the repairs. I kept him in cigs, beer, and food (in order of importance) in return for his assistance. I don’t know who was using who, but it was a mutually beneficial arrangement during the short time it lasted.

July 17. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. The partnership was, indeed, a brief one. Three weeks, tops. Long enough for me to realize that my affinity for a café con leché skin tone has ended badly for me on more than one occasion. And that I should never trust a drunk who’s not in recovery. And that I need to learn to drive a stick shift as well as a vibrator. Fuck being dependent on others for something so simple.

So anyway, I’ll try to spare you the excessively dramatic details of what happened to Laverne. I actually think it’s worthy of reality TV drama. Not quite Jerry Springer, but dangerously close.

Señor Espina crashed her before noon on a Sunday, on the opposite end of the island from where he lives. Did he call to let me know what had happened? Of course not. Instead, he called his crack-smoking ex-girlfriend who doesn’t even have a car (or a job) to aid him. She did this by hitching a ride with a couple of crack-smoking, jobless friends of hers who somehow manage to possess a vehicle. This proved to me once and for all that Sr. Espina is a “living and breathing fuck-up” (thank you to The Wrestler for this fitting term) incapable of making a good decision.

In a strange instance of luck, this turn of events so excited the girlfriend that she couldn’t help but to maniacally leave four voicemails to inform me that Señor Espina had crashed my car and that I’m a “stupid little girl” for trusting him in the first place. All the while I’m in a volunteer organizational meeting for 7-7. While I'm exceedingly annoyed that Ms. Crazy was called in the first place, if she hadn't been involved, Laverne may well have landed in the impound lot. Then I would have ended up paying the nice tow truck driver a lot more than $375 because the near incoherent Señor didn't think it necessary to involve me, the acting owner of the vehicle. 

Dey say she total.

So now I have a wrecked vehicle that I can’t myself drive to a body shop, and I get to figure out how to get rid of her. In the meantime, Sr. Espina promised to pay me back, and we discussed the possibility of working out a deal for him to buy Laverne. We arranged for him to give me the money he owes for the tow truck when he got paid on the 1st of August.

August 3. You’re kidding, right? He didn’t show. I called. Turns out, he lost his wallet the previous evening. How did Señor lose his wallet, you ask? Why, he fell down the stairs, of course. Oh yes, this makes sense. So many people lose their wallets filled with hundreds of dollars of cash owed to someone else when they fall down the stairs. Only if you’re drunk from a case of Presidente on a St. Thomas Sunday, I guess. How are you enjoying your downward spiral, Señor?

August 4-Present.  To sue or not to sue. I’m still deciding whether to take him to small claims court. Mom just wants me to sell Laverne as is to get rid of her. She's unwilling to put more money towards the problem and doesn’t think we’ll recover any money from Señor anyway since he seems to have a drunk and broke past. Now, I’m not litigious, aggressive, or vindictive, but I do feel I was taken for a ride. (After making my own, perhaps, bad decisions. At the time I thought I was getting things done to the best of my ability. Really I did.) I would rather put my spare time and energy toward creative endeavors than the people’s court. But once in awhile I get really pissed at the hard-earned money Mom and I have lost, as well as the fucking pain in the ass I have to deal with now. Opinions on what I should do, anyone?

Also, in the midst of all previously mentioned items (in list form for brevity's sake):

My year-old laptop died (for the 2nd time) and mysteriously started working again, albeit with a daily warning message about my disk being corrupted and the blue screen of death making a visit once a week or so. This shall be my last PC.

My iphone died twice (dropped it) and was fixed both times by local technicians, for which I am very grateful because, as previously hinted, I am addicted.

A nasty rash spread over my whole body, inducing a doctor’s visit. He diagnosed it as an allergic rash and gave me medication that got rid of it, but we couldn’t figure out what I might be allergic to. Luckily, it hasn’t returned. My boss says I'm allergic to island drama. Perhaps.

I have been working with 7-7 to help put on a black and white photography exhibit at the end of the month, and to launch a new and improved website, among other endeavors.

Hershey recovered from tick fever only to develop intestinal tapeworms that I was fortunate enough to discover in his poo. Another trip to the vet.

My landlord is referred to as “Slumlord Dave” by a drunk Chris-Farley-type customer at the Toad and Tart. And I am also asked if I know how many times he had sex on my bed when living in my apartment 14 years ago. No, sorry, I don’t. But it must have been frequent if you feel the need to inform me.

So, folks, this is why I haven’t had time to write. But after getting all this garbage out of my head, I think I’m ready to roll again.

Momentum achieved!

Thanks for listening.