So, I haven't written in a really long time. Lots of things have happened since my last post: I went to St. Lucia, got engaged, started looking for a home like a Responsible Adult. All sorts of fun things. But that's not what my blog is about.
Today I am pretty sure I caught hobo AIDS. Although I'm no scientician, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that's the worst kind.
On a positive note, I'm super happy I have a venue where I can freely drop the "Fuck" bomb, and make jokes about horrific diseases without fear of being reprimanded. OK, I'm a little afraid of being reprimanded, especially by that new No Face follower over there. The name says "CL", so I'm a little worried that maybe it's me and I created a profile in some late night stupor to follow myself in some scandalous attempt to boost my numbers. Don't judge me, Me.
I generally don't consider myself a very squeamish person. Back when I did the whole Volunteer In A Destitute Country So I Can Pretend I'm Better Than You But Really I Got Paid A Bit And All I Did Was Party Like A Rockstar And Travel On The Cheap, a little boy aged six gave me peanut butter jar filled with three tarantulas. For my birthday. Two of them were half-eaten corpses, and the giant one hovered around the top of the jar, hissing mad. I bit my lip and sighed. Thanks, Jorgito. I bought a terrarium and fed the angry spider live cockroaches for months. We became friends.
Today, though, I reached my limit of squeamishness.
I was standing at the parking meter, 15 minutes before my spa appointment (just so you know how classy I am, guys). While I was waiting for the meter to give me my parking ticket, a hobo bikes by, turns his head to cough in my direction, and coughs in my face. Not like... a dry cough, which I already would have been totally grossed out by, but gross, sickly, hacking cough, where a globule of spit lands ON MY MOUTH. My smiling, excited for my much needed spa day, mouth.
I basically kissed a hobo.
I know what you're thinking. Was he at least cute?
Think less along the lines of post-goatee Brad Pitt, and more along the lines of exactly what you imagine in your Joaquin Phoenix-kissing nightmares.
After we're done making out, I scream and yell, "What the Hell?? What's wrong with you!?" I rarely lose my cool in public (LIE.), but obviously this turning point in my life warrants an appropriate freak out. The worst part is (well the worst part is the spit on my mouth), the SECOND worst part is, he turns around on his bike and says something like, "Ah fuck you, bitch!", like I'M the one who wronged him!!
Hobo is long gone before I can actually do anything, although there wasn't all that much I could do. Throw my parking change at him? That goodfernnothin' Spit Bum isn't eating on my dime!!
So now I'm curled over on a busy street, carefully trying to release my own saliva through unopened lips to use the forces of gravity and wash my lips without touching them with my bare hands.
I'm wearing no makeup, old baggy jeans, and a hoodie (that I can take off easily. Stop trying to waste my hour with "clothes-removing time", RMT.) so I look kind of disgusting already, and trust me when I say that slowly spitting up on the sidewalk does not help.
I eventually get into the spa, where they do not have my appointment, and I have to cause a(nother) scene.
I should probably change the name of this blog to something more accurate, like MyLifeIsStupid.