Temptations of The Flesh Cost Me My Room, or How Not Gettin' Any Will Get You Kicked to the Curb

If you read my previous blog A Christmas Suicide, Or Thoughts Of, you know that I was told on Christmas Eve that I must move out of the apartment I just finished moving into the night before.

Today, I got in touch with the woman who runs the roommate service. Her name is Margaret and she said the lady I rented the room from wants me out because I came home from a party early in the morning and she thinks this is unChristian like; therefore, she made up a lie (like a good Christian) about her family coming from Florida to live in the room that I was renting. Now, I thought the family story sounded suspicious and to be honest, this makes more sense because I know she is religious. The only thing she told me when I moved in was that there was to be no smoking, drinking, or overnight guests, which quite frankly is fine with me or I wouldn't have taken the room. Being under pressure to write a book and all, I prefer things quiet. However, I didn't know that going to a holiday party/poetry reading was forbidden or that my life outside of the apartment would be monitored. This lady told Tony (see previous blog; he is the guy that made a pass at me and I slapped) that she fears I am an ungodly slut drunk.

Well. I hold very stong spiritual beliefs and I don't happen to think coming home late from a party is a violation of anything other than a false human made perception of sexual sin. (By the way: I didn't get laid at this shindig; perhaps when I finally move out, I'll have learned to say in Spanish, "If you have a son or know someone I can fuck, tell 'em about me!")

I personally believe God would rather go to a party than a sermon.

I don't get it. I talked to her when I came in from the party---and by the way, was she waiting for me to return or was she just up for some midnight prayin'?--- then I washed my face, brushed my teeth, read for a bit, and went to sleep. When I woke up, she put me on the phone with Tony and he paid for me to come downtown and discuss the situation at his shit hole of an apartment, probably thinking because of what she told him that he was about to get fucked into Christmas Day. He looks like a combination of the guy on that coffee can and Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy; I could be the biggest slut in the world and I'd rather blow all of Santa's elves than hug him.

I thought this stuff only happened below the Mason Dixon Line?

This whole situation gets stranger by the minute, but I believe this scenario and I know that this lady and I should never be on the same block together, let alone in the same apartment.

So I still have to find a new place but I don't fear her family coming up from Florda and dumping my belongings on the street. I also know she will give me my money back; I still feel really depressed and down and tired but hopefully this whole thing will just be over soon.

But I feel a renewed love for sluts.

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