why i hate myself.

sunday night, i had to leave my apartment in a hurry. i started my car and backed out of my garage space. my apartment garage is the size of a Taco Bell, and as wide as the Taco Bell kitchen; in order to drive out the exit, i have to fold in my side mirrors, so they won't scathe the walls. anyway, i was pulling out and as i drove up the ramp i heard a THUMP on the passenger side. i thought "well...there's another wall i ran into; i can't wait to see this scratch," and drove away, just as another tenant was pulling in.

an hour later, i got a call from the landlord--whenever she calls, it is never for drinks--and she was screaming and yelling at me for breaking the chain to the garage gate: "look what you did! now i have to call the company on a fucking sunday because you weren't careful!"

"i'm sorry, helga. i will pay all damages, i promise."

"you better! it's not coming out of my pocket."

we hung up, and as i was driving down sunset, i considered driving up to mulholland and rolling down the cliff until i exploded; but that wouldn't have solved anything. instead, my guilty conscience made me call helga back, apologize, and promise again that i was going to cover the damages.

"it's going to cost $275, just for them to come look at it."

"jesus christ! i don't even make that much in a week."

she sounded more rested once i promised for the second time.

then, i remembered that i paid $20 extra every month with my rent just to park in that shit box. where the fuck does that money go to? to damages such as that, i presumed. although, the way it sounded, the $275 plus the repair was coming right out of my wallet. how can a man live anymore, when it costs that much just for some jack-off to look at something? whatever the case, at the end of the day, i had no one to hate but myself.

...by the way, check out my friend's blog, an honest and entertaining take on life from the mind of a bipolar sufferer: