Every Day Turns Out Good

Even though the alarm went off at 5:30am, I jumped out of bed, house on fire style. Between snuggling with the puppy and worrying about her peeing all over me, the night was semi fretful, and I was almost thankful to start the day. This morning kicks off a crazy week, solid working, playing, flying, fucking, drinking, chilling, laughing. But mostly working. Tomorrow for Tristan, and then Miami in the evening, red eye, blazed, and into the town at 6:30am.  Miami all weekend, getting dumb with all the homies. We're filming a Girls Night out while we are there, and I will definitely bring it up later, but hasn't happened, or has, I suppose in a sense, but different. Same but different. Very Buddhist, the Girls Night Out Series. Ha.

This is what I want to talk about. I'm sorry, no more beating around the bush. I was in a fucking mood today. I woke up a little bothered, and then progressed to pissy by the time the driver picked me up at 7, and fucking fuming by the time I took off all my clothes for the x-ray machine, and made it to my gate. Now angry and intense are good feeling to revel in, one, if you are like me and don't really get pissed off too often (I'm pretty stoked on life and barely have a reason to complain) and two, if you are on your way to shoot for MenInPain.com. Anger can be fun if you recognize it for what it is, you have to vent, joyously, and vehemently. But you have to get it out. So I'm sitting there at gate 6, which will now be referred to as the Porn Party Gate, or the PPG, cursing on the phone and being quite unbearable and who walks up but the man I am about to put in pain. I did not know this at the time.

Poor Daniel.

Daniel is a rad dude. Smart fellow. Doing things? Anyway, he sat down next to me, quietly, and listened for a minute to the conversation before him.

Me (on phone): Motherfucker. Its fucking bullshit is what it is, and I'm fucking sick of it.

Me (to him, whisper): Are you going to kink?

Him: Nod

Me (on phone): Fine. Whatever. No, I.......(cut off here.....)....look Theres nothing wrong with wanting to gut him and hang his internal organs in my fucking fridge. Its doing it. I can say whatever the fuck I want.

Me (to him, whisper): Are you my man in pain?

Him: Nod

Me (on phone): Yeah. I know. Fine. No, I'm not going to do anything. There's nothing to fucking do. Yeah. Bye.

Me (hanging up phone and looking directly at him): You're fucked.

Fortunately, I saw Derek Pierce there,

 at PPG, and he cooled my jets a little bit. Not that Daniel didn't, but I already planned on letting some aggression out on him later in the day, why not start immediately? Like, 9am? Well, Penny Flame, because its just not what he signed up for.

 Trina Michaels showed up too, and so it was a real party at Burbeezy this meezy. Talk about potty mouths for such an early time. Occupational hazard.

By the time we got to the yay, the big bad bay area, 

 I had cooled down considerably, and was looking forward to getting out the old flogger and giving her a couple swings. I got in more than a couple. I'm fairly sure I didn't leave any marks, (Daniel is also working for Tristan tomorrow) but if I did I owe him an apology. I did my best.

We hopped on B.A.R.T. because I am obsessed with it, love the whole idea, every part. From the guys singing their guts out for spare change to the noise loud wwwwwwhhhhhhiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr when we go through tunnels, or hit the rail at the perfect angle. Bart is dope. Real dope.

We hop on airbart, from bart to the airport, and this guy next to me drops a piece of paper, and he's fumblimg, and droppin shit, so I help him out. That's what you do. We strike up a little conversation, he is headed to Boulder, I am going to LA, midway through the chat, Tristan calls to talk about tomorrow, which may be today, by the time you read this. I have no idea what I said in the conversation to make this guys eyes change, maybe something about "already warming up the old hips," and "yeah it's no problem I like for him to back up on it." Somewhere in this he looked at me with eyes familiar, recognition.

Me (in brain): Fuck.

Now I have two responses to "what do you do for work?". Each depend on my mood, attire, company, and day in general. Kind of fickle.

First response: Lie. This is when I don't want to talk about anything, I just want to sit and do what the fuck ever it is I happen to be doing, and don't feel like explaining. And parting ways. Always awkward. Most the time I say I work at Cheesecake Factory. Everybody fucking loves that place, and the lettuce thai wraps are off the charts. I recommend them to everyone I meet. And lie to. That part is not a lie though. If I'm alone, I always lie.

Second response: Don't lie. Be completely and totally and one hundred percent honest. Be so forthcoming that it makes you want to vomit, and people around you start noticing there is something going on behind that group B boarding pass. A commotion. Make a fucking scene. This is only fun when other people are willing to participate.

I made a fucking scene.

Guy on bus followed, through security, up the stairs to the arrivals and departures. We are checking, can we get on an earlier flight...ding ding ding ding ding, and the answer is YES! Briskly, we walk down to the end, gate 31, one from the very end. 32. And busman catches up to us as we are speeding alongside the moving walkway. But not on it.

Busman: I just, I gotta ask a question.

Me: Sure, shoot away tiger. Gimme your fucking best.

Busman: Why is it that 80% of girls are faking it in movies?

Me: How do you know 80% of the bitches you fuck aren't faking it?

Busman: Oh, well I...uh....

Me: And besides, a lot of girls are sweet little 18 year old baby girls, they probably don't know how to relax and just get fucked. They gotta fuck themselves good if you want them to let you fuck em good.

Daniel: What makes you think its 80%? How do you know?

Me: You ever taken a pounding from a dude like Evan Stone? Better yet Lee Stone! That is some big cock!

Busman: uh, no, well, I don't...they...

Me: That's some serious fucking! You try NOT screaming your brains out!

Daniel: What makes you think they are faking?

Busman: But, its just so much, and ya

Me: Listen, sometimes, we gotta pump the orgasm up a little bit to let you know its happening. We know you like to feel like you won prizes and shit.

Daniel: bwahahahhaha

Busman: excu...

Me: All a fucking show my friend. Have a great flight.

Daniel and I sit down in the second to last row, next to a guy that reminds me of Josh, from Old School Shanes World. That's honestly the reason I sat next to him too, he was like a refined, intelligent, motivated Josh. In a suit. And Prada glasses. It wasn't a sexy sexy time thing, but I felt immediately that this is the man I want to sit next to and harass as if he really is Josh.

It'd be like if Josh got a real job and did some thing with his life (hahah, sorry), and then one day on a business trip down to LA we could meet in passing, and have a drink and laugh about how he always reeks of peanut butter.

Anyway I sat next to Josh, who's name is actually that of a saint, so I will call him St. Josh. Anyway, St. Josh tried to ignore Daniel and I sitting down for a second. I fixed that. Mid conversation with Daniel, I turn to St. Josh.

Me: This is a nice shirt. Fucking fancy my friend. Fancy fucking shirt. (I am touching his shirt).

St. Josh: Thanks?

Me (to Daniel): And that motherfucker still has my fucking site. Can you believe it? And on top of that....

Me: Yup. Goes nice with the suit. Why you all fancy and wearing a suit on Southwest my ninja? With your tie and shit.

(I take this picture while leaning over him to the window, before 10,000 feet. ha.

)

St. Josh: um, I work for shblabedobedo, and travel back and forth between LA and the Bay, I'm heading home.

Me: So kick back! Lose the tie, fuck it.

Me (to Daniel): yeah, and on top of that shit, I hollered at someone else for one of my domain names, and like a dick, the guy tried to ask for 13k. I was like "You can eat a dick, 13k" Trippin. I straight told the dude he was trippin too. Fuck that. I already own PennyFlame.com, he's fucking trippin.

Me: So why don't you just live in the Bay homie? This shit is SICK!

St. Josh: I thought I recognized you. Yeah. All your naughty America shit. Man, you have so many looks!

Me (to Daniel): He's onto us. We're fucked.

St. Josh: What did you guys do today?

Daniel: She beat the crap out of me.

Me: I beat the crap out of him.

Daniel: She did.

Me: He fucking liked it, I would beat the crap outta you too. And you'd fucking like it.

St. Josh: Holy crap.

This went on the entire way down, Daniel and I chatting back and forth, although I do kind of feel like I got diarrhea of the mouth, and awkwardly forcing this guy to tell us stories about himself, and what he plans to do with himself on this planet. The funny thing was that he was only 23.

Me: No fucking way! You're suit totally fooled me. Man, that's crazy. Suits are fucking crazy!

St. Josh: Yeah, suits are fucking crazy!

So today I let it all out. I just let it flow, the nonsense that is my life and insignificant drama, the frustration that had been compounding for a week, the impatience for untruths, and then I bust a nut and now am about to sleep. Everyday still turns out good.