There is still a couch sitting in the middle of my apartment.
You have to step over several boxes just to get from the living room to the bathroom
the couch juts into the kitchen and partially blocks the front door.
The sink is full of dishes and the table full of clutter.
blankets, jackets, old newspapers trash and dust everywhere.
my apartment reflects my state of mind, usually, and especially so today.
Blocked up, dirty and tired.
After working an incredibly long shift last night, I was supposed to meet Ivar at the Acropolis strip club. I went, but arrived about 1 am and he wasn’t there. I was in my unbuttoned tux shirt, bowtie hanging askew, black pants and dress shoes. I sat myself down in front of a tattoed dancer with pierced nipples and black hair, sat back and lit a ciggarette. I expected this kind of thing to make me nervous, alone in a strip club for the first time, 5 or 10 years younger than most other occupants. But I found it surprisingly easy to play the game, to sit back and sip my beer ohso casually, the practiced exhale of smoke, staring at nothing but the dancers black eye pits and she leaned in close to my dollar bill saying “My, aren’t you dolled up nice” Wiggling her various moneymakers awkwardly to the hardrock soundtrack, her tattooed body shimmering in the blacklight. Locked her gaze to explain that I wasn’t dressed up, I was in my work uniform. “So am I.” She said.

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