User talk:Kidtiger1319

Nice to hear from you again, verily.

Please understand, though, that I don't necessarily expect expedient replies from you; I understand you're busy. Sometimes I like to tap a few notes out to my peoples to resist fading completely from context. Motives may vary. Lately there has been sadness over my loss of worthy correspondents. Though you are a good writer, I gather you have neither the time nor the inclination to type out the daily minutia to some feckless blonde who seeks nearly every avenue available, including writing, to avoid getting her shit together. So, I guess what I'm saying is, I may babble on for a bit, feel free to reply, or not, at your leisure, savvy?

There was a kid from London who I wrote to like mad before arriving in London. The month or two before I left however, writing on his end dried up considerably because he had become serious with some French woman who had jealousy issues. Not that he and I had even met in person, not that it was even about that. But I reckon he figured it was best not to tempt fate. Thus, we never got together while I was there. A month after coming back to LA I get an email from him with his profuse apologies for the absence of enthusiastic requests on his end to meet up and have a goddamned drink at long last. Oh, and had the dispute with the filmmaker resolved itself? Oh, and just how was I getting along anyway? Christ. Ditto on the ex boyfriend from Liverpool who couldn't be available for contact because of the girlfriend. A month after I get back he writes me, bitching about her, and postulating maybe coming by and visiting me in that pub I was working at after all. Aces. And that one "friend" of mine who upset me that one night at your place after his requesting I take him off my emailing list; he pops up via net last week saying he was going to be in London on Saturday if I wanted to see him.

You're so metazoan.

Leave the Fabian society where it belongs.

Hello again, stranger in the night

Well baby doll, I just finished taking a big gulp of a rum and coke. This is quite the pisser, you doing this all now. Getting in touch I mean. Funnily enough, just a few days ago I got an email from another friend who remained entirely MIA while I was in London. Yeah, I'm back in the States. I'm back in L.A. just having written this to my other friend in response:

"Hello again, stranger in the night

Well, I suppose you should know, first off, I'm back in Los Angeles. I'm not too entirely thrilled with this outcome, but my stab into London became a farce too big to sustain itself. After Janus kicked me out for my egregious lack of leg-spreading, after living out of a hostel, after getting completely fucked over by two employers because without me having a work permit they could do whatever they wanted to me without repercussions, after acquiring lovers to stay with not out of desire but necessity, after finding out my Polish passport which would allow me to work legally anywhere in the EU could take up to two years to come through onceI applied, I stood there by the mantel of his fireplace tears glistening idiotically in my scorched-by-hardship eyeballs having just gotten the axe from my second job that night before my cab ride over to his home in Notting Hill and he, the soft-spoken Australian quietly asks me, "How much longer do you want to keep on thrashing about like this?" and I had to wonder, violently, whether trying to do this London thing thisway wasn't just a big fat ridiculous waste of time

That it was an ADVENTURE, of that there could be no question. The Hostel Shower Undertaking, the boss' son shagging, the bank account dehydrating. I washed the dirt off raw potatoes and peeled them with cheap instruments until my hands cramped like some Siberian peasant in an arctic hovel. Two hours later I'd be sans clothes and serene on a chaise longues after having ingested a champagne, ecstasy, and cocaine cocktail, courtesy of my affluent lover. Those nights could never be long enough, though, you understand. Or numerous enough. It was all fine and good to set up shop on Harms Way to see what the adversity would inspire in my writing but my mind was too consumed with the hustle to simply survive to really write much of anything at all, let alone anything approaching quality. I mostly just hastily bashed emails to my near and dear letting them know I wasn't dead, in internet cafes before my shifts started. I remember one poignant moment, where I had, at last, an early evening free and to myself; my laundry was washed and hanging to dry on every available cranny in my room, I had food in the refrigerator, I had a set of keys made, I had traversed the neighborhood on foot and had memorized the bus routes and schedules, and I sat in a swishy Acton pub up the street from the local dive one I worked and lived at, I sat with my pint and my notebook and felt pleased as punch with myself because I had done it. Yes, I was dirt poor, overworked, undernourished, and living in a filthy closet-sized room above a bar, but I was in London, I was LIVING in London. Living in London about to write about all the painfully retarded shit I had willfully subjected myself to in the interests of living a life less ordinary with the thought 'we'll see how brave you are' pulsating from the hot loaves of my brain."

And so on. And so forth. Two nights later I was out of a job. Again. The pub owners, a middle-aged couple, were going throught a divorce. The husband lived on site. It just so happened that the week I got hired was the week they reached a divorce settlement. His cow of a wife decided that out of the three pubs they owned the pub that I worked at was the one she wanted to take over. Ergo, she kicks out her husband, and since she now needed someone with a manager's license on site, and I obviously didn't have one, out I went too. If I ever finish writing that email to my correspondent, my MIA correspondent, I would go on to say that in that moment with my affluent Australian lover, by his fireplace in Notting Hill I felt the overwhelming urge to be decisive, practical, sane, Pan help me and figured despite my childish willfullness, despite my dear ones rooting for me, despite my flagrant desire to stay, that coming home to regroup was my best bet. I could've taken the 300 quid I had to my name and bashed on into a third job situation but it would've been more of the same. Every moment waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me. Having no rights, no security. I wondered if my foray into London's maw wasn't just yet another distraction perpetrated upon my own self to continue refusing adulthood. My inner child stubbornly refusing to relinquish the reins to maturity, to begin the long overdue process of of doing what I need to do for myself as opposed to what I want to do for myself. All the while home goaded me with sunshine and comfort and Mexican food. Home with my miraculous friends, with my boy in every port, with half the tabloids, and one-third the racism. So, slip-slap, the ticket was bought and here I am back in America and her embarrassment of mundane riches. So it goes.

And you give me this! You having no idea how much I needed you because you didn't bother to ask. You being so flagrantly bored with your girlfriend after four years, and rightly so. Willing to visit me now while it's convenient for you. Thanks. I feel special. It's sad really how seldom people even notice how shit they're being.

I don't know why I always give you such a hard time. There is no heat behind my jabs. Is it force of habit? The persona I don when writing you, always the scorned and disappointed mistress? I would have been thrilled to see you.

Still, I know despite the lengthiness of your rant, now that I am back here all those miles away, any interest or inspiration you had to write me again will dry up. It is well known that the male species is by and large far too myopic to devote time and energy to something with vague returns on their, say we say, investments. And perhaps rightly so. Naturally there is no poetry in this kind of living, no imagination, indulgence, or whimsy--but if we had the majority of the male population trying to have their intellect and creativity seduced instead of concentrating on sticking their wangs into the nearest and most convenient female, then the proliferation of human beings on this planet would cease to exist as we know it. This is my dream, but I realize I don't share it with many. The majority of us, the great herd of half-wits, the vulgus, will not rest until we have swarmed the globe and everything beautiful is destroyed.

So in a week or so I will have been back for two months, almost as long as I was gone. The mountains of dust I kicked up is all beginning to settle, albeit slowly. After a couple weeks r&r I found a job that pays a bit more than I was making before I left the States, and it is within the training department, so hopefully I can incorporate the experience into teaching full time, which I hope to begin doing within the next couple of years, after I take a series of tests and begin getting my credentials. It saddens me immensely that such a banal job opportunity, one that I would have sold my soul for a million times over in London but was nearly impossible, was acheived here with a single phone call. All I wanted to do was to have adventures and write. I do much of that here but it comes devoid of the childlike wonder I experienced in Europe with London as my spring board. Here is the end of the West. Here inspiration has to be sand-blasted from the mines. They say there is gold in them there hills.