CASSANDRA GORGEOUS

Dear Diary

Help me.  I’m not sure if I know how to write interesting stuff anymore.  But I try!  I try really hard.  In fact, I get stoned almost EVERYDAY.  It’s not for my personal enjoyment, I tell myself.  It’s for my art. 

My art is a crusade: to find meaning (where there is none); to give life (to what should remain dead); and to connect the dots.  At times I feel like I’m trying to find hidden meaning in polka dots.  It’s like how they spun the stories of the constellations.  Haven’t you wondered how they came up with all these detailed images [what does a hunter’s belt look like, anyways?] and the complex story line [invincibility, poisoning, love, misunderstanding, death, immortality] – all of this – from just a few stars? 

Two words: Mush. Rooms.

Give me just a few meaningful side glances and I can construct a fantasy of an entire lifetime together.  That’s the power of weed for me.  I stone it hard!  Yet, for all my valiant efforts at enlightenment, all I seem to stimulate are my taste buds.  And an ever expanding waist line. 

At times I wonder if my feeble attempts at writing are just an excuse to make my life seem more interesting than it really is.  For example, the other day I bought a couple of new dresses that I was quite excited about.  That night, Mr. Skin Head texted to let me know how hot our last date was.  He asked if I wanted him to come over again.

The answer is always sure!  And then I’d follow up with the request if he could bring *something*.  Then he would text back and say sure, how much?  That was our ritual.

I did not bring up the issue of price this time.  I suppose he was all too willing not to bring it up on his own initiative either.  I don’t blame him.  I just looked online and it’s worth a roundtrip airfare from San Francisco to Fort Lauderdale for spring break. 

Strangely enough, doing pro bono work gave me a distinct sense of excitement, and, dare I say, enlightenment.  Oh My GOD I finally have my book proposal: a tranny top hooker who falls in love with her client! I was so excited I even had my notepad at the side of my bed during the session.  In case there was an image – or a thought – that was so hauntingly beautiful I had to capture it in words, at that very moment, lest it be lost to literature forever.  Something very poetic, subtle yet powerful: like me gazing intently at the lower lashes of my left eye the moment when I realized love has happened to me. 

That’s my impression of writers and poets: they notice really weird, banal stuff in moments of historical importance.  It’s why I am destined to be a Penguin Classic.  Joining the ranks of Madame Bovary.  Lolita.  Mary Magdalene.  Carrie Broadshaw.  And now, Cassandra Gorgeous. 

Sigh.

I don’t know why I do this to myself.  Why do I get so carried away in my imagination when reality is so mundane?  You know Ernest Hemingway killed himself, right?  I think his imagination got the best of him, too.  He just couldn’t deal with reality anymore.

The other day when I had an argument with Reuben I threatened him with suicide.  He said, Fine, just don’t do it in the house. 

He added, I pick up after your ass enough as it is. 

And, just in case his message wasn’t clear, he said, Bitch, you leave behind a mess when you go and I will personally mutilate your corpse. 

With friends like him…  I know: no wonder my life is a tragedy.

But getting back to Mister Skin Head.  The sex was just alright.  In fact, it was our least hot encounter.  Ever.  And I had such high expectations.  I kept trying to find that connection.  Let me get carried away by a thought, an image.  Please, give me something to write about at least.  I am doing it for free after all can I at least get a blog post out of it.

But nothing.  He didn’t even take a shower beforehand.  His crotch smelled musky.  He got so excited by me agreeing to see him for free he came straight from work.  When I asked him where he worked he looked sheepish and mumbled something about downtown.  AS IF! I would actually visit him there and embarrass the both of us in public. 

Sometimes there are no hidden meanings.

No matter how hard you look for it.

Sometimes polka dots are just polka dots.

A booty call is just a booty call.

The sex was definitely hotter when I charged for it. 

Definitely.