Tag Archives: blogging

Breaking Up And Fargo


This will be a long post due to the volume of things that happened in Fargo.

The trip to Fargo, ND, was a long and windy ride on that freight train. With nothing but booze and hand-rolled cigarettes, the six of us hunkered down for the trip, holding our dogs close and our thoughts closer. Four hours into the ride, as night was starting to creep on from the west, Tiddly said she needed to talk to me. Retreating to the far end of the still slightly cramped ride, we let the wind chafe our faces as we yelled over the din.

She told me it was time to break up. She said that she loved me and wanted to be with me but wasn’t comfortable having a girlfriend on the road. I was, as always, completely unprepared for the heartbreak. I mean, come on. I had just left everything I had known on a freight train across the country and the girl who was the tipping point of me leaving was telling me she couldn’t really be with me anymore.

I thought I took it well until a few days later when I realized how much that all fucking hurt. Pulling into Fargo was probably one of the most desolate bummers ever. Climbing off a train in a rain-soaked town at 2am and wondering where the hell you are is not always the most fun business to be engaged in. But there I was, shivering after a cold and uncomfortable ride out of the state I had called my home for a year. Let’s talk about Fargo.

Five miles past the Minnesota/North Dakota border, there lies the largest city in all of North Dakota. With a booming population of just over 113,000, this flat, architecturally boring city would be my home for the next nine days. We had hopped off the train by an old abandoned cooling factory of some sort and had walked to find out where we actually were. We then hunkered down and slept behind a building right next to it, facing the tracks. Tired and running out booze, no one was quite in the mood for a celebration, and loud Diablo was giving everyone a headache (sorry buddy).

We were running short on everything and subsequently grumpy the following morning as we rose with the sun to get our shit in order. Nearby was an apartment complex whose dumpsters would later become an awesome food source – once we dug past the rotting fruits, meats, and maggots.

For the day, though, we all went out to try to make some money. We rallied up enough for more booze, smokes, and a bit of food. There was an Asian Grocery around the corner that sold the most delicious fried fish in a can. We were hooked on the stuff. We continued flying signs and working all day and then went back to the hop out (or what we thought was the hop-out – oooh foreshadowing). The next day was another day of flying signs, buying booze, and eating fried fish.

While out flying a sign, Diablo and I were approached by a guy who gave us a water bottle full of wine and half a pack of smokes. He then took us into a thrift shop and bought me a nice heavy button-up for the cold weather ahead. He was waiting for his old best friend from high school to show up and once she did, all of us got the invite to go back to her house and drink beer and crash. It was fun at first until home-dude (Mark) got drunk, kept accidentally flashing his balls, and had a panic attack.

Here’s what we didn’t know about the situation: Mark was a long-time tweaker before he got clean and moved back to Fargo to try to rediscover his place in the world. Having done Meth for so long, his brain was a little bit fucked up and he was convinced that a number that called him that day was some kind of mafia coming after him. And I mean, that’s all fine, we all have our baggage, but this was a next level freak attack that felt strange and threatening. Dina, who was the woman who invited us back to her house, said that she didn’t even recognize a bit of who he used to be in high school and that she needed him out. It was a long and arduous process ending in him storming off and saying that if anyone had tried to throw a punch, he had a 9mm in his pants and he wasn’t afraid to use it.

We all were perfectly aware that all he had in his pants were a pair of sweaty balls and a lot of regret.

After two nights crashing at that house, the gang letting my dog run away twice, and a strange, strange yard sale, Tiddly got sick of being there and wanted to leave and Diablo and I were feeling much the same way. Under the impression that we were going to leave that day, the three of us got super angry and burnt out after realizing that the other three wanted to stick around for longer, so we left at night. It was a miserable shitshow.

After walking back to where we had started, we sat waiting for a train for a few hours and then went to sleep, only to be showered with gallon upon gallon of cold, pouring rain. We beat a hasty retreat to the deck of the old nearby feed mill and tried to dry off as much as possible. While drying off, Tiddly was drying out and her detox shakes and puking were getting the best of her. Diablo and I scraped up enough money for a bit of coffee and breakfast and brought it back and eventually we were dry enough and alive enough to move on.

We had an awesome day of making money. We were up on our luck and feeling a lot better, but then the rest of the group showed back up and we spent all of our money – no surprise – on booze and food for them. We all spent the night back at the first place we had slept and – luckily enough – it didn’t rain.

The following day was hot and muggy, and we all retreated underneath an underpass bridge where everyone except for me got drunk. I had been spending a lot of time thinking at that point and I had written a letter to Tiddly and enclosed a ring I had worn for a couple of years. I don’t know what she’s done with it now. We tried to make some money, rather unsuccessfully, and were wasting most of the day away when the cops showed up on a complaint of us blocking the walk path.

Drunken Diablo got a court summons and now has a bench warrant in Fargo. Silly man was so drunk he thought he could confuse and distract the cops with fake names and bad lies. We had enough money to buy booze or drugs, so Andy went off on a mission to find and buy 40 dollars worth of Meth and so we had to go look for him. We were casually sitting near a sidewalk with all of the dogs when life went to shit.

A homebum approached us and shared beer with us and seemed really alright until he started getting all strange and sexual with Beth and I. Everyone told him to leave and he got aggressive and Diablo was fucking with him – still drunk – and kind of taking his side. It turned into a fight where Brad tore off his shirt and hit the dude. Cue Andy showing back up. He asked what was going on and Bud replied: “This FUCKER!”.

That was enough for Andy and turned and swung on the dude with all of his might. Tiddly, Brad, Diablo, and Andy chased him under the bridge, Diablo trying to defend the dude the whole time. I was left taking care of five dogs and one super passed out Sam. I desperately tried to wake Sam up and tell him it was time for all of us to kick rocks but he was unresponsive.

A few minutes later, everyone came out from under the bridge super pissed. The homebum had broken a bottle in half and tried to slice Tiddly’s throat with it and Andy had jumped in the way and gotten sliced to hell. His arms had deep ugly gashes in them and we pulled out a med kit and tried to patch him up. We thought everything was over and we were screaming at Diablo about loyalty to the people you travel with. He was straight up defending this guy and saying he didn’t deserve to get the shit beaten out of him after sexually harassing us and then trying to kill Tiddly. Silly, drunk, Diablo and his honor system (which he would lose later down the road)

We knocked some sense into Diablo and then we saw…dun dun dun…the homebum circling back. That’s when Diablo, going wild with his sharpened butter knife he had named ‘Starslayer’ chased the guy across the road, wrapped his arms around the dude’s torso, and stabbed him three times. Cops and ambulances showed up and we got off with no charges but dear Sam, still passed out, was taken to Detox after finally being woken up and responding ‘potato’ to the question  ‘what year is it?’

We kept his puppy safe for him while he was gone and went back to the first spot we had crashed – again – and waited for him to get out. Luckily the cops in Fargo didn’t mind us, but told us to stay totally hidden until we left because they didn’t want any more trouble with us. While hidden, shenanigans ensued. Diablo passed out drunk and so we sharpied his entire face and then did a photoshoot. We just fucked around the whole time.

We also heard Andy’s story of his search for Meth. He had ended up a couple of miles away at a Skate Park petitioning teenagers to sell him their Adderall, with them all turning him down because it was summer and they didn’t get new prescriptions until the school year started. Endless jokes would be made about Andy hanging out with high schoolers to try to score drugs.

A day and a half later Sam showed up and we went dumpster diving and found a mattress and a shit ton of food. In celebration, after everyone else was passed out, Sam, Tiddly, and I got trashed and I woke up the next morning with a killer hangover. I slept all day on the mattress in a sports bra and boxers and got a horrible sunburn. Sick and sunburned, we all moved into shade and then down camp underneath a semi truck about a mile away. Drunken shenanigans ensued again as Diablo, trashed as hell, claimed he had a nine inch dick and we all petitioned him to prove it.

Heading to the other end of the semi with a porno in hand, he got ready for the ‘great showing’. Not quite nine inches, but still a good show. Have I mentioned that traveling has a lot to do with showing your dick? This is the part when I wish I hadn’t lost my camera later on the road because I had so many good pictures of a whole group of drunken assholes showing their dirty assholes for a good photo.

That was, technically, the last night we spent in Fargo. There are other fun little details of the stay in Fargo, but that covers most of it (and all of the important shit), so we now move on. Waking up under a semi is a hazard to the safety of your head when you sit up too fast and almost concuss yourself early in the morning. All of us together and not too rough for wear, we were ready to leave and now knew that Fargo wasn’t the place to do it.

My first city on a line of hopping trains had burnt itself out and, between the hot days and rainy nights, the knowledge that we were no longer welcome in town and our bad attitudes, we needed to leave as soon as possible.

We had obtained information that a better place to hop out was somewhere in Moorhead-Dillworth and so we resigned ourselves to suffering for the rest of the day as we began our hot, blistering, five mile walk…right back into Minnesota.

Advertisements

Skipping Town


Now, where was I? On August twelfth, 2014, my life began to change (FOREVER, DUN DUN DUN) for real this time. Having cleared everything up with the landlord – and having vouched for a good room mate who could watch the house while I was gone – all there was left to do was wait for my girlfriend to get into town. Of course, there were still things to be done around the house – plumbing, electric, rodent extermination, and mattress burning – but that could all wait a couple of days.

She arrived that day, with a troupe of dirty, dog-toting, fiendishly smelly and good looking kids who did not hesitate to inhabit the house. Ten fucking lovely travelers and nine dogs later, we still hadn’t seen the end of the adventure. For a week, our house TRULY transformed into a punk house, despite several layers of paint saying otherwise. Every dirty kid and his mom showed up at least briefly to drink warm beer, smoke cheap cigarettes, experiment with psychedelics, and have a safe place to crash.

The smell in the house transformed from ‘fresh paint’ to ‘dirty underoos’ in about a day and a half, but no one was complaining. These dirty kids sure knew how to drink and they were a wonder to be seen pass-out drunk over a plate of burrito fixings in the kitchen at three in the morning. On top of the competitive drinking, they were actually helpful in fixing up the remainder of the house. With gasoline, hatchets, and matches as equipment, many of us gathered in the back yard to burn chairs, a dirty old mattress, and a couch. The neighbors borrowed us their hose to keep it under control. Flames reached shocking heights. The evidence was disposed of.

I mean…

Next was the beehive(s). Up on the roof, bees had infiltrated the ventilation system and needed to be dealt with. The tools for this job were

– One can of Ant Raid

– One large wrench

– Five gallons of water

– A video-camera

Climbing out onto the roof in a sports bra and a pair of dirty shorts, I was the second person to approach the bee situation. Lots of pointless wrench-banging, a few beers, and, surprisingly, NO bee-stings later, I had successfully outlawed the bees.

All while my drunk girlfriend laughed from the yard below. It was a good time in that final week of the house. Video games were played, work was done, songs were sung, signs were flown, tits were shown…it was all fine and well and dandy right up until the part where we were packing and leaving, which was more sad than anything else.

Diablo and I both got our bags fully packed on August 17th. The dirty kids that had assembled had begun dispersing, and we were down to the core group of friends and travelers. The ones we had to say goodbye to as we said hello to a new lifestyle with a bunch of tramps (oh, tramp is someone who travels all homeless-like without picking up work along the way. That’s the separation between tramp and hobo).

We had our final beers, did our final house painting, and left the house for good on the morning of August eighteenth. With my dog at my side, a backpack chilling on my shoulders, and four road dogs to kick it with, I was feeling pretty okay. It was, however, a long trip to the hop out, with way too many stops along the way, and by the time we got to where we were trying to go, we had one more road dog (and his puppy), no cigarettes, and not much beer.

There started my life of traveling. Migrating under a train bridge, we waited. We learned about trains and what rides were, well, ride able. We learned the names of the train units, the train companies, and rail safety. We learned what a ‘fire drill’ was and to ALWAYS keep your shit on hand when waiting for a train. It was train-riding 101, and we were drunkenly learning the ropes.

On August nineteenth, a train going our direction stopped, and my girlfriend and I ran alongside it for a few minutes before finding a ride. We had gotten my dog and both of our packs on the train when it started airing up (the brakes of a train work on a tension system where air is what pushes the brakes UP so that the train can start moving). We knew we didn’t have much time. Tiddly (the girlfriend at the time) hurried to lift her eighty plus pound dog on the train but to no avail. The harness slipped off of her body and she dropped to the ground as the train started moving too fast to hop off. We watched Girl (the dog) run alongside the train as it sped up and then we lost sight of her.

Cue horror movie sad music, lots of crying and puking, and two VERY sad people. We wondered what the hell was going to happen to Girl and what the hell would happen to us when our other road dogs found out. There is a code for hopping trains: Dog, Pack, You. That’s the order in which you get on the train. In the rush and excitement of taking her girlfriend on her first train, Tiddly had forgotten.

Luckily, the train slowed and came to a stop in Northeast Minneapolis. As we were rolling to a stop, my phone started ringing. It was one of the people we were planning on hopping out with and he was screaming that he found Girl and that she was torn up as fuck and that we needed to get our asses off of the train.

Thinking the worst, Tiddly panicked. I started making phone calls. Twenty minutes later, my dear friend Morgan was picking us up and driving us to where all of the other kids were. Talk about friends having your back in an emergency. We approached a seemingly dire situation. Girl was laid out on the ground and everyone was sitting around her. Approaching, we found that she had been clipped by a part of the train – probably a ladder – and she had a huge gash on her side.

We did all we could. Poured hydrogen peroxide on it and then bandaged it up – it was too late at night to head to a vet. We could only hope she would be fine.

We moved to a different hop-out spot that night, went to sleep, and woke up early in the morning. After refilling our water, making sure Girl was okay, and collecting our wits, we started waiting on trains again. The day was August Twentieth, and it was about two pm when our train finally rolled in.

A big, hulking, mass of steel and energy, the Inter-modal Train that rolled to a stop right in front of us was a beauty. Carted by Burlington Northern Santa Fe (BNSF), this massive cargo hold was our land-ship, and we did not hesitate to take our chances with her.

We found a ride where all of us fit and could stay hidden and then the train took off, only to slow down and roll to a stop directly in the middle of the train yard. For two hours, we waited. Voices hushed, fingers quietly rolling cigarettes that we couldn’t smoke, we all sat in tension, hoping that we wouldn’t get pulled off of our ride. Voices approached and footsteps sounded against ballast rocks, but no one came, and finally – FINALLY – we were on our way.

We were heading west, into a metaphorical sunset. Embarking on a journey that could result in our doom. In train riding culture, ‘catching the westbound’ is a term for dying, and I do not deny the fact that there, on my first freight train, parts of me were heading west for good.

The Angry Landlord and the Quick Save


I think it’s time to talk about the owner of the house I was living in at the time, because this is a very important part of the story, and an inspiring one. Diablo’s cousin, who owned the house, had let him rent it for 300 a month with the agreement that he would fix a couple of little things to make the entire house sellable.

Now, I love my dear Diablo, but he is irresponsible to an extreme, and he managed to pull me into that irresponsibility. When I arrived at the house for the first party, it was in kind of bad shape. The carpet in the living room had been ripped out, revealing ugly, damaged floorboards. The living room walls were covered in various colors of paint and small amounts of graffiti. The carpets upstairs had been slightly tarnished. There was a room specifically for trash that smelled like, well, the inside of a dumpster.

By the time mid-July rolled around, we had only damaged the house more. The shower had been broken, the living room walls were covered in sharpie – hundreds of phone numbers, drawings, and tags that gave the HoG its appeal. For us, it was beautiful. An entire room filled with stunning imagery and contact information from some of the most creative, wonderful people we had ever met. A wall dedicated to a dramatic day-by-day, play-by-play of the house. The tags had started to spread into the kitchen. The trash room was overflowing. The upstairs carpets were done for. The walls that hadn’t been tarnished by sharpie had been marked by dirty, oily hands and blood.

Blood – the entry way to the stairs leading to the bedrooms had been tagged with someone’s blood at a party that got a little too out of hand. ‘Fuck life’ was smeared across the previously untouched wall in an angsty scrawl. Outside, there were couches, chairs, and a mattress soiling the lawn. The vines had overgrown, the grass had been torn up by the feet of hundreds of little punks, and the flowerbeds were in a state of weedy disrepair.

Screens had been busted out of windows, the electricity had gone out in one upstairs room, muddy boot-steps led out a window and onto the roof.

Beer cans and cigarette butts lay strewn as far as the eye could see, piled creatively in flower pots and stacked in pyramids wherever there was free space. Broken bottles lay scattered on the overgrown back walk, the roof was covered in an assortment of used condoms, random snacks, blankets, and other waste products. A doggie chew-toy hung over the stoop from a gutter, and the front door no longer possessed a door handle.

We had become the true epitome of punk house. Warm, flat beer, people who smelled bad, and blood-smeared walls. Our stink defined the neighborhood, put a new spin on ‘you smell good’ and invited trouble we could not have imagined when we first started. We saw it all as a creative mess, a natural disaster, the perfect aesthetic. The landlord saw it a little differently. Phrases that come to mind immediately are ‘terrible’, ‘oh my god what happened to my house’ and ‘oh no no no no no no no NO’.

This incredible woman who had been so kind to let Diablo stay in that house was in the business of flipping properties and using the money to build schools. By trashing the house, we were, effectively, stealing opportunities for education from young minds. I had no idea, and neither did she. We had lived by the subconscious vibe of ‘what we don’t know won’t hurt us’, but upon her arrival, we changed our tune to ‘what have we done, we’ve made fools of everyone’.

We had only gotten the opportunity to screw things up so royally because she had been gone for a couple of months and wasn’t regularly checking up on the house. She had no idea anything had happened and she was under the impression that only Diablo lived there. She was in for a surprise. At the time she returned, Diablo had adopted not one but two room mates that were not paying rent and effectively draining the pockets of society.

She would not come to know this. Her arrival at the house was a dramatic one. As I washed dishes and Diablo played Super Smash, we heard a knock on the door. Dun dun dun, our doom was fast approaching. Diablo stood and went to check who it was, immediately freezing up and freaking out.

“Do not tell her you live here. Say you’re visiting.” He hurriedly whispered as a sense of dread fell over the entire house and at least three nearby neighborhoods.

A quick salute, a calming breath, and the sound of a door opening later, we were in big trouble. Tears filled her eyes as she got a first-hand look at what atrocities teenagers given responsibility were capable of. She toured the house and then took a moment to compose herself before expressing her anger, disappointment, and worry to Diablo. She was tempted to kick him out on the spot, black-list him to the rest of his family, even have his car sold to pay for damages.

He was incapable of defending himself or calming her down. it was time for someone to step in.

“Hey, I know you have no idea who I am, but I’m a close friend of Diablo’s, and I came over to help him out cleaning up. I have to take some responsibility for the mess in the first place, but trust me when I say that I have been over here a lot helping to reign the dear boy in. I have come to see this house as a safe place, and many others have, too, so I am willing to put in work to make you happy and allow him to keep the house.”

Her face relaxed slightly. I went on to tell her that my father had trained me to be a house painter, that there were many people who cared about the house, and that we would invest time and effort into making it sellable once again. The guarded look on her face and her hesitation to trust a stranger were overcome by a realization of how deep of a hole she would be in if she didn’t accept a little bit of help.

She decided to give HoG a chance. She decided to give me a chance. She knew Diablo would be going out of town that weekend and she asked if I could house-sit for a few days, which would give me more time to help clean up. I accepted, and we were off on the biggest cleaning mission I had ever agreed to – and the cleaning of my childhood room was no joke.

I had a week to prove to her that I could make the house a good place again. Just one week to make a drastic change that would determine the fate of the House of God.

I was ready.

The Bell Tower


As we make the leap over the cusp of June and into the insanity of July, I would like to rescind a statement I made in my previous posting.The last night I got drunk in the HoG was mentioned in ‘The First Stroke of Luck’, detailing a night on a day of independence in America that I got pretty wasted. Whether it was fueled by the Wild Turkey or my disdain for an entirely dependent country celebrating Independence all of these years after a now almost pointless event, my body was intent on getting trashed.

We sailed through July with very few choppy waters. A man who’s name sounded like the word ‘Sin’ took us over to the church and showed us how to get up to the bell tower, where we were told we were always welcome. It was a series of shaky ladders and bird feces-covered rails to end up in a small room with a ceiling that you pushed up to climb one last, short ladder, and emerge into the light (or dark, depending on the time of night we went) of St Paul.

The church was old and tall, and from its highest height, we could see for at least a mile on each side as we stood on semi-stable antique floor-boards and sat in an old exercise chair that was perched in the bell tower for no discernible reason at all.

The bell tower became a place for romance, mid-acid trip meditations, and a sense of peace. Diablo and I would take special guests, two at a time, to view St Paul from an angle they hadn’t yet experienced. Hands were held, breaths were caught carefully in the backs of throats, and chaste kisses were shared under the near-starless metropolitan sky.

It became a symbol of hope for lost party-goers, a sign that they had gotten off at the right light rail stop or that they hadn’t driven too far. The church itself was open all hours of the night, and became a sort of quieter refuge from the lights, sounds, and people of the sometimes too outrageous parties.

A grand piano was stationed at the back of the church, along with a drum kit and a ceiling built for acoustics. We would often spend time in the bell tower before retreating below to the relative safety of the kindest-feeling church pews I have ever rested on. For the first time in my life, and in the lives of several others, a church was a safe spot, a true refuge from all of our worries.

As a pretty liberal queer individual with a social circle that had various reasons for avoiding churches, it was a really strange, beautiful thing to have a home away from home in the sort of building that had shaped so many of our lives in a negative fashion. What was this church that offered true acceptance for all and praised those who helped people truly in need?

Insane that my first brush with real Christianity didn’t occur until I was almost twenty years old, running a punk party house in a terrible part of town. Throughout my childhood, I had been shown many times that Christianity was corrupt and demanding. My parents, Agnostic to the bone, allowed myself and all of my siblings make our own choices but, at five years old when your best friend says she can’t be friends with you because if you’re not Christian, you worship the devil, I had made up my mind.

As I grew and learned about religions and cultures from all over the world, my closed mind on the subject of Christianity ever so slowly began to melt away. Regardless, I was still stunned at the kindness and acceptance of the people at Church. With almost nothing in their pockets, they still gave everything they had. With almost no family in the area, they built a family. While I remain unaligned with any religion, I am proud to say that I became a part of that family.

The bell tower was a symbol of hope for lost people, the church a place of peace for overwhelmed souls, and the people of the church a gleaming light in a sky of black, giving faith to many people that had grown to believe that the entire religion of Christianity had become corrupt and close-minded.

Every day, more and more, I was finding myself confident and at peace with myself. I had a good place to live, good friends, a good community, and damn good parties. My life was straight out of a movie. I was the slightly overweight, slightly outdated girl that ended up a small celebrity. I was the charming underdog who pulled incredible romances from hats like a talented magician. I had everything I could have ever wanted and…

I was still not satisfied.

Explanations and ‘The House of God’


So there I was, living in a party house in St Paul that got more and more popular by the day. I was receiving Facebook messages from friends of friends of friends asking if they could attend one of my parties. Finally, the hopes and dreams of fifteen year-old Telea had been accomplished. I was the host and resident of one of the most popular party houses in the Twin Cities, and I was gaining rapport by hour.

Now, time for an explanation:

When I initially became homeless on June 2nd, I had a cute, short,  train-hopping girlfriend who I had last seen about a week and a half before I was kicked out. As soon as I got kicked out, I asked her if she would come back to the Twin Cities to take me train hopping. Her response was awesome, to say the least. She got so incredibly excited, and promised to be back by the start of July.

So, my stay at Diablo’s house was, indeed, just supposed to be a very short while. We initially settled on three weeks, but when my girlfriend kept getting delayed, it became an open-ended departure from the house. Basically: “Stay as long as you want, don’t break much, and throw good parties.”

I was pretty sure I could handle that. In our first 30 days of solid parties, we threw FOUR big parties, (and 26 parties of varying sizes), once every weekend up to the weekend of July 6th. The first one was a spur-of-the-moment decision that just so happened to work out well. The second was scheduled over Pride Weekend, the third was basically a Pride Afterparty (as in ‘The-Weekend-After-Pride-Party) and the fourth was a party celebrating 30 days of Partying.

On Pride weekend, my friends Alice and Xaundra went with me to the festival before the big party showdown. On our way to Loring Park, we ran into a handsome Dirty Kid sitting shirtless on Nicollet Ave, playing a banjo. We decided to say hello, and found out his name was Joe and that he was working in Wisconsin on an organic farm for the summer. He told us he usually rubber tramped it around the country in a big old van. We parted ways, hoping to see him again at Pride.

The second we walked into the park, it started pouring rain. Just a violent downpour that soaked us to the bone in 0.5 seconds. We took cover under the nearest tree, and so did our dirty friend Joe. He noticed that I had a Ukulele, and I played him a song. After a couple more minutes, Xaundra and Alice decided to go back to the house early instead of braving the rain, and we promptly invited Joe to come to the party, giving him two phone numbers to contact should he decide to make an appearance. Spoiler alert: he did (which is why that story was important at all).

Alice and Xaundra headed home, taking my Ukulele with them, and I continued through the pouring rain of Pride to meet some cute people and hang out. Within fifteen minutes, the rain had subsided, and while the park was soaked (and partially flooded), the sun AND the people came back out to celebrate.

Joe (later renamed James Franco to avoid confusion with the fifty thousand other Joe’s I know – and because he resembled a young, dirty James Franco) was not the only one who got adopted by the house from Pride. With the weather putting a damper on Pride Weekend, our party got bumped to five pm instead of ten pm. At five pm, I was arriving at the house with about five people I knew and thirty people I had found at Pride.

This party was one that went down in the history of the house. Over two hundred people showed up. There was glitter, laughter, and alcohol EVERYWHERE. It was the party where I discovered that my Ukulele had been left at a bus stop in pouring rain confusion. It was the party where everyone came together in a community like one we hadn’t seen before. It was the first party I stayed totally sober for because of the overwhelming number of people showing up, marking the weekend before as the last party I got drunk at – for the rest of the summer. But most importantly of all, this was the party that gave our house its name.

The House of God.

Explanation time:

At previous slightly-rowdy parties, we told party-goers that when they went outside to smoke a cigarette, they should always yell ‘Glory Hallelujah’ or ‘Amen’ so that the neighbors wouldn’t suspect a party. Rather, they would think it was a rowdy religious gathering. This joke, thought up because we lived across the street from a church and a sober house, ended up giving our house its name that night.

Furthermore, the previous weekend, someone had spray-painted ‘House of Gold’ right over our doorway.

The kind people at the church, Kandra and Rob, a beautiful couple who were planning to get married that October, LOVED us. Rob was the pastor of the church, and Kandra was the super-sweet, wonderful Fiance. Diablo and I made a habit of visiting the church for the good company and the good acoustics (and the semi-exclusive ‘Breakfast in the Basement’ every Tuesday morning – House of God and Church only). They walked into the party FEARLESSLY while it was in full swing to bring all of the party-goers bread, hummus, fresh fruits and veggies, and a huge bowl of delicious pasta salad.

A drunken person, hearing about this, exclaimed that it really WAS a house of god, having not seen that extra letter ‘L’ in the tag job. It was perfect. With sharpies in hand, we promptly fixed what we later called ‘the biggest spelling error of the month’ and named our house ‘House of God’, later to be fondly referred to as the ‘HoG’.

What was even more amazing was that Church (previously known as Kandra and Rob) loved the name. They saw us as a form of missionaries. We were giving all we had to the people, letting people crash at our house, and providing a safe spot for people to be any hour of the day, any day of the week. Regardless of the fact that we allowed alcohol, drugs, and sex to happen in the house on a regular basis, we were thought of by Church as true followers of the lord. They claimed Jesus would be proud to walk with us, and promptly started referring to our house as the House of God to anyone who brought us up.

We were a growing fashion statement. Weekdays were filled with people asking to come over, cigarettes and beer being bought for us as tributes, and plenty of memories. Weekends were even crazier, with people streaming into the house by nine pm for festivities, live music being played, and suddenly being hailed as ‘The Party Gods’.  Waiting for my girlfriend to take me on the road was becoming more and more fun, which, later, left me more and more screwed.

Not Strep and Medical Insurance


So I’ve been struggling with a nasty cough and other stuff for a week or so. After hearing that AniMinneapolis was struck down with the plague of strep, I decided to try to find a free clinic where I could get tested. My mom helped me get pointed in the right direction and I showed up, only to find out it wasn’t a free clinic.

Luckily enough for me, what it was was a place where underemployed or unemployed people could sign up for medical assistance. Being a broke, homeless street kid with not much but college going for me, I obviously qualified in just about five minutes. I am officially insured for the first time since September and damn does my ass feel safer.

I also tested negative for strep, so these icky feelings are probably just a viral infection that has gone on too long because of all of the stress in my life. I have a followup appointment just to make sure I’m not dying or something and then I get to schedule a health check up! Woo hospitals, and by that I mean…nnnnggghhhhhhhhh.

Now I’m sitting in a library utilizing my rights to the free internet so I don’t have to go ‘home’ just yet. It’s an up and down life, Charlie Brown.

My hair, for some stupid reason, now has purple and blue in it. Like I wasn’t already making enough dumb, spur of the moment decisions.

I guess I don’t really have much else to say. I still don’t have a backpack for bumming it and I’m working on deciding what belongings of mine actually have any value and throwing the rest away. It’s a hard knock life but I’ll make it through. Anyway, I just thought I should post some updates now that I’ve decided I’m still somehow a blogger. I don’t know, it seemed appropriate.

Tonight I might go dancing if I decide that’s actually a good idea, but I’ll probably just sleep a lot and cry a little over some weird thing. You know me; over-emotional about the stupidest of things. I’ll probably also try to regulate my diet again. I have been eating one meal a day maximum and that is just not good for the system, especially when you’re trying to recover from a virus.

Anyway, time to head out and find my way back to my current residence. Wishing the best to you all.

 

The ‘Busy’ Month


And by that I mean I’m an asshole who completely forgot about her favorite blog in the whole fucking world. I mean, I guess in a way it’s a happy thing because the happier and more content I am about my life, the less likely I am to have to rant about said life on blog. Which then leaves me with no material and sums up the reason why for months I was on a roll with my life.

Yes, allow that to make you sad. That I was an emotional wreck for the entirety of the time you allowed yourself to snoop into my very public private life. 

But today and yesterday have been very angsty. Super angsty. Especially with a 3 am blog post that turns into a 4 am blog post because you let your fucking dog out for five minutes and she takes off like speedy gonzales and comes home like slowpoke rodriguez. Not cool. Especially when it’s Wisconsin and Spring is still motherfucking WINTER and you’re out in the cold in practically your skivvies trying to track down wanderdog.

Can’t say I fully blame her. I know the feeling of needing to wander. I just wish that she would be sensible, like me, and not take off at motherfucking three in the morning. I am swearing too much and I’m very sorry about all of this.

Graduation is also coming up and my classes are kicking my ass. A lot of it is due to my own procrastination (yes, I failed at my whole motivation and determination spiel), but it is also partially the blame of a Spanish class that is very confusing and a historically inaccurate art appreciation class.

Like come on, everything you said about Van Gogh was wrong. Was he a fucking Renaissance man? NO, MOTHERFUCKERS, HE EXISTED IN THE 1800’S. Did everyone paint in his style during his life? NO MOTHERFUCKERS, HE WAS RIDICULED FOR HIS STYLE AND HIS BRUSHSTROKES. GET YOUR FACTS STRAIGHT ESPECIALLY RIGHT NOW IN THIS TIME OF VAN GOGH MOURNING AND-

Oh wait, you might not know. Van Gogh probably didn’t commit suicide. It is more likely that he got drunk with some teens, one of whom had a cowboy hat and a gun, and got accidentally shot by said (misfiring) gun in the very field where he is said to have taken his own life. You cannot imagine my level of depression over this. Unless you’re really really into Vincent Van Gogh.

So right, I haven’t been busy, more just content but very, very sad. All of the time, even when I am happy or sleeping or eating. Which is weird. Because usually when I’m eating I feel nothing but joy. It’s a ‘problem’. I am very sad and I don’t know why or how to fix it.

My nights have again been becoming increasingly later and my interaction with my friends has been cut down by a lot. Mostly because bad roads…this is Wisconsin, after all. Partially because of state borders…I have probation, after all…and a little bit because friends sometimes really betray you or let you down and that just happened to me.

In a very big, not my fault at all, kind of way. But that is for another time. I hope you lovelies are being safe out there.

Love ya!