we choose our woes.

Now living in Koreatown area, or is it Silverlake, East Hollywood or Wilshire Center? I bought two refrigerators even though we only need one. Alex had a massive U-Haul truck, but for only a day, and I had found only two fridges on Craigslist that were the right size. When we went to the house of the first fridge, in Echo Park, it ended up being much smaller than the man advertised. Why do men always do that? I decided we should buy it anyway, since I hadn't heard back from the other fridge's owner. He seemed guilty almost, for selling us a dinky fridge for $175; I felt stupid for not talking down the price first. Just after we left, wouldn't you know it, the other fridge people called, so we ended up in North Hollywood. That refrigerator was the right size indeed, so I decided we'd buy it also. The fellow had to remove the door of the fridge to get it out of his house. Alex and I loitered in the fellow's living room, browsing an overabundance of animal toys while listening to ferocious barking and meowing pervade from the other room. When we got home, it was discovered that Alex, Tod and I—three men—are too frail to push the big fridge up the stairs to our apartment. Alex suggested we give up and use the small fridge, and Tod agreed. I opted not to give up; I had made every other decision on refrigerators up to this point after all. I called my father for advice. "You gotta have strong men. You three can't do it." So, I went looking on gay.com, and soon enough, some guy who always sends me a message sent me a message. This time I actually responded. "How are you?" "Not so good, I can't move my refrigerator." He was Texan, 36, looked really muscly, and his profile said he weighed about 230. He pushed the fridge up the stairs so easily, Tod and I were hanging at the corners trying to guide it. Then, I asked him if he'd like to get dinner, thinking I would buy his, although ultimately I didn't, because I didn't have the money. We got pho at a little place down Beverly from the apartment. The random fish parts took forever to chew, like rubber, and I ended up swallowing things whole. On the way there, I noticed the leather interior, excess amount of buttons, fancy stereo and GPS equipment, and asked him what he does. He told us he's Morgan Freeman's chauffeur, and then I got him confused with Wesley Snipes, which was awful of me, and then he told me I was "sitting in Morgan's seat."

Tod and I went to a bar with our friend Judd, some British pub down on Wilshire. We were sitting there, minding our own business to mixed drinks, and a 70 year-old man about 6' tall, fit for his age, stumbled in really drunk. I thought, geez, he's living some wild last days. And then another drunken elderly man stumbled in, even older, had a pot belly the size of a bowling ball. Moribund and rotund. Maybe eighty years-old and 250 pounds. He really looked like he was living his last days. Now, I've rarely seen people who looked like they were going to die—I'm instantly brought back to the last time I saw my Aunt Louise—the skin on her ears looked like it was going to just drip right off. This man looked even worse. At one point, he took a dive, flew right into some people's table, banged his head against the hard wood so hard we could hear it, then collapsed. One drunken straight guy cheered, "wooo!" Then the loud murmur of the bar grew quiet as people gathered round. He was dead, I figured. What a way to go. I was happy he went. I only had one drink so far, and I'm in the same bar as him. The same boat as him. Tod and I laughed about something, it seemed right. The man got up again, and resumed his boisterous leaping around in his final days. He looked like the guy on Popeye who eats all the hamburgers, but forty years older. I saw him stumble again. I don't doubt he's dead now.

My housing escape plan was foiled. In a previous entry, I explained how there are only five ways to break the contract with the housing office at CalArts: death/illness, getting kicked out of school, graduating/leave of absence, financial hardship, or marriage. I had planned to write a letter saying that I'm married, not legally, but to a man. Instead, I sublet my dorm to my friend's boyfriend. He was accepted into CalArts but never received an acceptance letter, so he didn't figure out that he was admitted until several months after school started. He's an official student at CalArts now, starting classes just when I want to quit the dorms; it made sense to give him my room. The housing office figured it out, made him move his things out, and today I met with the head of housing. Tina, a bowling-pin shaped woman with a doughy head, told me I had violated the rules, invited an intruder to live in the building and completely jeopardised the safety of the students living on campus. I responded, "okay." She reminded me that I would not be reimbursed for the semester, even though there's no way I can live there. She also said I would never be allowed to live on campus again. I couldn't help but smile in reaction. Now I need to be married to get out of the contract once and for all. I'm giving priority to non-American girls. I figure I can help them as much as they'll be helping me. Contact me if you are interested.