In ten days, I will be in Istanbul. A couple days past that date, I will land in Rome. I am thinking toward those days but more so I am thinking toward days past those, about what it is I want to do with this life of mine, how to fashion it into something more enjoyable.
My aunt Molly asked me in Florida if I was happy, meaning in life; we were drunk. I told her that I was kind of happy. She told me that I couldn't just be kind of happy, that I needed to be happy with my life, that it was so short, that I needed to make it a life that would make me happy. We talked about romance, more than jobs, but now my thoughts are swinging more toward jobs. There were more than a couple moments today where I asked myself how much longer I can do this, how much longer I can point on a map directions, or how much longer I can direct people to the bathroom, or how much longer I can tell people that their room is not ready to check into yet. These interactions are really starting to grate on me more and more. I am thinking about what other jobs I could possibly do. I am also seriously weighing whether or not to move to LA. I have never been so conflicted about a decision. I absolutely love New York. I also hate New York. But that's usually the best type of romance to be in, one with wild swings both ways - something that inspires some sort of passion. Can I rip it all up and start over in a new city? There is also a lot of fear about things not working out there or me hating it or a million other things. But then there is also the other side of that - the giddiness that overcomes me when I think about sunshine and a new city to explore and endless Mexican food and all new boys to get crushes on and then to lose interest in. I absolutely have no clue what I am doing with my life, and yes, dear readers, you are saying, wise or cunty things that you are, that that is nothing new, that when have you ever known what you were doing with your life. And touché, I will say. Touché.
After work, I went and worked out for the first time in a week. It felt great. I am sure about very little, but love the feeling of accomplishment, of energy exerted, of purpose, I get from going to the gym. I sat in the steam room after. This guy that I have messed around with a couple of times came in. We soon started jerking off. I moved next to him. I sucked his dick. He sucked mine. He was noisy about it and I tried to make quiet shushing noises, very worried that someone would hear, that I would be thrown out of this straight gym in humiliation. This guy is a weird guy, a muscly exhibitionist, and he did not quiet down at all. I was nervous and yet also incredibly turned on. I came as quickly as I could. He reached out his hand and took my come on his hand. He licked it off his palm and smiled at me.
I ate a burrito last night and was raving about it today to my friend Carlos. He told me I should start a blog about burritos, that half the pictures on my Instagram are about burritos. I had considered a project similar to this when I moved to this apartment, excited by all the new Mexican places to try here, but hearing his suggestion today brought back forth the dream. The motion had been seconded, an excuse to go even more crazy with the burrito eating found.
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