“I only fuck black dudes,” I sneer through a haze of alcohol. Shove him into the cab and stumble on heels head first into the back seat. “This better be worth it.”

So it turns out that tonight’s “fuck of the century” is of the utter emasculation variety. I make him pay for the cab as I throw myself onto the sidewalk, feet first, head up, chin up, shut up. I don’t know why I’m sulking so much about having the opportunity to fuck this anybody, but it’s a surly combination of being drunk and probably some other vague life problem that I thought about too much earlier that day while examining my face up close in the mirror and carefully applying colored powders to various dermal locations. 

In retrospect, we had absconded from the bar a bit earlier than usual. I mean, generally I like to keep my last minute cab rides within shouting distance from last call, but, midnight it was that night. Stumble into his house and wade through the waters of a variety of soiled laundry, discarded Taco Bell wrapping and, probably, somewhere deep down in there, used condoms. Lackluster I let him fuck me for an acceptable amount of time, during which I let him know that he is adequate, and despite his whiteness (meh, it’s San Francisco, pickings are slim out there), it is, for a one night stand satisfactory. He seems to have reached an acceptable level of physically pleasured and tantamountly disgusted by me as I by him. In some disgusting Big Lebowski-esque terry cloth robe, he putzes around his bedroom and treats himself to what he declares is a “stale line of cocaine.” I, in the interim, distract myself by texting my friends an immediate, blow by blow review of the preceding interactions.

Somehow it’s 5 am, so we fall asleep.

The next day, I fuck up. I’m hungover as shit. I’m somewhere out in god knows where in the City, and all of a sudden – omigod, it’s noon. It’s motherfucking noon. I’ve missed the mark by three whole hours. Fuck. He’s already not in the bed, and in my foggy memories I realize it’s probably been hours since I’ve been lying here, and it kinda feels like some sweat-alcohol-humiliation mixture of bodily fluid is oozing out of my pores. 

He comes back in and curtly snaps, “GET UP.” 

To which my appropriate response is, “Uggghhh, I’m sleeping,” which translates appropriately to, “No.” Basically, I”m not getting up. 

He’s huffy. He leaves. Which is all good with me, as I lay there, semi-catatonic, stumbling through arms and fingers. I’m doing one of those morning things, one of those “omigod all I can do right now is lie here because even the tiniest of muscle movements and perhaps even thinking these thoughts right now is sending gigantic sensations of pain coursing through my blood veins.” As though moving my body will be an admission that this hangover is exactly unbearable. So I lie there for an interminable amount of time before I thrash around in this stinky, sticky bed and try to collect absolutely everything I came with. Dreary eyed and looking around, and, then, through the midst of being unable to tolerate reality, a sudden sultry impishness slams through my wakingness. 

I should do something bad. I should do something mean. Usually, when this kind of urge grips me, it translates into:

– Steal something, namely money or drugs

– Masturbate and rub myself all over the sheets

– Pee in the bed

– Try to a fuck a roommate right now

– Get some other random dude that I’m fucking to come over and pick me up

Today, however, I opted out of the above and dove right into a small book lying on top of a ruffle of papers on his desk. Yes. That’s right: his diary. I snatched it up, dove back into his bed and ate it up.

My god – it was awful. The most inane, vapid, paltry, dull San Francisco white boy hipster with middling ambitions and uneventful dreams. Some sort of sonnet to Mission Girls, an expression of anxiety about where is life is going – all scrawled down in some nearly illegible little boy writing.

I considered stuffing it into my bag and making off with it. I had a grand scheme cooking in my brain wherein I photocopy the most intimate, embarrassing sections from the diary and wheatpaste them all over Valencia Street. 

But, no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t feeling *that* brazen. In fact, as I lay there reading his private thoughts, I decided that maybe if I had enough energy to deal with reading his diary, maybe I should just shove myself back into my clothes and out the door. 

Which I did, and the harrowing tale of hangover me, fuzzy eyes and dirty skin as I sit on the bus for an hour while waiting to get back to civilization, and there’s always that routine depression that settles in when I realize that I’m hungry as fuck but I’ve already spent all my money on booze last night, so I just have to hope that my roommates won’t miss a cup of yogurt and a banana while I bury myself back into a different bed and different dreams.