Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

Made the mistake of going back to grab some clothes and try to hide my cello. I mean, my guess is the kind of people who do what these people do don't really care about punking my instrument, but that thing is a beast of beauty. I could ship it back to Mom, but that's like sending her a singing, flashing telegram that says, "THINGS ARE AFOOT! PLEASE COME TO NYC!"

Case in point: his mother showed up today. Whaaaaat. I swear to god, when she walked through that door, I just about pulled a gun on her. I thought Jimmy was kidding when he gave me this handgun and said I'd need it, but that's the second time in three days that I've felt like I mighta needed it.

Interjection: Sometimes, I think my iPod is mocking me. What the hell's up with this music? It's like a bad joke.

I shouldn't have trusted her. I didn't tell her what happened. I didn't tell her anything, just in case. I think I told her I was Rose, though, but hindsight is 20/20, right? Shoulda made something up. Hope that doesn't come back to bite me in the ass. Besides, she didn't get the last name, and that's what's key.

Maybe I didn't say anything. I can't remember. I booked it out of there so fast, I bet there was smoke coming off my heels. Like that's not suspicious at all. But dude, she brought stuff to cook.

This explains so much about Pseudo-Father.

It worked. Holy shit. I don't even know what they would have done to me if they'd caught me. There was one point where I could feel myself slipping and thought I might lose it. The guy wasn't looking at my hands, though. Thank god (or dog, or whatever we're calling him today).

So. I have an address. I have a plan. I think I have a plan, anyway. Gotta talk to Elena. I am > this close < to winding up on the six o'clock news for this stunt I'm about to pull. I went to see the place today, but it's totally unassuming. Doesn't look like a fortress, but I bet it is. I've been staying at this run down little motel on the Lower East Side, just in case they come back looking for sloppy seconds. I'm sharing my pillow with roaches, but, uh...

...at least I'm still there when I wake up? Turns out if you drop enough bills on the concierge's desk, he doesn't care if you walk in and call yourself Chesty LaRue or Marilyn Monroe or whatever else. (I gave him a better name than that, don't worry.) I might have bought myself, what, six extra hours by doing that? Sure, we don't share a last name or anything, but ever since those DNA tests, there's something out there telling them that I exist.

Damn it, Benny. Next time just believe what I say when I say it!

Scratch that. It's probably a bad idea.

Guess you knew me better than I thought.

P.S. - Don't die, okay? It's going to be hella lame if I do this and you wind up deader than dead.

I don't even know if I should be saying what I want to say. I have this sinking feeling that this whole "higher education" thing is about to fall through the floor. I've been sitting here in this cafe, staring at the screen, the cursor flashing at me. Mocking me. I can't go home. I shouldn't go home, anyway. I will. I need to grab some things.

This is totally unrelated to the squirrel in a wetsuit thing. I wish it was related. Wouldn't that be badass? "I had to leave home because a ninja squirrel in a wetsuit armored with rancid meat has been living in my oven, and now he's taken over." Yeah. Right. Then again, after the last 24 hours? Not so unlikely. What the hell is wrong with this city?

Things I was not expecting:

* A crazy chick to show up at the door.
* Her conspiracy theory to be right.
* To actually care.

Guess it really was too good to be true.

Commencing hella crazy plan... nnnnnow.

Located a stash of old pictures in a box in his closet. Je-SUS, he was a dweeb. But he wore some seriously boss stuff back in the '70s, and I wish I could find it. The guy must get rid of everything if it's more than five years old, 'cause I can't find anything around here that looks like it's from before the golden age of the 2000s.

Took the pics in and got 'em scanned and digitized, though. Am now having hella fun time photoshopping him into places he would never go: drug dens, strip clubs, a bunch of Mujahideen.

That last one is now his desktop background. I figure I can use it as blackmail potential any time he talks about getting rid of me.

Pseudo-Dad left this morning.  I don't know how long he's gone or where he'll be.  What a freak show.  He thinks he's some kind of danger to society.  I'm not sure he really sees the irony in that, but it's fantastic.  He's gone, trying to fix himself or something.

He left money.

He also left the apartment in my hands.

Has this guy ever met a college kid before? 

Shit, guys.  So I'm sitting in the living room rocking out to some Nine Inch Nails, cello-style, and Make Believe Father walks in with some crack junkie on his arm.  So obvious that she was on something.  Dressed like a total skank, too.  I figured they were out on a date, but here's a hindsight-fueled realization: that was giving him way too much street cred.

She's some kind of pet project for him.  I don't know.  He brought her over to try and help her out or something. Is there an AA for crack junkies where they need to have sponsors?

So.  The slutbeast took the couch.  I can't even tell you how big a relief that was.  I had these visions in my head of waking up to hear unholy wails of pleasure coming from the next bedroom.  Again, totally giving pseudo-Dad too much credit as a badass, but at the time all I could think about was the barrage of sirens tearing through my brain, screaming, "POTENTIAL PARENTAL SEX ALERT."

Gross.

I made sure to cart my cello back to my room before I conked out.  Locked the door, too.  If she was going to go all psycho killer on the apartment, I figured she could at least work at it.  She was gone by the time I got up, so I guess I made it through alive.  This time.

Kinda wonder if she stole anything.

Stealing wireless access off of my pseudo-father's sketchy neighbours, since he's living in the stone age.  It's their own fault for not encrypting it.  They were practically begging me to piggyback.

He's even more straight-laced than Mom.  How is that possible?  These two are like... the poster children for asexual reproduction.  Maybe they fell on each other and just happened to be naked at the time.  I can't envision these two actually stripping down with the intention to bang each other.

I guess he's some kind of accountant.  Boring, much?   But he gave me the spare room, and he let me unload all my stuff, like he's actually going to let me stay. Shoulda figured. I mean, he bought the story straight-up, no suspicion.

Jesus, he's a moron.

She bought it.

My mother is the single, most gullible woman I have ever known.

By this time tomorrow, I'll be in New York City.

Let's see if this guy 'Benjamin Winters' is as gullible as Mom.