My name is Self-Appointed Expert, and this is my blog. It is part memoir, mostly fiction, and above all just trying to be funny. Some of is based on stuff that happened to me, some is based on stuff that happened to people I know, and a good deal is just entirely made up. So, if you find yourself offended, just remember - it's a joke. When you give me that look, it's a joke. Consider it my homage to the Secret Life of Walter Mitty, A Million Little Pieces, John Hodgman, and Christopher Guest.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Spare change? Spare heart.

Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know that, from time to time, I've written about myself as though I were a homeless person. I'm writing now to tell you that those posts were not strictly truthful. I am not homeless. But, my boyfriend is.

My boyfriend, Jimmy, lives around the corner from Union Station. Well, in the gutter on the corner next to Union Station. I still remember the first time we met. I was carrying my $4.48 grande no whip sugar free vanilla fat free mocha latte from Starbucks; he was on his belly reaching into the sewer to recover a partially-smoked Malboro cigarette. I tripped over him as I descended from the curb, and I noticed him when I realized I had actually caused him quite a bit of pain. Thinking I could pay him off and avoid having to cream him later in small claims, I reached into my pocket for a couple of quarters or a nickel or something, enough to shut him up without cutting into my bi-hourly diet coke rations. But then, something happened. Our eyes met. (Well, my eyes met the one eye of his that wasn't swollen shut from me kicking him in the face with my Manolos.) The rest, as they say, is history.

Dating a homeless man isn't all glamour and tin can deposits, mind you. Like any couple, we have our problems. I, for instance, sleep on an air mattress, so I've found it a little awkward to bring men home with me. Jimmy, however, sleeps on a pile of dirt next to the dumpster at the Capital Grille. He thinks I'm sort of a prude; really, I'm just holding out for him to get a shelter or at least a park bench or something before I stay the night. It's silly I know - but what girlfriend doesn't complain about her beau's bachelor pad? Also, I admit: the gangrene sort of weirds me out. But Jimmy says it's an investment (or at least, that's what I think he said - he has a tendency to jabber on incoherently - it's adorable!): apparently losing just one minor limb can increase his earnings by about 25% annually, with potential for future salary increases if he ever gets enough capital to invest in some of those sunglasses that make people think you're blind. What can I say? I'm attracted to men with ambition.

All in all, as much as I care about Jimmy, I have to admit that I no longer see us having much of a future together. I found out yesterday that he's a Republican.

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