I think I was trying to accumlate some stuff so that the "older" page didn't look *quite* so lame. I guess I could jack the font size up like 8 notches but I think that would be more annoying than useful.

Though I must say that my last few entries last night were probably also more annoying than useful. Ah well.

Slept like forever today. I think I actually managed to sleep for around 12 hours. Not to mention completely standing up my physical therapist. Oops. Thanks, PMS (I can blame PMS for whatever the hell I want, thankyouverymuch. It's my womb.)

So I had written down a couple of notes about things I wanted to write about. One of them says "baby story?" I can't remember what the heck I meant by that.

Maybe it's a function of having been a writer, but I tend to catalog my life and memories by stories. Some are better than others. Here's a brief list:

The Running-Away Story #1 (age 10)

The Old Lady's Feet Story

The Trucker Story (this one is my WORST. It will be a while probably before I manage to write about that one)

The Leo the Creole Story

The Chicago Story

The Meeting D1 Dramamine Story

The Burlington, Vermont Story

The Florida Story Part #1

The Flordia Story Part #2: Blind non-date with the Midget, Creepy Married Guy

The Philadelphia Story

The Geting Born Story

The Elementary School Years

Several S.-Related Stories

The Mental Ward

The Life Story: Reader's Digest Version

The First Job I Loved Story (More complicated than one would think)

The Florida Story Part #3: Getting Dumped on Thanksgiving

The Hampshire Series

The College Series (aka, the Drug Files)

The Gas Station Series

I guess that list is more for me than for readers. It will help me in terms of what to write. I could probably pick a shorter one.

The Leo the Creole story I think might be fairly short. It also gives a nice picture of Me at Sixteen. So, onehanded brings you....The Leo the Creole Story

Or, My Old Lady Can't Smoke Crack

Okay. I had my first apartment when I was 16, in Boston. It was the summer after my freshman year at college (turned out to be my only completed year, but I didn't know that yet). I was rooming with my best friend S. S was at least as nuts as I was, turned out later much more so. Our place was a dump. Dump doesn't give it justice. We were oh so punk rock, living in filth. Starving, since neither of us had any money and couldn't find a job. And all the money we got went to cigarettes and OTC drugs (they're the best, actually. Just FYI.)

Sooo, anyway. I was also at my peak cuteness at 16 (also didn't know that then). Skinny, bleach-blonde, tough as nails (or so I thought). I would frequently wander Boston alone at night, hitting the Tasty (24-hour natty coffee shop). I rejected many passes. I gave out many false names and numbers. EXCEPT.

Leo the Creole was standing on the street around the corner from my house. Nothin-special looking. Kind of brown. Kind of ravaged face. Tall, skinny-ish, middle-aged. Wearing some kind of press-pass-ish badge. He askes me "Do you like music?"

I say "what kind?", he says "jazz." somehow I fail to notice my brain turning to mush. He promises me free tickets or some bullshit, asks for my number. I give it to him (see above, brain, mush).

He calls a couple days later. Asks to come over. I, completely out of character, say okay. He brings -- get this -- pink champagne. And cigars. He gives us some money to go get some food, since we are, as usual, starving. We sit around and play cards or something.

Brain...slowly...turning to oatmeal.

S. goes in her room, calls her Boy. She's kind of freaked. Smart girl.

Leo, who has now been there for hours, starts getting really weird. Starts doing some shit with candle wax on paper. Gives me a back massage. Starts talking some very bizarre stuff about how he "almost missed me [walking down the street]" How he's going to marry me, and how I can't smoke crack if I'm gonna be his Old Lady. Wants to go for a walk.

I say okay. We go for a walk. Long walk. He's talking, I'm just sorta...vegetating or something. We sit down on a stoop. He asks if he can stay the night. I muster enough Me to say No. He finally leaves.

I get back home. NOW I start freaking out. Grab S. to drive us both back to my folks' house in connecticut, i.e., get the hell outta dodge. Phone my therapist at 1am, freaking out. Feeling lucky that nothing horrible happened, but still sort of sick to my stomach.

Anyway, he calls a bunch of times after that. I let the answering machine talk to him. Never saw Leo again.

Moral of the Story: Kids, don't talk to strange Creoles. That's some weird motherfucking shit.