The Morning After

Mike processes the aftermath of last night's soiree with Robert.

(Mike is visibly emotional and exhausted)

Oh hi, this thing is on — go figure.

I’m sure some of you who watched last night’s broadcast were wondering if I’d wake up the next morning and regret letting that bloke into my house. I knew there was a 50/50 chance of that happening, but this doesn't even begin to describe it. We’re starting today with ugly tears, so let me warn you: this is going to get bad.

First, let me preface this by saying I am not a harm to myself or anybody else. I want to get those magical lines out of the way before the "wellness police" show up. In fact, let’s make a drinking game out of it: every time someone comments that I "need help," "take your meds," or that I'm having a "mental health crisis," everyone take a drink. If the problem was actually my fault, it would be far less daunting, but I’ve reached the point where I realize it's all just bullshit.

I spent at least an hour pacing the house this morning, knowing I was an emotional mess. It’s all so predictable, and honestly, I saw it coming, but I failed to see exactly how bad it would be. I feel a bit like the Heath Ledger version of the Joker right now.

I used to refer to a biblical version of paradise, using Portland as my metaphor. It’s a place that looks like heaven from the outside—alluring and pretty—but then you wander inside, unpack your things, and realize what it actually is. I’ve been through the routine of losing my hope in humanity before, and I invite anyone new here to look at yesterday’s entries if they want to have their heart broken.

I haven't even started looking for my weed yet to escape all this, which is the cliche thing I usually do. If you were to archive these Facebook lives into a storybook, I wonder what it would be titled — a series of unfortunate shitshows, perhaps? I’ve had 500 million promises in the last 24 hours and not a dime of actual action.

Crimson House here in Alexandria is officially dead. It is amazing that at age 36, just when you think you’ve seen all the ways the world can fuck you over, God says, "Hold my beer." I’m a fan of "show, don't tell," so let the scene speak for itself. I had that gentleman over last night because I don't try to judge mental health, but he became "extra." I finally had to lock my door at 3:00. Now, my house looks like a combination of a preschool and a drunken Ohio State party.

I tried to help someone who didn’t want to help themselves, and this is what I get.

To top it off, I've been evicted, so I guess the silver lining is that my landlord has to clean this mess. This chapter of Crimson House is over. I tried to house homeless people, and it’s amazing what I gave up in my engineering career to deal with such ungratefulness. I used to think there were enough resources to help everyone, but now I think I understand why people become Republicans.

My landlord, whom I actually admired, didn't endorse my rental assistance application. It’s like when Republican governors turn down federal money just because it’s "Obama money." Who in their right mind turns down free money? My landlord wants to evict me for one month's rent—December's rent, which I'm barely late on—yet won't certify the application for the state to pay her. It defies logic and breaks my heart.

I’m the Executive Director of my own personal hell right now. Every time I think I might be pleasantly surprised by humanity, something like this happens. I've actually been enjoying praying lately; it’s like a form of therapy to get shit off your chest.

I should have listened to everyone last night, gone to the gay bar, and found someone to fuck instead of staying here. Shout out to Bottoms Up, the new inclusive bar in town. It’s a wonderful, open environment. I love going there for karaoke because I enjoy performing, even if I don't get a dime for it.

Anyway, I need to get out of this house and go to IHOP. I haven't even checked if any money came in from my "begging" yesterday, but I'm sure it's zero. JP Morgan Chase closed my account three weeks before Christmas without a warning letter, even though they send me plenty of junk mail. I guess I wasn't a "signature elite client" enough for them. AT&T pulled the plug on me, too.

I feel much better now after bitching to you guys. You’re a great team — none of you have called the wellness police on me yet today. I’m going off the grid for a bit since I have no service, but I’ll probably be on the Wi-Fi at Bottoms Up later. Take care of yourselves, and if you can, try to take care of someone else who actually appreciates it. Bye.