Laundry, Public Fax Machines, the Vagina Monologues

Another day off... what WAS I to do with myself? Well, I postponed answering that question for as long as possible, sleeping in until half past noon. I had two things to get done today: faxing a long-overdue health insurance application in to my kindly exasperated insurance agent, and getting my room cleaned up so I can have a cable box installed in here tomorrow. The cable box won't actually be installed tomorrow, since my roommate, who's been pushing me to get cable in my room - it keeps her up at night when I watch TV in the living room - made the appointment without asking me if I'd be home. So the cable guy is getting here between 2 and 5, while I'll be at work until at least 4; at best, there's a 33% chance I'll get the cable box tomorrow. In any case, I wanted to set up a shelf under my TV set so the guy would have some place to put the thing. Didn't get that done, but I did manage to do my laundry, after a lot of procrastinating. I'm worried about what's going to happen when I have cable in here - I watch too much TV as it is.

But, this is my life, and I'm the one who decides how much TV to watch. I must keep that in mind.

In other news, I went to the gym for the fourth day in a row today, which is my longest streak in months. Unfortunately, David Spade's abominably crappy show was on and I had to cut my cardio short. I mean, I HAD to - that show is a piece of shit. I would have changed it, but some skinny little bastard seemed to be enjoying the segment where Spade went out in the street in blackface and pretended to re-enact scenes from a Chris Rock standup special.

I went back to my apartment and made dinner, then went to the laundry room by way of a smoke break outside. I met a girl out there. She was a real crazy: a pudgy, pretty faced A.U. student. The girl was in the process of "gently" turning down the son of an Arab diplomat. It was a scene to which I've been both witness and participant at different times, the guy facing the girl, draping his forearms about her shoulders, almost ready to go in for the kiss when he recieves the bad news: he's wandered into the friend zone. He trod away and drove off in his $75,000 sports car with diplomatic plates, and I silently roared with laughter: no one should ever feel sorry for rich kids who can't get laid.

She lit up a cigarette as he drove off, and I said, "Hi." In the ensuing small talk, it came out that I was an actor and that she, while not an actor, had just been in a production of The Vagina Monologues, a piece that I've never actually seen, though of course I've read parts of it and seen it lampooned a dozen times in various venues and media.

I tell her this, and she asks, "Do you have five minutes?"

Sheeeeit, I think. This lunatic's doing The Vagina Monologues at 11:20 on a 40-degree night? It was a funny monologue, though - the one about the varieties of orgasmic moans, the many methods of producing them and the pleasure the speaker has found in doing so, if anyone out there knows the show. She had the classic lunatic's charm to her, which made up for her amateurish acting for the most part, and I ended up enjoying the moment quite thoroughly - what's not to like about standing outside your apartment building at 11:20 while a woman you've never met before moans through a thousand different examples of orgasm for you?

By the way, she had launched into her monologue before either of us knew the other's name.

It was time to go inside, and we bade each other goodnight. I didn't end up hitting on her, and in retrospect, I'm glad. I am very glad of it. Too many crazy people in my life as it is.