Goodbye Bridge Suites

I have to thank Jen for waiting for me for ten minutes at the California Pizza Kitchen while I “checked out” of apartment 243 of the famous(ly sucky) Bridge Suites. Thanks Jen. I know I was overextending myself when I planned to meet you for lunch on the East side, AND check out of that hell-hole all in the same one-hour period. You’re a pal.

Getting officially disconnected from that crappy crappy place really increased my peace of mind. It was like I was closing the chapter on a particularly disgusting period of my life. For some reason, the whole episode has filled me with a sense of shame. I am ashamed that the suckiness of the Bridge Suites was ever a part of my life. I now have a different problem: survivor’s guilt.

I have paranoia that it has somehow tainted me so that when walking down the streets in the future people will somehow be able to look at me and see the truth: “Ewwww! Mommy, that man must have stayed at the Bridge Suites. Look at the poor wretch. To have stooped so low.”

Okay, so maybe a child wouldn’t talk like that, but when you’re having paranoid fantasies all things are possible.

I just hate that such a dump was ever a part of my life, for any period of time, however brief. It makes me feel like I don’t respect myself, like the Bridge Suites was the ugly girl I took home from the bar and then woke up next to wanting to simultaneously puke and run away.

That’s never happened by the way. I don’t drink. And I rarely set foot in bars. I’m just trying to find a good analogy. Scout’s honor. (Hey, did you know that I’m an Eagle Scout?)

Great. Lynn is probably freaking out now wondering if I am really trolling bars, waking up next to ugly chicks, and smelling of spirits and puke. Damn the long distance relationships!

See, this is what I get for trying to be creative with my writing. This is why your mother always waned you about trying to be a “creative type”.

Although she was probably referring to the waking up, smelling of absinthe (and puke), with no idea where you are, a guy named Rafael (from Spain) next to you, and a sore bottom.

That never happened either.

His name was really Jaroslaw. And he was beautiful.

Oh god I swear I’m just kidding! Damn the jetlag! Damn the lack of connection to my webmail preventing me from actually doing something productive instead of guaranteeing that I will never get hired now because anyone who Google’s my name will read this and throw my resume in the trash in disgust saying, “Man, I can’t believe he stayed in the Bridge Suites. So disappointing.”

Damn the paranoid fantasies!

Hey, did you ever notice how things can seem really funny to you when you’re really tired and jetlagged and writing on your blog but they are actually NOT funny and you will regret having ever published them in the morning?

Nah. Me either.