I know, I’ve been crapping on a lot lately about facing adversity. But it was only at the gym today, while I was willfully straining my muscles and inflicting measured pain to my body, that I thought how true the saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” really is. To paraphrase a friend of mine, Lucky Diamond Rich, the world’s most tattooed man, who is in some places tattooed eight layers deep, the needles and the piercings and the body modification that he has put himself through are nothing compared to the pain he feels when dealing with himself inwardly.
So why is it that I am so keen to put myself through the daily, pleasurable ordeal of weight training and intensive cardio, all in the name of strengthening my body and of trying to fight the gravitational pull of my aging flesh toward the center of the earth, but when it comes to psychic pain — and here I use the word “psychic” as a synonym for mental, not in the Hungarian-gypsy-reading-your-palm sense — I am such a whimpering pussy bitch? It’s always been true: what hasn’t killed me has made me increasingly stronger. So as I was powering-setting the shoulder press this afternoon until my muscles seared and I could lift no more, I thought, I should embrace this circumstantial adversity and welcome it rather than dread it and cower away. Even since I was a kid I’ve wanted to be a powerful, leathery, wise old man. When other kids identified with Frodo or Legolas, I was always Gandalf. Now is my chance. So from here on in I am going to embrace this adversity shit head-on, understanding that the added bonus of strengthening my psychic endurance by treating my misery as a relentless Psycho Circuit class is I don’t have to pay $50 dollars a month to a gym, unlimited tanning included.
Speaking of mental anguish, rumor has it that my landlady, the (in my opinion) nefarious Susan Blais, is in fact bipolar, which explains a lot. I suppose I should be kinder to her in this case, but mental illness doesn’t excuse evil behavior: Hilter was nuttier than Whole Foods Trail Mix; Muammar Gaddafi, the great evil of our times that we have swept under the carpet for FORTY YEARS , even dresses like a ‘sixties black poetess from outer space, complete with muumuu, matching turban and diamanté designer sunglasses. The bipolar/manic depression makes sense: when Susan showed up at my door one night followed by a young Asian dude holding a stick, the first thing I noticed was how she reeked. I believe that you can smell depression on some people; I don’t know if it’s a hygiene thing or a secretion thing, but it can be this rancid, hamster-cage odor. Susan was masking it with some equally noxious perfume, which gave her personal pong the overall effect of some effluent byproduct oozing from a Libyan petroleum refinery.
I’ve long thought that the solution to Susan’s alarming turnover in staff (this is the third building manager she’s had in a year, in this building alone) as well as tenants (very few stay beyond the term of their lease, which she insists on being a year long, unlike other buildings in LA, which offer a six-month option; she intends to fuck you on your security if you buckle and leave earlier, which you will), is for her to turn over her extensive property portfolio to a decent management company. But methinks the nutty old stinky witch rather enjoys her own private auto da fé. She seems to be finding more luck with Born Again Christian building managers, who presumably believe that forbearance towards impossible people will earn them points in heaven. For those of us who don’t believe in heaven, but definitely in an eye for an eye, we’ll see the bitch in court.
According to the WordPress.com dashboard on my blog, I get many more searches and hits if I mention Amanda Seyfriend’s breasts, like I did in an earlier post. Here, boys, let me link you to an image of them. They are rumored to be not real … I know, big shock there, but I had managed to suspend disbelief during the film. Or was it that I nodded off?