The Cathouse Chronicles featuring Stompy Magoo

I have a group chat going with the girls from home, I regale them with tales of Stompy as they occur, and I figured it was time to share with all y’all.

It’s taken me a good long while to settle into any kind of routine here.

Still not quite there. Leaning heavy on Red Bulls and 5 hour energy shots on the nights we are open til 3.

I’d basically quit dancing for 2+ years before I came here in November and I think, knowing I was only going to be here for two weeks upped my ability to suck it up and deal with the late nights, the self-inflicted assault on my liver, the weird sleep patterns, the forced naps, the lack of my stuff and my things and clothes and routine.

And then there is the boy.

But I am here now, he is here now and I am not leaving.

My brain is slowly coming to terms with this, body is slow to follow. Heart is so very happy, so there is that then.

My circadian rhythm reaaaaaaallllly wants me up with the sun.

There are not a lot of sunny days here so when it peeks around the side of the blackout curtains…ya, I wanna get up.

Also, the crackheads tend to take it outside when it’s sunny, so who needs an alarm clock really, when I have a rousing chorus of “bitch better have my money” around noon on nice days.

I used to get up at 6, 7 or 8. Have a couple cups of coffee, take my vitamins, smoke my cigarettes and negate the vitamins I just took completely and write for an hour or 16, then go about my day.

That is not happening here. My entire life is sporadic at best.

I need to sleep til after noon or get a nap in somehow. Otherwise I become a stabby-sleepy-sooky stripper and it’s not fun for anyone.

And since my room in the cathouse is right beside the better bathroom and the only living room and right underneath Stompy Magoo I’m pretty much fucked.

Now I am not sure if it’s cocaine psychosis or bipolar disorder or a fun little combo of both but good god damn it is getting worse by the day.

Once upon a time I had a bipolar roommate. He decided I was a witch, and I am, but he also snuck into my room with a filleting knife and tried to kill me in my sleep but got scared of the cats who were on my bed hissing at him and woke me up. He also tried to push me over the stair railing. He also did a lot of cocaine and had a lot of conspiracy theories about god.

She left this out yesterday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think she thinks I need to get clean and right with the Lord. Or maybe they weren’t meant for me at all and her paranoia is just contagious.

She never leaves anything out for the record. Hoards every little thing in her room, including the can opener. So maybe they are for me.
Little does she know I am quite right with God, all the gods really.

Luke 6:30 Give to everyone who asks of you and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back.

I know you ate my cookies and my chocolate eggs sis, its fine, I can buy more.

She is miserable and ready to snap, I see it. And good god do I hear it. Standing at the top of the stairs having a religious experience singing off key to Drake “God’s Plan”. Her favorite lyric is “I only love my bed and my mom I’m sorry” she giggles after that line, and then “God’s Plan” at the top of her ample lungs. She listens to both the radio and some kind of manic preacher while she spends hours upon hours in the kitchen. Loves cooking maple bacon, but only on days when I have a raging hangover. She must have been a middle child because she doesn’t speak so much as yells every sentence ever whether it be on the phone or yelling at me because I left the stovetop dirty one time and it is worse somehow she says, because she’s black and tired of cleaning up after everyone all the time.

Honey, no one asked you to rage/coke clean both bathrooms on a Saturday morning with sleeping strippers 3 feet away from where you were thumping banging and splashing and mumbling loudly, how does one manage to mumble so loudly?

I don’t know which is worse, when she is brooding and miserable or when she is violently happy. Both are indicative of a storm coming.

It made landfall yesterday. After I had spent 20 minutes on the phone with the boss’s wife trying to figure out when Stompy’s birthday was because I knew it was close and she seemed proper vexed about being stuck here for it. After I had gone outside in the rain to collect a package from the postman for her and gently, quietly put it outside her door. After I had tiptoed around for the entirety of the day because I knew she had been on a bender the night before.

The apex of my irritation. After 5 weeks of badly timed laundry, interrupted sleep, not being able to use the kitchen at all, snide comments, listening to the entire 5 minute speech she made up in her head before confronting me about some egg droplets on the stove wherein she said “we all used her as a guinea pig” (I understand the sentiment but wrong animal) and it’s worse because I’m white and she’s black and she feels like a slave (bitch please) even though the second she said it I was up and cleaning and apologizing. Was the vacuum nap incident of 2018.

I had just put my head down and up she sprang from her full day off sleeping it off, whatever it was. Bad timing, no big deal. She doesn’t walk, she stomps, hence Stompy Magoo. We have a 6’3” 200 pound bouncer living upstairs and he doesn’t even walk that heavy. Fine, I turned my music up a smidge, pulled the pillow over my ear. Then she ups the ante and starts up the vacuum and moving the furniture. I admit it, I snapped, the crimson flood is about to hit the whole house, we have all been snappy, I get it. But…all I said was “_____, I am trying to nap.”

Her answer “Oh I’m in trouble now.”

Well ya, but not because of me, because of what she did next.

She snapped, and stomped and snorted and slammed the bathroom door so hard she broke the trim.

Ya, the same bathroom that is right outside my bedroom door.

And even then, when the owner of the house and club showed up 20 minutes later, I still covered her ass and said the trim must have come off due to repetitive stress and use and gave him a hammer and nails to fix it.

She’s being moved downstairs. Not because of me.

I did try but I am a bad liar and not the only person on this floor who has issues with her.

I know she is going to blame it on me. So I am just gonna sleep with a chair pushed under my doorknob until she leaves.