You're Not One of Those Homeless Fags...

...yet. But when you wake up with a Pride hangover that is absolutely nothing to be proud about, you aren't even worried about your impending move nor the fact that you have no place to move. All you can think about is your Lovely Lady Mumps which are the lumps formerly known as Lymph Nodes. When you look in the mirror it's like you're just one giant Jabba the Neck. Even though you know your new beard is the only thing that is visually separating your chest from your chin, you decide to shave off your beard while you're taking a shower. Once the beard is gone you are both appalled and terrified. So you call your doctor for an emergency appointment, only to find out that he has retired and someone else has taken over his practice. Luckily she can fit you in before your movers show up.

Unfortunately, your new doctor seems more like an actor who only plays a doctor on TV. She giggles a lot. And plays with her hair. And she leaves her white coat open so you can see that she's probably spends more time shopping than she does prescribing. But she gives you a blood and urine test and writes you a few precautionary prescriptions since you're about to be homeless on Fire Guyland where the only doctors on the entire island are the ones who are self-medicating at Low Tea. Then you race home to finish packing your Home Sweet Hovel and meet the movers.

When you get back home you are kind of shocked to see that your Hobosexual Roommate has told his new victim (whoops, you meant roommate) that she can move in on the last day of your lease. While you are moving out. On the day before her lease begins. The whole situation is just so irritating and surreal that, when she begins to talk your ear off while you are frantically packing, you decide to actually tell her the truth when she asks you questions about the Hobosexual rather than sugar coating it. "He's filthy," quickly segues into, "He doesn't clean up after he manscapes," and before you know it, the conversation quickly dissolves into, "He doesn't use soap when he bathes." And with that your movers buzz your doorbell and you excuse yourself from the Hobosexual's new victim.

When the movers finally arrive in your Home Sweet Hovel, huffing and puffing from the six flights of stairs, they begin to freak out when they see the sorry ass state of your apartment. A vein in the Foreman's forehead actually begins to twitch as he looks around. However, the only thing the Ex-Con says to you, slowly and deliberately as if he's Dirty Harry, is "This was supposed to be a little move." And he says it in such a way that it seems like he might actually be considering murdering you just so he can go back to jail and not have to deal with carrying your shit down six flights of stairs. You quickly explain that, "Most of this crap is not mine," while glaring at the Hobosexual's New Victim who isn't paying any attention because she still seems to be stuck on her new living situation which is equally hopeless and soapless.

Since you and your Lovely Lady Mumps are extremely organized, your move actually goes rather quickly. And, since you're now officially homeless, once the Ex Cons finish loading their truck they just leave because, until your new place is ready for occupancy, all your shit will be kept in storage. Which means you actually have to pay for two moves plus one month of storage as you couch surf around Manhattan. Your first stop happens to be The Ex's apartment. Since he's in Los Angeles he has graciously offered up his apartment for you and your homeless tranny ass for the next three nights.

Between you, your roller bag, two back packs, a giant blue IKEA bag and a several bags full of groceries and frozen meat, your cheap ass decides that it's best to hail a cab. So you stand at the corner of Houston and Allen and you wait. And wait. And wait. During rush hour. With everything you own stuffed into Trader Joe's bags that are beginning to defrost and leak onto the busy summer sidewalk. You briefly consider hiking your baggy cargo shorts up and sticking your leg out into traffic with a sexy pose, but luckily a cab finally stops. After you load what's left of your life into the trunk, you explain to the cabbie (who not only doesn't speak a lick of English, but also is busy yapping away on a phone call which is obviously much more important than any of your directions) that you need to make two stops so you can first pick up The Ex's keys from a mutual friend's doorman.

Luckily everything works out and the keys are waiting for you so you hop back into the cab and head over to The Ex's brownstone apartment on a Sesame Street-esque, gorgeous tree-lined street in Chelsea. You swipe your credit card even though the Cabbie informs you that the machine is broken (funny how suddenly he speaks perfect English when his tip is involved), and you schlep your soggy groceries and various bags up the steps of the gorgeous brownstone. For a moment you feel like breaking into song and singing the theme to The Jeffersons', "Moving on Up!" until you attempt to put the key into the keyhole. Then suddenly it ain't nothin' but Good Times in the Projects, "Temporary lay offs! Good Times! Easy credit rip offs! Good Times!" That's when you look down at the keys and realize that they are for the old apartment that you and The Ex lived in together. The one he sold before he moved here. Two years ago. Anyway...