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

...but as you're sitting on The Ex's stoop, homeless, surrounded by everything you own in the world that wasn't just carted away into storage, as you sit there with the wrong set of keys, you start to obsess about your Lovely Lady Mumps and begin to feel like your lymph nodes have become so swollen that you are actually having trouble breathing. Or perhaps it's just your hysteria? You begin to leave frantic messages for The Ex and his friend who left you the wrong set of keys, but, of course, nobody is taking your calls. That's when, smack in the middle of your homeless dilemma, a party boy you kissed years ago walks by and looks up at your Sesame Street Stoop and asks you, all impressed, "Is that where you live?" and you are just so irritated by his sudden interest in you that you respond, "No, actually I'm homeless." And with that Ms. Fair Weather Fag turns up her nose and keeps walking down the picturesque block.

When your cell finally rings you realize that your battery is almost dead, but luckily it's The Ex who feels terrible for your situation. Unfortunately he's in LA and he informs you that there are only three copies of his apartment keys, one of which is in your hands and doesn't work. One of the remaining two is in the possession of his Co-Op Board President, but she's apparently on a Straight Cruise (not to be confused with a Tom Cruise). Just in case, you try to buzz Mrs. President's apartment but there is no answer. The last person happens to be your Ex-Niece, only she's busy moving today too, so even if she has the keys they are probably lost in an unmarked box somewhere between Manhattan and Brooklyn. But you leave her a frantic message anyway, just in case her move has been less chaotic than yours.

And then you nervously inspect your Lovely Lady Mumps while waiting for your cell to ring, hopefully before either you or your phone dies. Luckily your Ex-Niece gives you a rescue ring and she is so adorably sweet and offers to interrupt her move and drive her U-Haul back from Brooklyn just to bring you the keys. But this is when someone who lives in the Co-Op finally walks up the steps. You practically hang up on your sweet Ex-Niece as you accost the man walking into the building. Luckily he believes your gay-ass Saab story and allows you into the building so you can store your defrosting Tilapia and other random stuff in the hallway until you can track down a key. He also tells you that Mrs. President is actually back from her cruise and that they are having a Co-Op board meeting right this very moment on her glamorous roof deck. He says to stay put and that he will try to find her. You call The Ex while you wait, because really, if he doesn't speak to Mrs. President directly, then why on earth would she ever hand over his apartment keys to some homeless stranger who has moved onto her front stoop.

Eventually the whole mess gets worked out, but Mrs. President turns all Mrs. Kravitz on you when you realize that she's only given you a key to The Ex's apartment. So if you ever decide to leave the building, you'll have no way to get back in through the front vestibule door. You ask if perhaps you can borrow a set of front door keys from her so you can make a copy, but for some reason this scenario turns out to be a big fucking deal. Apparently Mrs. Kravitz has no problem with you living inside her glamorous Co-Op, however if you ever want to leave then you'll never be able to get back inside. Perhaps you should place an ad in HX and start turning tricks in there so you won't have to ever go out? Or maybe just leave the gas stove on? Or spray paint her common hallway with gay graffiti? This woman who runs your Ex's life is really not thinking anything through, but eventually you somehow convince her to hand over her keys and you promise that you'll make copies tomorrow morning as all the locksmiths are surely closed now that it's 9:30pm. Although you are initially relieved when you finally get inside of The Ex's apartment, that's when things actually really go from bad to worse.

His apartment is full of your things. Things you bought together. Your couch. Your photos. Your TV. Your rug. The kitchen is full of your Fiestaware. The hand-blown wine glasses you bought together in Venice. The picture frames are full of photos of your lives together. But it gets really upsetting in the bedroom when you have to sleep in your old bed. The bed you shared for over a decade. You lie there, remembering how amazing it felt to be held every night before you went to bed. What it felt like to have The Ex spell "O.J." on your back because he was thirsty and it was too tired to speak. But what really gets you is the afghan sitting at the base of the bed which your Ex-Aunt knit for you boys eons ago. Only now it's covered in cat hair from your Kitty Cunt who suddenly just died a few months ago. This was your life. You shiver, not from the overly powerful central air conditioning, yet from the feeling of being so uncomfortable surrounded by all the homey things that gave you nothing but comfort for years. Will you ever be that comfortable again? Anyway...