Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 16 — Reality Show Appearance as Fake Mad Dog Mateo.

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Chapter 16. Reality Show Appearance as Fake Mad Dog Mateo.

 

So… 

 

I was in a reality show over the weekend.

 

My tour were British guys following a commercial pilot. I signed a non-disclosure agreement, so I don’t think I am allowed to talk much about this but fuck it.

 


 

They were five guys total, don’t remember anyone’s name except Noah, one of the camera guys, and Christian, the star of the show. There was another camera guy, a sound guy with a boom mic, and the director. The pilot and the director were the main show. A clap would initiate the takes.

 

Some crazy shit I’ve never been part of. Until now.


 

I talked a lot. I told some of the stories I already wrote here. The South African guys’ story that was the previous chapter and the story about the pilots which was earlier at some point in this stupid shit.


 

I said shit I might regret. Similar to the shit I’m writing here. 

 

No ragrets.

 

Fuck it.


 

It was a fake tour for a reality show. Fake Tijuana Adventure. Fake Mad Dog Mateo. 

 

Fake reality show. Nothing new here.

 

The tour was basic, I didn’t even plan it much. I didn’t think of it. I just improvised like always. 

 

It started with my basic explanation about the city and why Tijuana exists. We walked to Norte Brewery Co for the sunset views of the city. Here I told the story of the pilots on camera to a reality tv show pilot. I ignored the cameras and just acted natural.

 

I’m going to hate it once it’s out. 

 

And people in Tijuana are going to give me so much shit about it.


 

After Norte, we moved to street tacos. Las Amigas that they never disappoint and it’s an interesting taco stand. I found out that the star of the show was a vegetarian here. Good job telling me about that before rolling cameras… 

 

All the guys got one taco, but we wanted more food.


 

We had a second dinner at Cine Tonalá. 

 

They didn’t want to drink or party for real. More like do it for the cameras and move on.

 

The meal or drinks didn’t get recorded. It was like a break from work. 


 

After done with the second dinner, they started recording again. Us exiting the Cine and talking casually about the meal.


 

From there they had one request. Strip clubs where they could record.

 

And of course, there is only one shitty strip club that would allow us to do such a thing without a warning. El Zorro. Yes. The same one with the South Africans just from the previous chapter.


 

I convinced the bouncers and waiters to let us film. We told the girls that they weren’t going to be on camera… and none of them were attractive… 

 

We ordered a bucket of beers but didn’t drink any. 

 

I ran to the bathroom quickly, and when I came out, girls were all over the guys. A fight ensued between the producer and the pilot. The pilot went to get a private lap dance. The producer stormed out with the cameras following behind.


 

It’s a reality show.

 

That was planned.


 

After they “reunited” I walked them through Zona Norte and told them they couldn’t film here or to be careful. The camera guys started filming as the “paraditas” or the street prostitutes ran for cover while hiding their faces.

 

“Están grabando!” I would hear them say to each other and scramble to hide. Never seen that before.


 

A cop started following us. I told them to ignore it and we kept walking.

 

But then he blasted his siren and stopped us. I said I would handle and expected the worst. It was the complete opposite. He told us that if we needed anything to let him know or give him a call. He was super excited to see the cameras and told us to record whatever we wanted. It seemed like he wanted to be on the show. So the crew kept filming. They were live bandas being fucking loud and they filmed that. 

 

It might be some of the best recordings of Zona Norte and it was only 9 pm. And now I know, if you enter Zona Norte with a bunch of gear, the cops are fine with it, the prostitutes are the ones that hide and hate it. 


 

And then it was over. Walked back to the border.


 

I offered them more places to visit and drink. Nope. They were done. The job was done. Short fake Tijuana Adventure. I got paid. Signed the contract. And took them to the border.


 

I wonder what will happen next with them. I wonder how the show turns out. They don’t really even know where it’s going to appear. Or maybe they did and they just didn’t want to tell them. Netflix maybe? YouTube? Maybe only in Europe? 

 

Oh shit. I just googled it and it has an IMDB. 

 

“A documentary filmmaker follows his best friend, a Windowed airline pilot, around the world as he looks for a new love, via the TINDER Passport dating app.”

 

We did talk about Tinder and Bumble. So the premise they told me is real. No Tinder girls were met. 


 

HOLY SHIT! 

 

After more research… I’ve been duped.

 

The “pilot” was, in fact, the producer that I was in contact with.


 

I’ve been googling these guys… They told me the producer stayed back in LA setting up the next appointment. Nope. The producer was the main star the whole time. And obviously, his name wasn’t Christian.

 

Holy fuck.

 

Nice one.

 

Nice fucking one.


 

I should have googled these fuckers a bit more before I actually took them on a tour. They have two movies, one out with a bad rating and the other still in production. And now their new show. 


 

Oh fuck.

 

What’s going to happen to my appearance….

 

I might get heavily edited or cut. This show might not even be aired. But… oh well.

 

Shit is done. I made some money. Tour is over. 


 

I have more tours coming up. A lot of people have been hiring me to film around Tijuana. Might as well change what my tours are about and help filmmakers and journalists. They seem to have enough money to pay me.


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 14.5 — Rumble Fest, Acid, and Meth. 

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 14.5. Rumble Fest, Acid, and Meth. 

 

The festival ended. It was a mess. We lost a lot of money. And I barely even slept.

 

I still owed $400 to Mothers of Gut and Habits who came all the way from Los Angeles. They also had a horrible time, except when they were on stage and then partying. They had a horrible time on their way down to Tijuana. They got a flat tire, got in trouble at the border, and it was a general mess. They also got up on stage later than promised but made the most out of it.  

 

Not only that. I promised them $400+ expenses. I only paid them $400, it was all I had. As in, seriously, all I fucking had. $64 were left in the bank. And I had no real income.

 

We thought that we were going to make money with Rumble Fest.

 

Fuck were we wrong.

 

And all the signs that it was going to be wrong were there. And I knew it. But we were having too much fun.


 

I crossed the border to the US with the bands and gave them the cash. I didn’t sleep for over 20 hours and border crossing took us around 2 hours. I was destroyed. And cashless.


 

I went home, got food, got plenty of water, dropped acid, and floated away for what seemed days.


 

After everything that happened… everyone was on acid during the festival except me. It was my turn. I could see my body floating away as I blasted live concerts on YouTube by Battles and other noisy/mathy bands. I rested on acid. Again, as if floating/levitating in the middle of the room. 


 

Months before Rumble Fest, we were organizing mini-festivals. It involved bands that were going to be featured in the event and other minor bands that asked us to be in it but we couldn’t. We did one or two every weekend. This often involved music, alcohol, and drugs.

 

Sex. Sex was also included and random.

 

Everyone was single. And we ruled the stage, the entrance, and the party. The party never fucking ended.


 

The party started since the idea of Rumble Fest came about. We worked. But work was partying. And coming up with ideas. And talking to bands.

 

I did a lot of the work.

 

The website. The ideas. The actual fabrication of what was going to go down. Logistics. They never trusted me fully, and a lot of that went wrong. Logistics. I had some contacts in the music industry and other vendors.

 

David had the crazy idea and the contacts for music and party people. 

 

Chad had the contacts for music and artists. 

 

And for three months we coordinated to make it all happen.

 

 


 

 

J-Mar came later. He had contacts and his own ideas. His band was opening the festival. We needed his support.


 

After many preview shows, the date of Rumble Fest was near. Which was a week before my birthday.


 

The ultimate party celebrating that this shit was actually happening. At the gym, with our partners.

 

Tecates abounded. And we drank for a long time. 

 

Cocaine was also available. And though I don’t like the drug, I partook. 


 

Suddenly, we were running low on beer and out of cocaine and it was past midnight.

 

Someone said he had a contact for both. Forty minutes later when only one beer was left, the contact showed up with a 24-pack and more cocaine.

 

Party saved… momentarily.


 

That was harsh cocaine. 

 

In fact, it didn’t feel like cocaine at all.

 


 

 

We were at the gym. There were mirrors everywhere. So I remember staring myself in the mirror and realizing I just did some meth.

 

My hair was crazy, I felt insanely energized and powerful, my eyes were bloodshot red, and I had a sudden thirst for everything.


 

That feeling continued the next day. 


 

And the next day.


 

And almost to the next day.


 

We drank Tecates throughout the whole weekend. Mostly at Tropics Bar. 

 

That’s why I loathe that place. 

 

And many other reasons… 


 

That year, 2015, was the last time I went there, near Christmas time.

 

Except, I broke my promise of not going there last week. When friends from Minnesota came over and we were invited there. It wasn’t as horrible as my memory painted it.


 

It was on Sunday at Tropics Bar when I started to feel the fucking worst withdrawal feelings ever. Thank god I don’t really fucking smoke cigarettes or ever dabbled with heroin. 

 

Fuck that.


 

It was a fucking nightmare.

 

I was wearing sunglasses at night like a fucking douchenozzle. But I did it because my fucking head felt horrible. I was a zombie. I was fully awake but tired as fuck. I knew the only thing that would make me feel better would be more meth.


 

Or “cricais” (crick-ice) cocaine mixed with “ice.” That’s what it was.

 

That shit was fucking nasty.


 

To top it all off, there were four women at the bar that I have previously slept with. One crazy chick, one girl that I fell in love with and the feelings weren’t mutually, and two one-night stands.

 

And there I was with. Feeling like shit. Drunk as fuck and coming off from meth. And ex-lovers in the same bar talking to other lovers. 


 

“Tijuana es un cojedero, se cree ciudad, pero es un pueblito.”

 

Tijuana is a fuckfest, it believes its a city, but it’s just a small town. I was warned about that when I first arrived in the city. It was. It still is.


 

One week to Rumble Fest. Nothing was really ready. Problems were mounting. Everything was falling apart. And the solution were more drugs and alcohol.


 

Clean the fuck out of the area where the fest was going to happen. Fell behind in permits. The vendors were confused. The sound was a shitty contractor. The bands were a mess. And organizers… 

 

Organizers were kept together by drugs, friendship, Tecates, and a fucking belief that we could pull the best fucking concert ever out of our asses.


 

For some people it was. For a lot of others, it was a fucking disaster.

 

It had its highlights, for me, it was 100 Onces. That was it. That was the only moment I enjoyed myself for a second.

 

The rest was running around FUCKING everywhere answering fucking EVERYONE about FUCKING anything. And almost everyone was on fucking drugs. Which made things worse.

 

I had to kick out bands off-stage. Held the ankle of the drummer of the Wax Children to let them know it was their last song. They expanded that last song for many minutes and I had to grab his ankle again. Everything fucking behind schedule.

 

And bands always want special treatment. They are all rockstars in their heads.

 

I had to kick out one of the bands. I told them that I couldn’t be giving everyone fucking blowjobs. And they came in demanding instead of helping. The schedule was way behind, and they wanted the stage. Told them it wasn’t their turn, they got up on stage anyway.

 

Kicked them the fuck out.

 

Not your fucking turn.

 

Fucking bands.


 

Many were helpful, many were in drugs (yet still helpful), and most seemed to enjoy themselves.

 

Only one band were complete ratdicks, they don’t exist anymore, so it’s not even worth mentioning them. Great musicians. Shit attitude.

 

The other, San Pedro El Cortez, they were the fucking best. They didn’t care what happens as long as they could have beers. They played at 4 fucking a.m. The last band to play. And they were happy to do so. With a shit drum set and without checking sound over and over. They just went up on fucking stage and did their thing. 


 

And that’s the last time I tried organizing a major event. And I don’t think I ever will. Unless I get paid a lot and the investment is not my money. And that’s never going to happen. So yeah. 

 

No.


 

I rarely even go to shows nowadays.

 

This last week I went to two. That felt good. I should go to more. But no more drugs. Those days are behind me.

 

That’s what your twenties are for, right?

 

Hunter S. Thompson would disagree. But I don’t have his talent or his wit.  


 

One show was in San Diego. Kirby Dream Band. Nerdy shit. It was great.

 

The other was in Tijuana with my Minnesotan friends. Perdición. It was hardcore. It was fucking loud. Very fucking loud. Dangerously fucking loud.

 

Minnesotan friends couldn’t handle the loud. So we bounced after a few songs.


 

That was after days and nights partying in San Diego, one night in Tijuana, Minnesotans were hungover as fuck, we still fucking managed to party somehow.

 

No strip clubs. 

 

They did that in Southeast Asia. And didn’t feel the need to do it anymore.


 

My stories are enough.

 

I don’t need new stories.


 

And I only have a few left before I’m done embarrassing myself.

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 14 — Pachangas Matt, Drugs, Rumble Fest, Donkey Show, Bands, and Party.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 14. Pachangas Matt, Drugs, Rumble Fest, Donkey Show, Bands, and Party.

 

A blog post about my life 2 years ago show me that I was very sick in February, I was broke, and my life sucked. That blog post also contained pictures of Mila Kunis that I took 10 years ago.


But two years ago, I was a party animal.

 

Pachangas Matt.


 

I’m sort of a professional alcoholic now. I don’t really drink in moderation but it’s really hard to get me drunk.

 

My roommate said he never saw me drunk. My ex-girlfriend saw me real drunk probably twice, but she also said she never saw me drunk.

 

Besides that… I drink, I get tired. I go to bed.


 

I don’t know how other alcoholics can do it. I’m not capable of drinking and staying awake. At some point, I’m just done. 


 

Pachangas Matt lasted a bit until dawn.

 

Drug infused Danger Dave lasted for days. Cocaine is a hell of a drug.

 

And in Tijuana, cocaine is usually not the purest…

 

Chad was fueled by caguamas back then. He could last until noon or later just drinking caguamas and talking to everyone. His Spanish improved after three or more caguamas. 

 

Spanglish ruled supreme. 

 


 

I often had to drag Chad back to the apartment or leave him behind because I was fucking going to bed. 

 

The sun rising felt like an indication that it was bedtime.


 

Some bars never close in Tijuana.

 

I haven’t been in any past midnight in a while.

 

It used to be an every night thing.


 

$100 a week is all you need to live off caguamas and street tacos. 

 

Making US dollars and living in Mexico can be very cheap.

 

Rent was $340 a month (split into two).  Expenses were minimal. That’s a couple days of work. Or just one. It depends.


 

There’s a lot of time to be spent drinking caguamas. It was a full year of doing it. I still do it now.


 

The average caguama in a dive bar goes for $2-4, they are $2 in the store, so bars virtually sell caguamas for the same price. 

 

I don’t want to do the math, but that’s a lot of caguamas a week for just $100. 

 

Tacos are just $1.

 

You get it.

 

Your money is worth a lot more.

 

That’s why thousands of people do it. Cross the border, work for a couple of days a week, live in Tijuana like a king.

 

Two workdays, five rest days. Caguamas and tacos.


 

After many caguamas as the three amigos, we came up with the idea of Fist Fest.

 

Nope.

 

That was wrong.

 

Fist Fest turns out to be a festival of men fisting each other.

 

That wasn’t it.

 

Yep. Just googled it. Still is that shit.

 

“Fist Fest® is most likely the longest running men’s fisting weekend in the world. Established in 1997,Fist Fest® came under our stewardship in 2011. We are thrilled to be able to continue and grow this event. We currently produce four annual weekends.”


Rumble Fest.

 

Let the rumble fest shit begin.


 

Rumble Fest was the attempt of an impossible idea. The perfect and cheapest music festival uniting Baja California and California under one abandoned factory. 28 bands. Live art. Cheap beer. Lots of drugs.

 

$2 entrance.

 

And people fucking didn’t even pay.


 

We lost a lot of money that night.


 

A lot of money for our standards. I lost close to $1,000. 

 

There was more money lost.


 

Hah. I just realized I’m wearing the rumble fest t-shirt.

 

I spent $300+ on t-shirts that didn’t sell.

 

By the end of the festival, I was begging people to buy one so I can recoup some money.


 

It was the most stupidest fucking thing I have ever attempted. 


 

That shit snowballed out of control quickly.


 

We had the idea in early March and started printing the first posters when we found the location of an abandoned factory owned by a gym that Danger Dave frequented. The gym became partners. That’s why the name of the festival had to have something aggressive. Like fist.

 

Except not that.

 

Tijuana Rumble Fest.

 

Shit tons of bands.

 

More than half drop from the first poster. Second poster. More bands from LA. More Hype. New graphic designer who I never paid. Sorry, Zuko. 


 

100 Fucking ONCES.

 

That was one of the things I cared about the most. That band fucking ruled. Too bad they are not together anymore.


And my band.

 

Donkichow.

 

Or Donkey Show.


 

Pretending to be a rockstar playing shitty math rock for bands from LA that are barely known.


 

100 Onces got big for a bit. Not big big. Just big in the math-rock circles. 


 

Music. I miss it.


 

Before Rumble Fest.

 

Three months of previous shows. Getting drunk as fuck. Cocaine seemed to be everywhere.

 

Fucking cocaine.

 

Never liked that drug until the year of the Rumble Fest. 

 

There was also a lot of acid…

 

And a lot of ecstasy.

 

And there might have been some meth.

 

I haven’t done any drugs for more than 2 years ago.


 

You only YOLO once.


 

 

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 10.5 — Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 10.5

Rudy the Italian New Yorker who said Tijuana was the DR mixed with 80s Brooklyn.

 

I got busy again and I forgot where I was going with all the shit I was typing. I said it had been slow days in the other intro. Well, that got reversed. The editor accepted my pitch for a feature story, then I went to investigate another short story. I got really good material, so I pitched a lengthy story and he went for it.

 

Now I have a couple of days to finish the first story before I leave town.

 

And also… one paid photo gig to take care of.

 

And a tour…


Not really a tour. My tours have changed a lot. There’s still the occasional bachelor party, but it is very rare now. 

 

This tour is of journalistic nature, not that of gross nature. Irish reporters are visiting this weird city and they need someone to show them around. They found me somehow. And I got to take care of that this weekend.


And there are a lot of good events this weekend. And tomorrow I’m jamming with some guys to see if we start a band.


And…

And…

 

Tijuana is a lot. And I’m getting busy. Let’s get it over with so I can go back to work.


 

We left Hong Kong and it was nice and bright out. What an experience. Especially for a 20-year-old who has never been in a bar or much less a titty club like that one. 

 

I stopped feeling joy showing people that insane place. It used to be awesome to watch. How people’s eyes lit up when they see that depravity. Men and women. LGBT or anything. It’s world-famous for a reason. And getting famouser as I write this (I am aware famouser is not a word).


So you can imagine Kevin’s conflicted feelings and emotions and excitements.

 

Taking him to La Nueva Pachanga is like throwing a bucket of cold water on his face.


It goes from tempting depravity from hell to actual hell. A real one. No makeup on this fucker. Crude reality. 


 

We sat on the back near the inflatable palm tree. The only fucking decoration inside La Nueva Pachanga besides the Chivas posters.

 

There used to be a pole there. Not sure if they changed it. But there used to be one.


 

Kevin didn’t understand why I took him to this shithole. I didn’t really even know either.

 

That place still fascinates me, but I used to be obsessed with it.


 

There was a drunk older woman with a summery dress dancing by the pole. She had a date on a table. A date that was passed out and she barely paid attention to him.


Kevin kept staring. I told him not too, but he couldn’t help it. I tried not too, but I obviously played it dumb like I wasn’t watching it.


Then she came over and touched Kevin and asked for a dollar. 

 

His reaction was of “eww no, get off of me.”

 

Drunk woman got mad and said, “if you don’t like it then don’t watch!”

 

And kept dancing and making obscene gestures at us. She lifted her dress to show a very undesirable body. 


We left way before sunset. 

 

That was Kevin’s brief introduction to Zona Norte.


 

Reviewing memories of the time, my friend Nick from Minnesota was here when all this shit happened, since Kevin and Nick met at some point.

 

This is when the craft beer scene barely started occurring and my tours started to shift focus.


 

I never took Nick to Zona Norte. Just craft beers and dive bars. More like my tours now.


 

Later that same week, I had my first legit paid customer. He was not interested in craft beer.


When I started, I used to advertise on craigslist. 

 

The ad said something along the lines of “Hey, I’ll guide you through Tijuana for $25.” 

 

It probably included beer, tacos, and strip clubs as part of the ad.


 

My first client came through those ads.

 

A guy from New York named Rudy. Classic Italian New Yorker from the Bronx. Super heavy accent straight up from the movies. Never met a guy like that. Incredibly New Yorker.

 

He compared Tijuana to the Dominican Republic and to 80s New York.

 

“Me and my boys, you know, we would go to the DR and get all these girls for cheap, you know, the DR was great, you know.”

 

He sounded something like that.

 

Really funny dude.

 

“New York was like this in the 80s, you know. You would drive around, you know, and get girls to suck your dick for a $20, you know.”

 

For him, Tijuana was that. A mix of 80s New York and his experiences in brothels in the Dominican Republic or “the DR.” (Dee Ahr you idiot, not doctor). 

 

He requested chicken tacos.

 

That took me by surprise. Chicken tacos are an odd request. Or rarely even seen. I told him Tijuana is about fish and shrimp tacos or meat. Nah. He wanted chicken tacos.


 

This is how bad I was giving tours. I didn’t know where to take him. 

 

We ended up in a shitty place that served shitty tacos. He didn’t like them.

 

Again, I told him chicken tacos aren’t really a thing. Should have just taken him where it is good and not giving him silly choices.


We had a beer somewhere before going into the strip clubs.


 

He loved the shit out of Adelita’s. Again, he said everything was the same as the DR. 

 

He said that some politician came to the DR and cleaned all up.

 

“They fucked up, you know. DR was great and then they cleaned it. No more hookers. We used to fly every other month, rent a house, you know, and get girls, you know. Beautiful girls for cheap. The DR was great. But no more, you know.”

 

“You know” was never a question. More like an interlude between thoughts. 


 

I charged him $25 for the tour which he paid upfront. Then he paid for all the rest.

 

After Adelita’s, of course, Hong Kong.


 

Oh was he loving the fuck out of Hong Kong.

 

He picked up the most plastic looking girl. He said he liked that. The faker the better. He bought her a couple of drinks and told me to get a girl for myself.

 

He then said he was going to take her to the room and gave me some cash so I can drink while I waited for him.

 

He came back all happy with the same girl and kept buying her drinks.


Old school photographers roam strip clubs to try to sell you a picture of the memory of you with a hooker.

 

He paid for a photograph with him and his girl. Two actually. One of them posing as if they were the most awkward high school couple before prom. The other of him with his head between her tits.

 

$5 per picture.


 

We drank a bit more in Hong Kong. He said goodbye to his girl. And then left.


It was still day time. Nearing sunset.

 

He wanted to see more. So I took him through Zona Norte. We didn’t go to La Nueva Pachanga, but I was more confident about where to walk in the area. He wanted to see the street girls.

 

It was DR this. 80s New York that.

 

He fucking adored Tijuana.

 

We walked by where the transsexual hookers stand.

 

“I’ve seen a lot of transformers in my days, you know, and let me tell you, those transformers are some of the best transformers I’ve ever seen.”

 

I never heard anyone called them transformers. I know it’s derogatory to call them trannies, shemales, ladyboys, or many more… but transformers.

 

I think transformers is just fucking hilarious. 

 

I’m pretty sure they find offense in that. They should find it empowering. Transforming oneself is some difficult shit.


Sorry trans community. That was Rudy talking. 


 

As we walked back to the border, he asked why so many farmacias. I explained the giant medical and dental tourism we have at the border.

 

Suddenly, Tijuana was not an interesting thing for him just for the girls… 

 

Rudy needed dental care that he had been neglecting because it was too expensive.

 

He said he planned to come back in a couple of months, get dental work, and go find the exact same girl in Hong Kong.


 

Sorry, mom. Sex sales.


 

Rudy crossed back to San Diego and it wasn’t even night time. I charged him $25 for the tour, but he was so happy with everything that he learned that he gave me $50 tip. 


 

I made as much money as the prostitute he slept with. I was conflicted, but I made money. Sleazy money. 


 

I called my mom to tell her my first tour was a success and that I made more money than I was expected. And told her that I was sorry because sex sales…


Rudy did come back. It was almost a year later. And his adventure was similar to the one above, except dental work, and he lost his keys in a taxi cab.

 

Not sure if that story is worth telling.


If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas

Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 10 — New Apartment, New Not-crazy Roommate, Co-worker Experiences Zona Norte.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 10. New Apartment, New Not-crazy Roommate, Co-worker Experiences Zona Norte.

 

I haven’t been working lately. It has been slow these past few days. I don’t like it because I’m not making any money.


 

I started taking pictures of pretty girls posing. I’m back in the photography game. I’m good at it. But I’m not sure if I love it. I just want to do it to make money. And I figured taking pictures of pretty girls is where there is money.

 

That. And pictures of food.

 

And photojournalism.

 

I can do all types of pictures. I’m making some money out of photojournalism. I have a gig to take care of this week. But I need more money.

 

And I just started taking pictures of girls modeling. I’m not sure where I’m going with it. I’m never sure where I’m going in life.


 

I don’t think no one ever does.


 

I haven’t been writing. But I finally pitched something to my editor and I will be working on it next week. Leaving Tijuana for a while. I need to get away.


 

Just like I got away from living with Mrs. Palída Hortaliza.

 

Holy shit that was terrifying.


 

So now I was living in the same ghetto building in downtown Tijuana. I never described it well. 

 

It’s a red building. It’s almost prison-like but not that horrible. The narrow corridor is dark and the stairs are of simple cement with black handrails. There were 12 units in there. The apartment that I moved out of was on the third and last story. It had nice light and a small balcony with nice views. Neighbors on each side that were okay and some in the bottom that I never really saw.

 

The apartment I moved in was in the middle level of the building. Surrounded by every apartment and right in front of the main stairs.

 

I heard every single movement in the complex.

 

The grumpy mechanic neighbors. The weird neighbor that owned a BMW and claimed to be a videographer but still shot film. Families that kept to themselves but looked scared. The guy that most definitely sold drugs. You know. Downtown Tijuana.


 

Boxy small two-bedroom apartment in the middle of the complex. The balcony for that apartment hit a wall of the building next door. The saddest balcony in history. That was the view from my room as well.

 

The light was shit. And I had a dusty extra room for rent. 

 

Almost no furniture at all. Just my computer and my kitchen shit. Still, no internet and my new room didn’t reach the Wifi from the old corner.


 

It was shitty. But I was happy. 

 

Working every day at an office for $800 a month and paying $280 for a two-bedroom wasn’t that bad.


 

It didn’t take me long to find a roommate to split rent with. He barely lived in Tijuana so I barely saw him.

 

We are still good friends to this day. So for the purposes of this text let’s call him Ricardo. Yeah. Why not.


 

Ricardo showed me the joys of Zona Norte outside Hong Kong.


 

Up to this point, I have only been talking great about the sexual palaces in Zona Norte. Well… now it’s time to talk about the shitholes.


 

Introducing La Nueva Pachanga.

 

Just a few steps away from Hong Kong is this lovely place.


 

Ricardo took me walking through Zona Norte, but the opposite way I’m used to entering. This time, we walked from west to east on Calle Primera. Before this, I haven’t even walked on Calle Primera besides by the Hong Kong area.

 

The area is gnarly. I rarely walk through that area now. Despite living a block from it. And a few blocks from Calle Primera, near La Internacional… Yeah. Don’t walk there. It’s too gruesome.

 

Shit. I live right there and I don’t dare cross certain streets. Too many drugs in this town.


 

And that’s where Ricardo was taking me.

 


 

Behind heavy blue curtains with a heavy stench of smoke, you’ll find a more pleasant stench… of piss and ammonia. Rats crawled by the floor and by the cracks on the ceiling. Beers are cheaper than in the store. And Ricardo walked in as if nothing. As if it wasn’t a weird place. As if it wasn’t the shittiest bar in existence.


 

The joys of La Nueva Pachanga.

 


 

This is where sad hookers end the night. The old ones that couldn’t make any money sit at the bar and let old men buy them drinks. That’s all they need.


 

It’s a wormhole into another dimension. A few yards away people are living lavishly surrounded by beautiful naked women throwing money in the air like they just don’t care.

 

And in La Nueva Pachanga people count pennies to get a drink. 

 

Shoe shiners come in and offer to clean your shoes if you buy them a beer or a taco. 

 

Junkies come in for a fix that is easily available in one of the shady corners of the bar.

 

Drunk old hookers with scars or barely passable men dressed in drag dance on the dirty pole hoping someone will give them a dollar. Usually, no one does. 

 

There’s a gambling machine similar to pachinko but with a soccer theme that is supposedly illegal. But who cares. The short employee dances while he mops the floor over and over. Tipping him a coin would result in him promptly going to the soccer pachinko machine to try his luck. 

 

Somehow, the jukebox is outstanding, it has an eclectic collection which includes numerous great bands. And the speakers sound good for how loud they usually have them and how shit the bar is.

 

Posters on the wall seem to be there since decades ago. Chivas, the soccer team, stomping on their rivals, America. Pictures of the team from seasons ago when they were actually good. Misspelled handwritten signs inform you of the prices.

 

2 Pasifico Caguama 50 pesos


 

Ricardo bought me a 10 pesos shot of tequila.

 

Tequila el muerto, 10 pesos

 

You read that right.

 

That’s around 60 cents for a shot.

 

Obviously, it was fucking disgusting.

 

But there we went again. Took a couple more 10 pesos shots and got some beers.


 

Beers, again, are cheaper than the store. They don’t taste right but for around $3 for two giant 1.27 liter beers it’s a steal. Jukebox is cheap. The soccer pachinko machine is fun. The people that enter are insanely colorful. 

 

It’s the end of life.


 

I became addicted to it.

 

To that disgusting yet interesting wormhole and walking around the gruesome Calle Primera. 

 

I rarely walk through there anymore.


 

I became addicted to the stupid soccer pachinko machine. 5 pesos for seconds of entertainment and every once in awhile win some money. I’ve lost around $30 playing that stupid shit but got much entertainment out of it. Worth it. I would still go back just for that fucker.

 

And the pool table is not that bad. It’s crooked and used as fuck. But 25 cents games. Beat that. 


 

It’s been a long time since I went to La Nueva Pachanga.

 

It’s been a long time since I went to Hong Kong. 


 

I had a co-worker who was moving from Los Angeles to Tijuana to join the gang of writers in the office.

 


 

El Pinche Kevin. A Mexican-American kid that wanted to pursue a career in writing sports. The kid now is an editor for some other shit.


 

But I remember to perfection when I introduced to el Pinche Kevin the double whammy.


 

Fucker was only 20-years-old when he moved to Tijuana. He had never been in a bar in his whole fucking life.

 

Can you imagine that?!


 

Of course, he had drunk before. This kid went to high school in California and partied.

 

But not bars.

 

And not like this.


 

Take 1.

 

Hong Kong. Or I think for starters it was Adelita’s.


It was Adelita’s.

 

He had never been to a bar, much less one with naked women everywhere.


 

I lied. I don’t remember the night as perfectly as I wish. Memory is a bitch. And I’ve been Zona Norteando way too much that memories mix.


 

It had to be Adelita’s. It’s usually better to start there than to go to Hong Kong.

 

I remember he bought a girl a drink and was disappointed by it.


That got him ready for Hong Kong. Yadda yadda yadda.

 

Strippers and fun.

 

Dollars poorly or very well spent. It depends on how you look at it. It depends on how much money you make.

 

I wasn’t making much.

 

Neither was him.

 

So we didn’t stay there long.

 

I just showed him the joys of Zona Norte at around 2 pm. 

 


 

Of course, no trip was complete without Nueva Pachanga now.


 

That’s the TJ experience. Well… the real Zona Norte experience.

 

Shithole to fancy sex palace in seconds.

 

You have to see both.

 

Otherwise, you are doing it wrong.

 

And behind heavy curtains in Zona Norte, you don’t know what you are going to find.


 

It’s like a game show where you get to choose a door and see what happens.

 

Some might be shitholes with sad old dancers, drunks, and drugs.

 

Others might be completely empty with maybe one hot girl.

 

Playboy for some reason always has a group of Asians.

 

Zona Norte.

 

Just enter it. At any fucking given time. It’s almost 11:00 a.m. right now and I could venture behind heavy curtains indoors of Zona Norte and who the fuck knows what I’m going to find.

 

Hong Kong is a guarantee that it will be the same for now. Same with Adelita’s.

 

But the rest.

 

Who the fuck knows. Some shit for sure. I was curious to find out. And I did a lot.

 

But for now.

 

Let’s go back to the double whammy.


 

Leaving Hong Kong is difficult. Or it used to be. There are too many naked women that it’s hypnotizing and it pulls you back.

 

So it’s best to snap the fuck out of it.

 

And how better to snap the fuck out of than entering a different reality.


That’s what I ohh shit… Come back to it later, I just got called for some work.


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 7.5 — Hong Kong with Psycho.

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Chapter 7.5 – Hong Kong with Psycho.

I did errands and some work and got distracted on purpose because I didn’t want to write what I’m going to write.

 

It’s not even that bad. This was years ago. I was 26-year-old and was YOLOing harder than ever.


 

We entered Hong Kong drunk and high at around 2 a.m. on a Tuesday. The place was not as lively as it usually is. Still a lot of naked women everywhere, but not the insanity of weekends in the sex emporium.

 

Before we even found a place to seat, psycho chick was saying hello to some women excitedly. She knew a lot of the dancers but didn’t know they worked there or never seen them work. She ordered a bucket of beer and gave me a $20.

 

Then she said, “wait, I’ll be back.” 

 

The bucket of beer arrived and she was nowhere. There goes not only the $20 she gave me, but the only $20 I had that was supposed to last me more than a few days.


 

First beer out of ten and I’m sitting in Hong Kong by myself with no money. Trying not to look at all the naked women around me because as soon as you give them eye contact, they’ll approach you.

 

There’s nowhere to look.

 

Stimulation overload.

 

I’m so over it.


 

For now.


 

Second beer. I’m drunk as fuck. I don’t want to drink anymore. But there’s a bucket of beer that I pseudo-paid for so I’m going to drink as much as I can.


Fuck. Third beer. This is boring now.


 

And there she is! She came back. The psycho chick.

 

With $400 in her hands.

 

She handed $200 to a waiter and told him to break it for $20s and singles.

 


She then handed me a fistful of singles and said: “I want you to spend it on my friends.”


Yep.

 

My luck turned around. Psycho chick just handed me a bunch of money. She was telling her friends to come over and be with me while at the same time she was with me… It was… magical? 


But wait. There’s more!


Much more…


Sorry, mom.


It took us less than an hour to spend the couple hundred. I kissed and touched many naked women while kissing the psycho chick at the same time. And they did the same to me.

 

The waiters were treating us like royalty as psycho told him to break another $100 and bring another bucket of beer.


 

The waiters had no idea psycho chick was also a stripper but just from Adelita’s and not Hong Kong. She was dressed in regular clothes. Tight jeans, tennis shoes, a regular shirt, and little makeup.

 

She gave me a fistful of singles again. Beer was ignored at this point but was still there.

 

And then she decided she wanted to dance on stage.


 

Waiters didn’t care. The other girls encouraged it. 

 

She got up and started stripping for me and for the general audience.


 

I helped her strip. I started throwing money that she gave me on stage. Took off her jeans and left her with just her panties and put more money as she danced… for like another second. 


 

Then she helped me strip…


 

Then I was on stage.


So there.

 

Secret out. I had sex with a psycho hooker in public for a moment. 

 

Again, Hong Kong wasn’t very lively, so it was just some waiters, other hookers, and dozen other customers that were entertained by their own naked girls on their laps.

 


 

We didn’t finish, but I was naked on stage (boxers only) with her totally naked and two other naked girls there. I think I had a moment of consciousness when I was like “dude, you can’t keep going.” I’m pretty sure we were taking it too far, but at some point, I was on the side of the stage putting my clothes back on.

 

Her, the same.


 

The other two girls that were on stage came to us and gave her back some of the money. 

 

And she still had plenty of money.


 

After what happened, waiters kept treating us like royalty.

 

They started ushering us into the VIP room where they told us we could keep it going with more girls.

 

We laughed at each other and said no thanks.

 

Then they ushered us into some private fancy rooms with a jacuzzi shower with glass windows and four-poster bed with translucent curtains and soft clean sheets. It pretty much looked like a set of a porno. And porno was playing on TV.

 

Again, we said no thanks. 

 

They tried ushering us to another place that was basically the same, with more promises of girls, champagne, and other VIP treatment.

 

I think they thought I had the money and not her. Because I kept looking at her like “what’s your choice.”

 

She again said no thanks and that we wanted to go back to the main area.


 

There we sat with her friends again trying to finish the rest of the bucket of beer.


We didn’t finish the beer when she said it was time for tacos.

 

She handed me the rest of her change. $50 some dollars. I put them in my right pocket of my favorite green hoodie.


 

I lost that green hoodie. I miss that green hoodie. That fucking hoodie was perfect.


 

We stumbled down the street for tacos. It was near dawn time. We were beyond wasted. Her, more than me. I had time to sober up after the actions occurred. 


 

She got three adobada tacos with everything. At the time, I was a “vegetarian” so I ordered nothing.

 

Also at the time “I would never be with a prostitute.” Too late to go back on that one. 


 

I still never have paid any money for it. And I don’t think I ever will. So hooray my morals!?


 

She was so drunk that she was eating the paper that came with the taco. I helped her fold that paper back so she wouldn’t eat it. Nah. She kept munching on that taco drunkenly eaten the paper and all.

 

I was hungry, so I grabbed a piece of the meat ever so carefully picking a not so greasy piece that didn’t touch the guacamole that was piled on top (I hate that green booger shit). 

 

Vegetarianism over.

 

Give me a taco without that green booger shit.


 

Almost ate it with paper and all.


 

I took money out of the right pocket of my beloved green fucking hoodie that I miss so much. Paid the taquero. And down the road, we go to her place.

 

Her place?


Oh yeah!

 

There’s more!

 

I said there’s more!


 

Her place was Hotel Velario, a hotel near all the prostitutes. And guess what happens in that hotel?!


 

It’s a really nice standard hotel. She had a room on the bottom floor. The building is weird, is sort of a labyrinth and it goes down a few floors instead of up. 

 

The room was also pretty standard, except she had all her shit there.

 

I remember I saw her official ID on the night desk. Shit. I learned her real name and her age. She was 21. I thought she was older than me at the time.


 

She opened her closet and tried opening her safe to show off her money. She was too drunk to open it. She left her purse and money on top of it. 

 

Then we had sex for hours.

 

For way too many hours.

 

I was tired. I wanted to sleep.

 

She wouldn’t let me. She wanted more and more and more.


She went to other rooms to show me off.

 

Other girls that worked with her basically also live in the hotel. The girls would come into her hotel room and play with me. 

 

Yep…


 

I was so embarrassed. But at the same time YOLOing. She just kept telling girls “you gotta see this guy’s cock. It’s perfect.”

 

So more girls kept coming to check it out.


 

I just wanted to fucking sleep. She wanted more sex and got obsessed with not being able to open her safe.


 

At some point, she called the front desk to tell them she couldn’t open her safe. Security came into the room to help her. Security dude seemed to be friendly with psycho. They couldn’t reset the fucking password so they welded that shit down and told her they were going to bring her a new safe.

 

She had over 20k in cash on the safe…


 

At some point I did sleep. Because I woke up and suddenly there were several fruit juices JUMEX on the room’s table as well as shitty Mexican pastries. At some point, she went to the store and bought breakfast. 


 

I had no idea what time it was.


 

I slept some more after breakfast. But she kept touching me trying to get my tired penis to do something. I told her I needed sleep. At least a couple hours.

 


 

I woke up no idea at what time. She was asleep but felt me waking up.

 

And started touching me right away.


 

After what seemed the 7th time I had sex in one day, I left her hotel room.


This circles back to Chapter 1

 

This is when I stumbled out of Zona Norte after the craziest fucking night of my life. I reached for my pocket to call my friend Brown. “Dude, you won’t know what just happened.” Those were my first words.

 

Tijuana happened.

When I was talking to him giving him a rough summary and telling him to meet me for beers soon, I reached inside my right pocket on my fucking beautiful green hoodie.

 

$37 dollars.


 

I told him I’ll call him later.

 

Turned around and headed back to the hotel.


 

Shit. I didn’t know what room she is in. Her first name was very common and I forgot her real last name. I couldn’t just ask for “psycho chick.”

 

I turned back around and went back to my place. 


 

I messaged her later that day to let her know that I took some money from her by accident and thanked her for the wild night. She told me not to worry about it and to buy her beer one of these days.


And wait.

 

There’s more.


A month later she texted me that she was pregnant….


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Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 5 — Moving to Tijuana: First Apartment and First TJ Girlfriend.

If you enjoyed this, please support me at: https://www.patreon.com/Matingas


Chapter 5. Moving to Tijuana: First Apartment and First TJ Girlfriend.

 

My editor has me working on a story about the morgue of Tijuana. I would have never imagined I would be doing that years after arriving here. Obsessed with the city and constantly writing about it. And making some money doing it. No. I hated it. That’s how it all started.

 


After quitting my job in Los Angeles as a paparazzo. Yes… That’s another book that was never a book, but more of a blog that evolved into a daily word vomit. I wrote shit exactly like this. But a lot of it. That’s my page. Matingas.com. Follow the link to the word vomit. 460+ posts about my life and 100+ about encounters with celebrities.


Ok.

 

Back.

 

I quit my job as a paparazzo. I was tired of it and I got demoted from staff at LAX to freelance on the streets (more money possibilities, but harder work). I didn’t want to work doing that anymore, but I didn’t know anything better. I started when I was 21. It was my first job and I was making way too much money for being so young and not really understanding money.

 

I quit when I was 25 after going on a long-ass road trip through the US. When I got back to Los Angeles I realized I didn’t want to live there anymore. I didn’t want to continue as a paparazzo.

 

So I moved out. Except I had no idea where I should move out too.


I ended up in northern San Diego in a shithole called Rancho Peñasquitos. My brother was getting married in Tijuana, so why not be close to the family in San Diego. 

 

I was going to grow marijuana legally, sell to dispensaries, go back to music school, be a guitarist. What I always wanted to do. 

 

It didn’t go as planned.

 

I lasted less than 6-months in the house with horrible roommates.


To escape the roommates, I would often go to Tijuana.

 

Downtown Tijuana was as close as downtown San Diego. 

 

It was an easy choice.


 

And thus my party days in Tijuana started to become more frequent.

 

 


 

And my first apartment.

 

 


 

 

Two out of the four roommates in San Diego decided that they were going to move out. One of the roommates was the guy on the lease. They told us we can stay behind and get other roommates and talk to the landlord.

 

The house was a disaster. The water bill wasn’t paid and was large. I signed a contract with AT&T because fucking roommates forced me to do so. They never paid me. And they decided to move out.

 

I was left behind with another roommate. The roommate that I thought I wasn’t going to get along ended up being the coolest of them all.

 

 


 

 

They abandoned the house. We interviewed other potential roommates but decided to abandon the house as well. We cleaned the fuck out of the house and took everything that was abandoned to the dump.

 

I interrupted my marijuana growth tent in the middle of a cycle and sold all the lights and plants for cheap.

 

I packed my car.

 

Moved to Tijuana.


 

It took two trips to fill my 2006 grey Mazda 6, named Eddie, with all my shit and moved to Tijuana.

 

Surfboard, mattress, longboard, three guitars, 42” inch TV, 27” iMac, shitty IKEA desk, all my clothes, the paparazzi magazines, and lots of other bullshit that I carry when I move.


My first apartment was in la Colonia Cacho. My brother hooked me up with a friend of his that his mother owned the building. 

 

The apartment was a one-bedroom for $350.

 

I was paying $560 for one room in San Diego.

 

This was way better.

 

And I still had some savings.

 

No job.

 

I never wanted a job.


 

I had a few interviews in San Diego. They would give me the job and tell me to show up at a certain hour at someplace.

 

I wouldn’t show up.

 

This happened three times.

 

They were shitty jobs that I didn’t want to do.

 

It’s hard to do a shitty job when I used to run around taking pictures of celebrities and making money.

 

It’s hard to do a shitty job when I’ve been getting paid to write. 

 

And I write this without knowing if I’m going to get paid.

 

Let’s hope I am.

 

Right?


 

And so I spent my first few months in Tijuana locked in my apartment, waiting for the internet to arrive, playing guitar. Scared of the city. Scared of where I was. Lonely.

Very lonely.

 

I didn’t know anyone except my co-brother-in-law. And he was a punk rock student living not that close and with absolutely no money.

 

That’s how people live in Tijuana.

 

On the edge.

 

With no money.

 

Just enough for the next beer and hopefully the next taco.


That’s why I ended up doing.

 

I sold my car to pay for rent.

 

I sold my car to pay stupid shit I should have canceled. An expensive Verizon Wireless smartphone that didn’t even have a signal in Mexico. A Droid 2. The early generations of smartphones. I was still paying my student loans. And other shit that I should have not been paying while not producing any money… 


 

My expenses were over $1,000 a month without generating any money and eating and drinking outside often. That’s all the money you need in TJ. $1,000 a month.

 

And I sold my car for $6,600.


Those were my first 6 months in Tijuana.

 

Nothing but spending the money I made from the car.

 

Coffee shops during the day. Going to punk shows or going to Chips Bar at night. Mostly depressed. Not knowing what I was going to do next. No job. No hopes. Just wanted to drink endlessly.


 

And then I met her.

 

 


 

 

At a punk show.

 

Chita… 


 

Punk shows kept me alive in Tijuana. The music scene was very unique. And because of my co-brother-in-law, I was friends with many of the bands with the likes of DFMK and San Pedro el Cortez. That’s not saying much. They are only famous here.

 

And it was a DMKF show when I met her.

 


 

My days were spent at Café Diógenes. Two recent philosophy grads had a bookstore/coffee shop that was a complete disaster. I worked there for free because they could not afford employees and they couldn’t afford to work in the shop.

 

I worked there for coffee and to have a place to hang out.

 

I didn’t know anyone.

 

I didn’t meet her there. But we did meet there. She was in college and enjoyed the philosophical grungy feel of the cafe. Everyone did. And no one paid for coffee. 

 

Yep. That coffee shop didn’t last long.


 

But it was at the punk show when she landed on my arms. And stared into my eyes.

 

I’ve never been very good with women. They usually come to me than me to them. 

 

She landed on my arms.


 

Nothing came off that night. My drummer friend told me that she liked me after. And we added each other on Facebook.


 

I don’t remember our first kiss. It had to be at another punk show where we got too drunk and things happen.

 

I don’t remember much of the relationship except it was turbulent and everyone hated us together. We did nothing but fight. Get drunk. Have wild sex. And fight some more.


We were problematic together.

 

I was without direction and turning into an alcoholic.

 

She was a depressed mess. 


Once she came to the front of my apartment completely wasted, with her skirt torn and black makeup running down her cheeks. I let her in. She walked into the bedroom and passed the fuck out without saying much.

 

I told her she couldn’t do that anymore. Not with me. Not like this. 

 

It happened several more times.


 

The worst was when she got a bottle of liquid Clonazepam (Rivotril). She brought it to my apartment excitedly and I kept an open mind. We took some together. Had some drinks. Did stupid shit. Really stupid shit.

 

I remember her skating in the apartment naked. I remember almost burning the kitchen. I remember we drank more than we should have. And I remember she went crazy and said she wanted to kill herself.

 

She wanted to drink the whole bottle of Clonazepam. 

 

I took it from her and hid in my closet. 

 

We fought some more. 

 

Then had violent sex. 

 

And I fell asleep.


I woke up in the middle of the night still drowsy to go take a piss. I found her next to the toilet with a bloody lip and bloodstains on the edge of the toilet and on the floor.

 

I freaked out and carried her to bed. She was alive. She was breathing. But unconscious. 

 

I found the bottle of Clonazepam empty in the same place I left it in the closet. I did a shit job at hiding it.

 

She tried to kill herself in my apartment.


 

I spent all night until the crack of dawn reading online on what to do. Dialed for an ambulance several times, but hung up before they could answer.

 

How am I going to explain that there’s an unconscious woman on my bed with a bloody lip on my bed?!

 


 

I messaged my doctor friend to call me. It was an emergency. 

 

He called me 10 minutes after I sent him the message.


I explained the situation and he calmed me down. Everything was going to be fine. She was going to be okay.

 


 

Miss you Che. You helped me a lot that day. Miss you every fucking day. (My doctor friend is now gone). 

 

 


 

 

That should have been the end of it… And I still saw her after that…

 


 

Our final encounter was a dumb one. We were still dating despite it all. Everyone hated us together. The relationship was beyond toxic. Everything turned into a fight.

 

The final fight was over a game of chess in which she won. I told her I thought I was going to win because I had the advantage (I had captured more pieces than she had). It was a genius checkmate and I praised her for that. But she wouldn’t budge in why I thought I had the advantage. I tried to reason with basic math. But she wouldn’t reason with me.

 

Or so it felt like that.

 

It escalated so quickly so dumb.

 

I kicked her out of my apartment after the stupid fight.

 

We never talked again.


I’ve seen her multiple times since. I still see her in the street every once in a while.

 

We ignore each other.

 

We have never talked again. I’m sorry for all that happened. I never wanted it to end like it did. It was bad for both of us. 

 

But it’s for the best to pretend that we don’t exist.


 

And I can’t stop pretending that my job doesn’t exist. I told my editor I’ll have the next story ready by the end of the week. I already nailed an interview and translated it. I just need to do the legwork.

I don’t want too.

I want to keep writing stupid shit that happened in my past.

And much more happened in the past.

But I need to go back to the morgue and analyze the details. Write the story. Get to work.


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