Book — Confessions of a Tour Guide: Chapter 8 — Life Low Points. 

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Chapter 8. Life Low Points. 

 

I am waiting for nightfall just so I can start drinking. It’s Saturday so I don’t feel like doing any actual work. I almost didn’t do any actual work all week. Just some photography.


 

The editor forgot to pay me for the morgue story. Rare mistake, he usually pays me quickly. I’ll have to wait two more weeks for that money. I should be working on my stories, but I’m not sure what I’m doing or what to start writing next.


 

So I wait for the sun to go away so I can have an excuse to drink. There as a soccer game on TV in a couple hours and I want to watch and use it as an excuse to start drinking, but I can’t. I have little family errands to do at the same time. Once I accomplish those, I can start drinking.


 

Despite not working much, the week was semi-productive. I did photography work more than anything. One paid gig. Two unpaid. The unpaid was photographing pretty girls. I barely just started doing that. I took pictures of many Victoria Secret models and some of the most beautiful women in the world back in my paparazzo days. But this is different. Much different. And I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I’m having fun.


 

If you are wondering.

 

No. The psycho stripper was not pregnant with my baby.


 

Turns out she was trying to get pregnant from her boyfriend plenty before. And not only him, but she was also hooking up with an American guy and also trying to get pregnant through him.

 

Why would anyone want to get pregnant is beyond me. But she was trying.

 

She tried with me.

 

But I’m not dumb, she had condoms.

 


 

This didn’t stop her from pinning it on me. I felt horrible. I didn’t want a child. Much less with a stripper that I didn’t really care much about. 

 

Drama occurred. Obviously.

 

The kid wasn’t mine.


 

I did the math.


 

She was around three weeks pregnant when our encounter happened.


 

But wait! There’s more!

 


 

Nah. There’s not more. That was the last I heard of her. Until five years later. That’s going to come up at some point in these diaries of an old man.


So back to it. 

 

I was broke. I just had one of the wildest nights of my life. I coined “Tijuana Adventure” because of it even though it’s FUCKING blatantly obvious. 

 

Now Tijuana Adventure is about craft beer and street eats. I still get bachelor parties and shit gets wild. But that’s what the embodiment of Tijuana Adventure is.

 

It just happens.

 

The city absorbs you and you have a Tijuana Adventure.

 

My adventure in the city was turning dark.


 

The stripper wasn’t the only Tijuana girl to tell me she was pregnant. Remember the curly hair girl that came over to me and just declared her love? 

 

Well… yeah.

 

I hooked up with her as well. 

 

Before losing my apartment….


 

Thing was… she was way too young. She was 18 and still in fucking high school!

 

And obviously infatuated with me.


 

She made up the pregnant story and I called her bluff. She showed up in her fucking high school uniform outside my apartment to confess that she had lied.


 

Just to be clear, I was 25 at the point. So it wasn’t that creepy. Still… 18. Way too young.

 

I met her at a bar. If I meet someone at a bar, I’m hoping they have somewhat a mature mentality….

 

Well… not anymore. I rather not meet most people anymore…


 

Her lies were enough for me to not see her again. Fuck this shit. Drama for the sake of drama. 


 

I couldn’t pay rent. I had already sold my car. I had no job or prospects for a job. I was losing it all.

 


 

My parents moved to Playas de Tijuana a few months after I moved into the city. I got evicted from my apartment. I borrowed my sister-in-law’s Jeep and moved all my shit to a small room in the small house at my parents.


 

Speak about low points in your life… moving back with your parents with no money and no job.


 

I cramped all my shit in the tiny room in the backyard of my parents’. It was a very small three-bedroom house and I didn’t want to be in a bedroom immediately next to my parents.

 

So I chose a tiny room that wasn’t much bigger than a shed.

 

And I locked myself in there.


 

Decided to become a writer.

 

I was going to write stories about my time as a paparazzi.

 

But I didn’t know how to write at all.


I decided a blog would be a good start.

 

And that’s when I started writing for the first time. My word vomit. The blog. 


 

I also created the TijuanaAdventure.com page and started working on what would become the tours. 


It was bad at the start.

 

I got some attention from Reddit but a lot of negative reactions as well.

 

I was just trying to write and make a living with my stories.

 

Silly me.


 

In less than a week with my parents, I found the motivation to work and get the fuck out.

 

But of course, it wasn’t that easy.

 


 

It took me around a month to find a job. And I landed exactly what I wanted, a writing/editing gig. They needed cheap writers/editors with decent English and knowledge of soccer.

 

I knew a bit about soccer, but not enough to be a writer about it. I started studying a lot. Not only the sport but how to write about it.


I was producing over five articles a day about stupid shit. 

 

Game reviews. News stories that were just translated from other pages.

 

Content.

 

Stupid fucking content.


 

And once or twice a week I would get inspired on something. And I would write that something. 

 

Every once in a while, that something was well received. 


 

But for the most part, it was just producing constant content on the sport around the globe and updating the website.


 

I was getting paid $800 a month for working almost six days a week. It was a few months working from home, then it evolved into going to the office on a daily basis.


After a couple of months on the job and plenty of fights with my father… I was ready to get the fuck out again.


 

That’s when I first moved to downtown Tijuana with a strange girl who I met on the street. She told me her name was Palida Hortaliza which translates to something along the lines of “pale vegetable.”

 

I don’t know why I was okay with that. As if that name existed.

 

She was indeed very pale and had a very weak chin. Almost grandmother-like even though she was very young and as white as a Minnesota chick. Her eyes carried torture and sadness. And she spoke on a weird soft voice with an accent.


Needless to say, that was a mistake.

 

But it was better than my parents.


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