I never exactly quit phone sex. I didn’t hand in my two weeks’ notice, I didn’t even tell my boss I was quitting. I just sort of gradually stopped having my lines on for as long as I once did. I barely had my lines on for the minimum thirty hours one week, the next week I made less than thirty, and by the second week I didn’t turn them on at all. I was letting things lapse right and left. I stayed in bed for days, getting up only to refresh the contents of my teacup. Were I to have had the energy, I might have spent my days making friends with Messrs. Daniels and Jameson, but I couldn’t even stand the stupor of alcohol. I spent days sleeping fitfully and trying to read, but I couldn’t keep my attention on a page.
I left the house once or twice a week; even a trip to the grocery store was a Herculean labor that required a lengthy nap afterwards. Phone sex had crippled me but the lack of any real work was threatening to kill me.
Besides that, Stanley and I didn’t really have the money to survive off a single income. Too surly and taciturn to succeed in interviews, and not experienced enough to get by on only a flashy resume, Stanley did very little but sit at home playing endless rounds of Call of Duty, smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking Coca Cola, eating junk food, and collecting unemployment. I suppose there must have been something I saw in him, but today I’m at an utter loss as to what exactly that might have been. I’m also sure his complete lack of appreciation for my tireless efforts to make the ends of each check meet must have contributed to my exhaustion and eventual inability to continue exerting the effort.
No, things weren’t going so well for me.
(photo via NYDN)