And you may find yourself in a Motel 6 in Van Nuys,

And you may find yourself eating a Tommy burger at 2 am

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a financed Jeep

And you may find yourself with all your belongings in a Venice alley

And you may ask yourself-well…how did I get here?

How DID I get here? It's a long and boring story. But my lease was up at the end of June and my landlord wanted me out. O-U-T. At least that's what I interpreted the 3-day eviction notice to mean. I needed to find a new place, and despite a borrowed Westside Rentals password and constant Craigslisting, I found no place that would take me and my dog… at least none I could afford.

Most nights during the two weeks I curled up fetal on my bed, my dog on the floor looking up at me like a kid who hears the knocking of Child Protection Services. Yes, Stevie, I failed to take care of you. I'm 32. Imagine I DID have a child, a real one, not one who slept on the floor at the foot of my bed scratching and licking her privates. But a live human baby. Lina is having one. A beautiful baby GIRL. But me, I can't even keep a home for me and my domesticated pet, who requires only the occasional praise and a daily bowl of lamb and rice nuggets and water. I feel like a failure. Finally a few days before the reckoning, I start to pack after long work days. How did I accumulate so much shit? I kept old bills, receipts, and the business cards of people I don't remember meeting. I kept ill fitting clothes and furniture I barely used. The day before Armageddon I packed at a furious pace. I dragged the furniture into the alley. I dragged my old red bike, the new IKEA closets I built, and my cherished desk to their new fate, either a beggar's treasure or the garbage man's burden.

When all was said and done I had a storage unit in Culver City, a Jeep full of “going out” clothes, an air mattress, and a dog I couldn't house. I called my friend, a friend I thought we could stay with, but alas, a cat was involved, so the comfy garage I thought would be refuge was an illusion. I looked at Stevie and cried. “You can call the pound, they'll keep her and you'll have 5 days to get her,” offered a friend. “that'll buy you 5 days.” Stevie back at the pound I found her. I couldn't do it, Plus, 5 days wouldn't help. Friend after friend, offered to let ME stay with them, but Stevie could not come— cats, and more cats. So I drive. I drive— to where I'm not sure. All I had was a dog and a financed Jeep. I'm down one dog, and a beautiful house and now what? There's a Motel 6 in Van Nuys that allows dogs, there's a Tommy's around the corner, I can eat. I'm starving. That's as far as I got…

And you may ask yourself

What is that beautiful house?

And you may ask yourself

Where does that highway go?

LA Weekly