Spent most of yesterday working on computers. My friend Charlie brought me his wife's computer that had quit working. I immediately knew what was wrong and changed the power supply and got it working again. Charlie was overjoyed when he came to pick it up and take it home as I had saved him hundreds of dollars. I also put together a new and much faster computer yesterday for myself and am pleased. I finally just broke down and charged some computer parts to my credit card. My old computer is on its last legs and will now become a file server for my music and videos. That's about all it is good for.
Rosa called me last night as I was crawling into the bed. We ended up talking for what seemed like hours. She asked me a hundred questions about my former marriage.
"What was your ex-wife's favorite thing to do?" she asked as I was lying in the bed on my cordless phone.
"Rachel loved to eat out," I replied. "We spent a fortune eating out while we were married. I would have rather we stayed at home and cooked."
"What kind of food?"
"Anything Asian or Chinese," I replied. "We would drive all the way up to Atlanta just to eat sushi or bento boxes."
"I never did like Chinese," Rosa said. "It always looked like something a cat threw up."
"Why couldn't she have children?" Rosa then asked.
"Rachel had polycystic ovary syndrome," I replied. "Her ovaries were filled with cysts interrupting egg production."
"Did you own your house?"
"I took out a mortgage and bought our house just before I and Rachel got married," I said. "I gave it to Rachel in the divorce along with the payments. Rachel got our new Volkswagen as well. I didn't want it or the payments. It was a chick car."
It was my turn to ask questions.
"What was your daughter's father like?" I asked Rosa. "And were you two married?"
"Oh, hell no," Rosa replied. "We were never married. Peter was a bastard who loved me and left me. I haven't seen him in twenty years."
The conversation then took a nose dive into the gutter as I and Rosa got to talking about her past prostitution days.
"What was the the weirdest thing about being a hooker?" I asked.
"Weird men wanting anal sex," she said. "I drew the line at that. Nobody was sticking their strange wanger up my poop chute."
I burst out laughing.
"Was it scary?"
"It could be," Rosa said. "I was so hooked on crack that I would have done anything for my next fix, though. The thought of getting your next rock overcame your fears. You got used to it."
"What was the worst thing about prostituting?" I then asked.
"The police," Rosa said. "The police would harass us ladies of the night. When I lived in Atlanta, their police were the worst – bunch of corrupt bastards. I spent many a night in jail waiting on one of my working girlfriends to come and bail me out."
"Did you make good money?"
"I made damn good money," Rosa said. "I would charge $20 dollars for a blow job or hand job, and $40 dollars for a missionary style screw. I smoked it all up in my crack pipe, though."
The midnight hour had arrived and I yawned deeply. Rosa told me goodnight and that she would see me in the morning. I hung up the phone, rolled over, and went to sleep for a few hours. I love I and Rosa's talks. She has lived such an interesting life.