A wealthy amusement-ride magnate and his partner returned home to their stately manse outside Orlando Wednesday night and were robbed by a trio of men who invaded the house dressed as ninjas.

Bill Kitchen, the founder of U.S. Thrillrides and a self-described "urban bush pilot," was returning to his mansion in the upscale lakefront suburb of Windermere when the men in black body suits ambushed him and companion Camilo Espinel, a wind-surfing instructor, in the mansion's carport, according to WFTV:

Authorities said the three men bound the homeowners' hands and walked the two inside the residence, demanding jewelry, money and valuables.

In a photo captured from the surveillance camera, Kitchen can be seen sitting against the wall with a pillowcase over his head and his hands bound.

One of the robbers took the victim's hat and wore it during the robbery.

The victims told authorities then men stole one of their cars and fled the home.

Kitchen described the robbery in a Facebook post to friends, according to the station: "We were asked to produce all money, jewelry and valuables," he reportedly wrote. "For an hour they ransacked the house."

It's not clear who the robbers are or if they targeted the pair. The local police chief said he believed the home invasion "to be an isolated incident." But with fedora-wearing ninjas, you never can tell.

New York City firefighters emerge from a hatch in the sidewalk after evacuating passengers from an F express subway train that derailed in Queens on Friday. Image via Julie Jacobson/AP.

The first U.S. case of Middle East respiratory syndrome—MERS—has been confirmed in Indiana. The virus has killed 102 of the 339 people who have contracted it in Saudi Arabia, where the bulk of cases have been reported.

Johnny Weir and Tara Lipinski were on the Today Show this morning to discuss Kentucky Derby fashion and, man, did Johnny look incredible.

While Tara went understated, Johnny put together a look more elaborate than anything we saw in Sochi: green jangly blazer with print lapel over blue oxford (over... white ascot?) and necklace, plus a headband under a lace-and-purple flower hat. Also, please click to expand the photo and check out Johnny's pristine manicure.

I haven't watched the Today Show since high school but I'm just gonna go ahead and say that Johnny and Tara should be made permanent hosts. I think that seems very reasonable.

Imagine your younger self. Your previous consciousness. Occupy your own younger mind. What does it desire? More to the point, what does it need? Does it need candy? Yep.

The koan: "True Reformation"

Ryokan devoted his life to the study of Zen. One day he heard that his nephew, despite the admonitions of relatives, was spending his money on a courtesan. Inasmuch as the nephew had taken Ryokan's place in managing the family estate and the property was in danger of being dissipated, the relatives asked Ryokan to do something about it.

Ryokan had to travel a long way to visit his nephew, whom he had not seen for many years. The nephew seemed pleased to meet his uncle again and invited him to remain overnight.

All night Ryokan sat in meditation. As he was departing in the morning he said to the young man: "I must be getting old, my hand shakes so. Will you help me tie the string of my straw sandal?"

The nephew helped him willingly. "Thank you," finished Ryokan, "you see, a man becomes older and feebler day by day. Take good care of yourself." Then Ryokan left, never mentioning a word about the courtesan or the complaints of the relatives. But, from that morning on, the dissipations of the nephew ended.

The enlightenment: The two events were entirely unrelated.

This has been "Zen Koans Explained." Gary knew.

[Photo: Shutterstock]

NBC Dallas reporter Jeff Smith got himself stuck in the mud while reporting on boats getting stuck in the mud, and it's just fun to watch.

Smith's cameraman made a half-hearted attempt to pull him out of the mud before the video ends. He eventually got out and seems to be in good spirits about his lack of common sense being preserved on the internet forever.

The phenomenon is endemic in NBC reporters.

[Image via Jeff Smith on Twitter]

Firefighters in Chatham, Mass., performed a tiny rescue of a tiny horse caught in a tiny sinkhole early Friday morning, Boston CBS affiliate WBZ reports.

Around 6 a.m., the 15-year-old horse was discovered in a 3 or 4-foot deep hole caused by the cave-in of an old septic system or cesspool. Firefighters responded to the scene and dug a ramp into the hole, allowing the little horse to walk out under its own power.

The horse was agitated, observers told WBZ, but it didn't appear to be hurt.

[Photo: Chatham Fire Dept.]

Days before the board of directors for RadiumOne fired Gurbaksh Chahal for the controversy surrounding his guilty plea for domestic violence, the all-male board sent the former CEO and chairman some super sweet, supportive emails.

Chahal has deleted the unhinged blog posts he haphazardly dashed off the same weekend he was fired. But that hasn't stopped him from blaming everyone but himself. Chahal sent the following emails from his board members to CNN's Laurie Segall:

"I'd say congrats but that doesn't fit for someone targeted by extortionists (some of them elected), so I'll just say it's good to have it behind you," director Bob Latta replied.

"Huge Congratulations! That's great news," board member Steve Westly responded.

"I am so happy for you that this is behind you. Best, as always," David Silverman replied.

"DELIGHTED for you amigo - onwards and upwards!!," Robin Murray said.

That's the entirety of the emails, which were sent in response to an email from Chahal about the plea for two misdemeanors.

The "exit strategy," as Chahal refers to the no jail time deal, was made possible because the judge suppressed a video used as evidence. The footage allegedly showed Chahal hitting and kicking his girlfriend 117 times in half an hour. After telling the police this was not the first instance of domestic violence at Chahal's hands, the victim refused to cooperate. So the "extortionists" his board referred to above would be the District Attorney's office who charged Chahal with 45 felony counts after watching the video:

"I would've gotten a full dismissal on all charges but that would've likely taken several months in the political/legal system" Chahal wrote to his board. "Nevertheless, to provide the DA an 'exit strategy', all felony charges were dismissed and we agreed on a small misdemeanor plea to resolve the matter."

Chahal previously say he was "cornered" into making a deal, implicating a "witch hunt" by the DA's office. Then he said that his board convinced him to take a plea rather than exonerate himself. This email about agreeing to a "small" misdemeanor doesn't seem to support either of those stories.

RadiumOne's new CEO Bill Lonergan previously addressed another chummy-chummy "amigo" email to Chahal. Board member Murray had advised Chahal to "let the haters hate ad [sic] move on." Lonergan admitted that Murray had indeed sent the supportive message, but brushed off the board's culpability in an internal memo to employees:

The communication was an effort to discourage Gurbaksh from hurting himself by talking with the media.

It should come as no surprise that the board members sent Chahal their "delighted" congratulations. The board presumably read through the disturbing criminal complaint filed in August, 2013. It alleged that Chahal repeatedly hit his girlfriend in the head and threatened to kill her, but the board has yet to publicly acknowledge whether they asked to see a copy of the video or what it showed.

To contact the author of this post, please email nitasha@gawker.com.

[Image via Getty]

There are a lot of tough jobs in journalism. Like last Friday, when Antonio Castelan of News 3 Las Vegas ventured out to the Bundy Ranch to interview the old racist cowman himself, Cliven Bundy, and ended up getting interrogated by a right-wing radio host and 30 of his biggest friends.

Shit got sort of scary, and Castelan got sort of out of there quickly.

Via Right Wing Watch:

It should come as no surprise to learn that Pete Santilli, an Internet radio host best known for wishing he could shoot Hillary Clinton "right in the vagina" and helping to organize last year's "Truckers For the Constitution" rally, has spent the last couple of weeks broadcasting live from Cliven Bundy's ranch in Nevada...

So, naturally, Santilli decided to confront a local TV reporter who had apparently questioned Bundy on his views about race, drawing the attention of Bundy supporters standing nearby.

"Who do you work for?" Santilli demanded of the reporter, who appears to be Antonio Castelan of Channel 3 New. "Do you believe that the media is state-run?" When Castelan responded that "as a Mexican-American" he didn't think his questioning on race was biased, Santilli hounded him: "Why do you believe you need to inject Mexican-Americanism into your line of questioning?"

"As a Mexican-American you should know that we're defending your rights, and you're working for the state-run media, and you should know that, especially by the bias in the line of your questioning," he yelled as Castelan walked away, hounded by Bundy supporters. "You're not serving the American public and you do not deserve even First Amendment constitutional rights, sir!"

Castelan seemed to take things in stride, dutifully filing his interview:

Santilli, meanwhile, was off apparently blaming Glenn Beck for starting a race war.

Washington University in St. Louis has announced that a petting zoo bear that bit several students has been determined not to pose a rabies threat. The students won't need treatment, and the bear, who was originally slated to be euthanized and tested, will be spared.

What was supposed to be a cute diversion to help college students relax before exams ended in tragedy, with 14 students injured and a 2-month-old bear cub at risk of being to be put to death.

Boo Boo the bear was part of a petting zoo that has visited Washington University in St. Louis, Mo., in years past for some pre-finals entertainment. The school claimed it didn't know the baby bear was going to be included in this year's zoo. (The petting's zoo website doesn't list him among its "animal friends," either.)

Fourteen students who held the bear reported that he nipped them hard enough to break skin, sparking fears that Boo Boo may have had rabies. The school's health department initially said the cub would have to be euthanized to test for the life-threatening disease.

"This is an extremely unfortunate situation for our students and the bear cub," the university said.

The USDA, which has authority to investigate the petting zoo under the Animal Welfare Act, told the St. Louis Post-Dispatch it was reviewing the case.

[Photo: Fox 2]

V. Stiviano, the woman who recorded her conversations with former NBA Clippers owner Donald Sterling, sat down for an exclusive interview with Barbara Walters yesterday and revealed that she doesn't believe Sterling to be a racist, and that she considers herself to be Sterling's "silly rabbit."

A clip of the interview can be seen above, where Stiviano tells Walters that Sterling is "confused" and "very alone" and that he is "emotionally traumatized" by the incidents surrounding his racist remarks and his subsequent banning from the NBA.

Further details of the interview are available to read through ABC News.

"I think Mr. Sterling is from a different generation than I am. I think he was brought up to believe these things … segregation, whites and blacks," Stiviano said. "But through his actions he's shown that he's not a racist. He's shown to be a very generous and kind man."

Stiviano also tells Walters that she and Sterling were not involved, that she was only Sterling's personal assistant, and that she loves him like a father figure. There's no info, however, on whether Stiviano discusses Sterling's alleged cancer diagnosis.

Unlike the situation aboard, say, a lost plane, the death rate on a sinking ferry varies considerably from disaster to disaster.

On some occasions there are no deaths at all. That has never prevented the press from covering it anyway, almost with an air of disappointment, as in one article from the October 22, 1897 edition of the Boston Globe:

The drop of the Winnismet ferry sank while a large number of people were upon it, causing almost a panic for a few moments. No one was injured.

The article continues to restate these observations for a good 500 words.

I have been hiding in old articles about ferries lately because the capsized Korean ferry has been consuming public attention. The articles have the benefit of keeping me away from the videos, for example, of teenagers inside their cabins wondering just what is going to happen to them. They also keep me from feeling the frustration I usually do at the way facts are always shifting when you report the early days of a disaster, about how many are dead and who is responsible and what anyone is doing to fix this so that it never, ever, ever happens again.

I like avoiding that last subject particularly because it probably will happen again. Pretty much everyone, including ferry companies themselves, agree that ferries are excessively dangerous. People crammed together on cheap boats, meant to provide cheap transportation: It's a recipe for this sort of disaster.

Now it is fashionable to say that this is mostly true of the developing world, but there were major ferry accidents in the United States as late as 1976. The sinking of the MV George Prince happened right on the Mississippi River near Luling, Louisiana. Seventy-eight people would die in the disaster, some of them still huddled in their cars, perhaps dozing off on the way to work. Others, rescuers found, fled into the ship for some reason. The Chicago Tribune quoted a frustrated local sheriff:

They're finding them in the engine room. Those poor guys — dammit to hell — they were so panic-stricken they probably didn't know where they were going. Maybe they had gone in there to warm up.

In ferry disaster stories, everywhere, you find officials striking this anguished tone. If there had been a better warning, that tone suggests, if people had been more informed on what to do when a ferry crashed into another boat or got caught in a hurricane or even, as so often seems to have happened, lurched when its passengers all rushed to one side of the ship, sometimes to avoid a crashing wave.

But then often enough many of the people on these boats are schoolchildren. Schoolchildren, you see, are often in need of cheap modes of travel for school trips; boats have often provided that. Some 300 of them were aboard a Japanese ferry called the Shiun Maru when it collided with a car ferry in a thick fog in May 1955, for example. The boat sank in five minutes. It took about 100 students with it. A writer for the Chicago Daily Tribune reported of these children that,

some of them had rushed back to the cabins after their belongings and gifts. Other children died, too, their teacher said, because life jackets were on a shelf too high for them to reach.

If that seems like a gruesome observation to you, keep in mind that another common element of these stories is telling of dead mothers pulled from the water still clutching their dead children.

The particular interest these stories have in the fate of children will not surprise anyone much. The first thing you learn, as a kid, reading shipwreck stories, is that the women and children are supposed to go first. But what you learn reading these stories as an adult is that when a disaster is happening, the concept of honor, and even just the rote command, can fly straight out the window.

Sometimes human error actually is to blame. On the Japanese Kitagawa Maru, which sank in 1957, the captain was reported to have left his post to a 16-year-old. The boat hit a rock, and at least 113 people died. A skipper of a Thai ferry was charged with having piloted his ferry drunk when it capsized in the Gulf of Thailand in 1976 and killed 27 people.

But just as often the only kind of thing in the story that gives a sense of comfort and order are the people who, in spite of all the bad conditions, stay behind to recover the bodies and give someone some closure. In 1930, there were seven prisoners involved in the recovery of a family who drowned on a ferry crossing the Connecticut River. While obviously they were there to help under some duress, they did a lot of the diving, it seems, and:

A keeper came from the House of Correction with the prisoners, but at the riverside he allowed them full liberty and they became the hardest workers of the 100 or more men who had gathered from Westmoreland and vicinity.

"They have given me their word that they will not try to escape," the keeper said late tonight, "and they will be ready when I go back to the prison."

And evidently, as no escape reports follow this account, they were.

[Image by Jim Cooke.]

On Friday's Tonight Show, Kevin Spacey sang Jason Derulo's "Talk Dirty" with Jimmy Fallon's barbershop quartet, The Ragtime Gals. They did a great job.

Meechum has yet to comment on the performance.

[Via NBC]

Former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice has announced that she will not be speaking at Rutgers University's commencement after students and faculty protested. The protests surrounded Rice's involvement in the Iraq War.

Rice was supposed to be receiving a speaking fee of $35,000, and even as protests and sit-ins spread through campus, Rutgers President Robert Barchi resisted disinviting the politician. He claimed that Rutgers is a proponent of "open discourse."

A statement was sent to Barchi announcing Rice's decision.

"Commencement should be a time of joyous celebration for the graduates and their families," Rice said. "Rutgers' invitation to me to speak has become a distraction for the university community at this very special time."

Rice also defended her political record, saying she had "defended America's belief in free speech and the exchange of ideas."

[Image via AP]

On the morning of the White House Correspondents Dinner, NJ Governor Chris Christie did the normal fancy dinner prep: shave, shower, colonoscopy. His procedure went well! And he felt no pain.

The NJ man known for his high-waisted pants and his lack of constituent support, is sure that you will find a colonoscopy not so bad at all. Hey, he's 51 years old, and tweeting about it "just two hours" after. That doesn't sound so painful. By keeping colorectal health at the forefront of his agenda, Christie has some great talking points for tonight's dinner in D.C.

[Image via Twitter]

Ben Affleck was banned from playing blackjack at the Hard Rock casino in Las Vegas for counting cards, claim sources at multiple outlets.

Affleck, who took home $800,000 from the same casino in 2001, was approached by security on suspicion of the legal-but-frowned-upon practice of counting cards. The casino reportedly allowed him to stay and play other games, and even ordered a car to take him back to his hotel at the end of the night. The source added, "The hotel was really nice to him."

Nice as the hotel may have been, it didn't stop them from banning him from their blackjack table for life. He was reportedly deemed an advantage player and was asked to leave the table for being "too good at the game."

Huh. Maybe security just got flustered from being around such a big time celeb, though? "You are too good at this game, my man! My Batman! Ar-get outta here!"

[Image credit: Getty]

Actor Efrem Zimbalist Jr., star of "77 Sunset Strip" and "The F.B.I.", died in his home in Solvang, California today. His son reported that the actor had been "outside watering his lawn when a handyman found him lying in the grass." He was 95.

Avril Lavigne fans had the pleasure of meeting the "Hello Kitty" singer at a meet and greet after her recent performance in Brazil, during which they were instructed by security guards not to touch or hug her.

The privilege of standing somewhat close to Lavigne cost each of them nearly $400 (R$800) (and that is not including the cost of the concert ticket), but the intensely awkward photos documenting the event are priceless.

At the very least, awkward as it may seem, the photo shoot was decidedly uncomplicated.

[h/t ONTD, BreatheHeavy]

I'm walking home after I fucked this guy who writes self-loathing poetry and has Yellow Fever, which is ridiculous because nobody walks in LA. Home is currently in Silver Lake, a neighborhood where there's a lot of new job openings for a position called Being Pretty and Prancing Around the Sidewalk. I make the walk halfway in my heels down Sunset Boulevard, in a dress that's debatably a shirt, and decide to haul-ass barefoot down the burning cement sidewalk. It might not be super-mentally healthy for me to be shapely, brown, average height, and live among tall, anorexic blondes so I can stare at them. But even if I don't fit in, I like being part of it. Sometimes I look around and it seems as if the Holocaust were successful or something.

I look ambiguously raced but clearly Asian. I'm single and earlier today the self-loathing poet told me he was more Asian than I am because he'd lived in Japan for six months. Only weirdos have to go to Japan to have sex so women attribute their weirdo-ness to cultural differences. I fucked him anyway because I need sex just like everyone. At least he finished with a condom. Most guys just bitch about it. He's an intellectual so he asked me if I'm Filipino, the less clever ones tell me I look Hawaiian or like Pocahontas. I'm none of the above. After the sweaty fuck, he disingenuously offered to drive me home. I said I felt like walking to spare him the guilt. I really am thoughtful.

Ten long LA blocks later I'm finally back to the non-boutique-boutiques. I pass the fancy Vietnamese restaurant, the vinyl, comic book, recycled toilet-paper store and look up at the hills full of million-dollar-view houses. There are two identical apartment buildings at the bottom of these hills. Mine, a kind of crap-beige, and the one next door, a turquoise Safeway cake-frosting color. They could both use a power wash, some men with money, and some of that eco-friendly shit. Trust—these studios are not lavish things. There's one hippie dude with long hair, a closet gay who blasts Shania Twain at 2 a.m., FML. And me, a "fake" Asian. The other units are occupied with families of at least four people. All the families are Mexican. One man who's missing two front teeth collects recycling from our building and the neighborhood to pay his rent. My building leaves our recycling outside the dumpster so he doesn't have to go swimming in it. Last month he started throwing up every day, waking me at 5 a.m. I think he's dying.

I stomp into my studio as my fat neighbor makes his bed. It's like I'm never really alone there because of him. He lives in the turquoise building. His kitchen window looks directly into my kitchen, my bedroom window directly into his bedroom. Our units are identical, adjacent, and no more than seven feet apart. He glances up at the walk of shame written all over me and shakes his head to himself. Judgmental pig.

Fat neighbor and I have what I term, an uncomfortable intimacy. He sees the dudes come and go. He knows me better than any of them but the crazy part is that we've never spoken a word. We simply steal glances into each other's lives when we think the other isn't looking. I hear the bottom of his slippers scuff the floor as he drags his large horse legs across it. I hear him take a deep breath and sigh. We're connected in a way that I am not with anyone else. In this city, he'd be the first to realize I'd gone missing.

Tonight I feel like staying in and my fat neighbor won't stop farting. The low acoustic rumble of gas to leather chair echoes loud into my room. I don't think he's been eating well. And I'm not being mean when I call him fat like he's 20 pounds past chubby. When I moved in two years ago, he weighed what I would guess to be 250 pounds. Now he's about 400. He doesn't have a big butt or some small man-boobs, there's just fat hanging on his body. So we can all agree I'm not being mean when I call him fat. I've never heard his name. I call him Fred.

Fred's nocturnal. He's making my insomnia worse because we're so close.He wakes up around 6 p.m.. These days I fall asleep around 3 a.m. and I always see his lights shining through my tattered plastic shades as I doze off. I fall asleep listening to Fred play videogames or do whatever he does on his computer. Fred has ugly brown-draped curtains that he keeps drawn during the day while he sleeps. Then at night, after he takes his long "morning" piss, he opens them. He disgusts me. His fat, his lifestyle, his posture, his huge black T-shirts, or shirt, his squinty glasses, baldhead, and goatee. He looks 40, but maybe he's older cause he's got so many chins that his skin can't shrivel up with wrinkles from the constant stretching. He and his skin arerarely exposed to the judgment of the sun and sidewalk. When I first saw Fred's room I almost moved out. Every single inch is covered in Japanese martial-art film posters—blood, swords, fit Asian men flying their fit bodies through the air. He's got one huge black La-Z-boy chair that he often falls asleep in that's planted two feet from his TV. He's so close to me he could reach out and touch me.

On good nights I gchat with a guy I've been hooking up with on and off for five years who's in grad school in New York and will never love me. Most of the time I sniffle up my tears like a dog on display at the pound with a lazy eye, who knows it's one budget cut away from lethal injection, as I chat with him about how good L.A. life is. Fred must fucking hate me. He must be thinking: "God get on some fucking Prozac already, you fucking whiny, fake Asian bitch." I'm sure Fred felt sorry for me at first, but there's only so much sympathy you can have for someone until you want to tell them to cheer the fuck up, move the fuck on, and grow a pair. I bet Fred talks like that. I bet he talks like me—with a foul mouth. I'm sure Fred's had his share of understanding sadness, but I'm not sure he shares my dislike for pills that medicate a dissatisfaction of who's willing to fuck you. I wonder if Fred's parents are dead yet, if he's an only child, or if he thinks I'm hot.

I parallel-park my car on my street after an exhausting day of pretending to be a highly functional person. I'm too tired to move, let alone lift my body from my car, so I check my phone, which I never use as a phone. The guy I've been in love with for five years, New York dude? He's got this hot Asian-bitches contingent following him on Instagram and I hate it, and I am one of those bitches! Ugh. Shoot me. "PinnedPanda" left a million flirty comments all over his boring landscape pictures today. They aren't even special. Desperate slut. And of course, of course, her profile's full of just fucking-the-camera selfies and I'm sure she's not that pretty in person. We all use what we have to get fucked, so maybe it's my fault since I knew he had Yellow Fever and I used that to my advantage. Earlier I fantasized about all the mean comments I could type. Instead I decided that what wouldn't make me look like the bat-shit stalker I am, would be to go to the grocery store, buy three different kinds of cheese, two bottles of red wine, and consume it all. I know. Bad habits die hard. I'm counting on it.

I grab my grocery bag, hoist my body up, and head to my apartment. I look up and Fred's walking down the street straight at me. We lock eyes for a split second before we quickly avert our gaze down to the cement, like we have no clue who the other is. Maybe he doesn't want me to feel uncomfortable. That's nice of him. But I feel very uncomfortable. He knows Louie CK is my laptop background picture, how often I talk to my mother, my bowel movements. He knows how much I complain, how fake my fake orgasms sound, that I want people to need me, and nobody does. We keep our blinds closed the whole night so we don't have to face how we couldn't face each other earlier.

After two bottles of red wine, I get tired. Wine is the one and only cure for insomnia. It's better than therapy. I get into bed and out of nowhere I hear a gun being loaded in Fred's bedroom. I freeze. Heart pounding. My blinds are drawn. Is he going to shoot in my direction, hoping he hits me just because I didn't say hi to him earlier? Is he going to kill himself? Why are you choosing to kill yourself today, Fred? Why? I'm gonna be a lead suicide witness to top off the end of this happy day. My grandma always said God works in mysterious ways. And Grandma died.

I roll Mission Impossible style off my bed opposite Fred. No bullshit. I crawl on my forearms to my kitchen where my blinds are up, lean against the wall, edge my head around the corner to peek at Fred. He's holding an orange plastic gun up to the TV and shooting at it. Fuck-shit. I walk back to bed, curl up, and don't sleep a wink. The She-ra Warrior Princess look-alike in Fred's game has double Ds and runs with no bra. That doesn't even make sense.

I got my period tonight and Fred's watching porn, so that means I'm listening to porn. Some soft foreplay and moaning, nothing special. I should've known my period was coming—I sobbed during Legally Blonde earlier and ate 11 mini-wiener dogs for dinner. Yes, I fucking counted. I'm a real Asian. It's amazing, I'm 28, got my period when I was 13, so in period-years I'm 15 minus the two years in grad school when I was so stressed that I didn't get it, which means I'm 13 in period-years, and that shit still surprises me!I'm like, "Oh, my God! What's happening? There's blood pouring out of my body and onto my underwear and I bet everybody knows!"

And while I'm thinking this, I hear Fred unbuckle his belt and then I hear that sloppy slapping, skin overlapping skin rapidly, his heavy breathing. His drapes are drawn. Does he forget I'm over here? Or he just needs to rub one out so bad he doesn't care? As he masturbates, his cell rings, and he answers it! Why would you answer that phone call? Aggravated he shouts, "Hey ... What do you think I'm doing? I'm playing with my fucking dick!"He does talk with a dirty mouth. I knew it, I just knew it. He hangs up and he's fast and aggressive with himself, methodical and ungentle, faster, slap, slap, slap. He hasn't been masturbating as much lately since he started farting more, so good for him.

I have a problem enjoying sex. It's a recent problem. I couldn't even do it Saturday night. I'm worried I'm becoming asexual like my sad celibate Fred.I haven't fucked or slept right since the poet dude a month ago.This weirdo sat across from me last Saturday night at an oceanside seafood restaurant and told me he wants to marry a creative Jewish girl but that he's really attracted to Asians. My mind was racing, but I just ended up asking him to be more specific. I couldn't bring myself to have sex with this level of weirdo. Like, what's wrong with me? I'm going to have to force myself to have a one-night stand tonight just to prove to myself that I haven't become a none-religious nun.

I wear a short skirt to the Echoplex. This debatably hot white dude stares at my vagina, or somewhere high between my legs. I can't decipher exactly where his focal point is, but it's in that area, so I dance with him. His name is Kevin. I hate that name. It's my least favorite name that exists out of all the names, in all the alphabets, in all the worlds. I take my heels off as we walk to his car once the bar closes. He drives us drunk back to my place.

I take off my shirt/the cloth covering my boobs. Kevin asks me if my tits are fake, "No, shh, my neighbor can hear you." We're fucking and I'm trying to keep quiet but I'm sure Fred can hear. Sorry, Fred, maybe you can jack-off to us moaning and yelling. We finish and Kevin rolls over on his back … and opens his mouth. Mistake. Disaster. "Uh … I think I should tell you I have a girlfriend. But, like, uh… we haven't even been, like, as intimate as we are." Whatever that means. Precious, man. I hear slow applause from Fred. That fat fucking fuckless asshole's ridiculing me. Kevin has no idea the applause is for him. I roll over, my back to Kevin and Fred. Dammit, sex with stupid-Kevin-with-a-girlfriend is the best I've had in months.

"You should tell her."

"Do you hate me?"

"No. Thanks for being honest."

The next morning I let Kevin fuck me again, I mean, he's already cheated on her, so Fred can judge all he wants. But then Kevin just lies in bed and won't shut up. Tells me his whole life story, doesn't ask me a single question, and to be perfectly honest, his life's as boring as Lawrence of Arabia. And pathetic. This guy is like a child who has the emotional depth of a teaspoon. A 35-year-old man who finally got off unemployment and thinks being a manager at … I don't know what, insurance? Cars? He counts inventory of some kind, probably just smiles thinking about himself naked all day…is the most fascinating, important thing next to NASA. Fred's openly scoffing at this point and so am I. I need to stop fucking these stupid guys. I feel like if I fuck any more stupid guys, their juice is gonna make me stupid, get into my system, and mess with my brain. The only good thing about bringing dudes to my place is that if they're psycho serial killers, at least I know I can scream and Fred will hear me and call the cops. I hope Fred would call the cops if he heard me screaming. But who knows. Maybe he hates me. Maybe he wants me to die. Maybe he thinks I'm a brat and I should be choked.

The New York guy. Man, he's the worst. He's nowhere to be found when I want to talk, but I'm on gchat whenever he wants to gchat and have gchat sex. It must be so fascinating to go through life looking like being pretty is your job. He can just go anywhere and people help him, and Asian girls all around the globe fuck him. Yeah, including me. He's got a couple of Asians in L.A. that he fucks. I'm not the only one. At least I'm honest with myself about the situation. Fred is the only man in this world who knows I cry myself to sleep unless I'm passed out drunk. The men I fuck and sleep next to don't know that, I turn my back when I cry. I start leaving my blinds open all the time as a friendly gesture to Fred. He's doing the same and I think it makes us both more cheerful.

The other night, sick toothless guy in my building and his wife were screaming at each other for hours in Spanish until she called the cops on him. Fred and I couldn't get enough of it. We were rolling on the ground laughing. We still won't look directly at each other, but we do work, watch TV, and clean our dishes in front of each other now. Like roommates I guess. He even plays less-violent video games. I think he knows I detest those. Sometimes I think he helps me decide between shirts. I don't change in front of him though. I would never do that. I hide behind the closet door so he won't see me in my underwear.

I wonder if Fred and I fucked missionary-style if I would suffocate under his weight or if I could spread my legs wide enough to fuck him on top. I know, ew, but I've thought about it. Fred's manipulating me. I'm spending too much time with him. And all the strongest women I know are being weak and controlled by their male counterparts/fuck-buddies/boyfriends/husbands, and I'm depressed about it and just want to fuck something pretty tonight. Anything to not make me think about myself is a great gift. It's been two weeks since Kevin, so I won't feel like a slut if I go out with someone else tonight. I shower, lotion, and try on clothes. This one guy's been asking me out forever, and by asking me out, I mean he keeps texting me after 1 a.m., "sup" without even bothering to punctuate. Whatever, I'll go out with him, work on my social skills, and try to make him love me. I put on a skimpy black dress/Hollywood uniform, prance around, and I know Fred sees. He looks suspicious and peeks in often. I douse my eyes in black pencil, jewelry myself up, slip on 3-inch clog heels, smile over in Fred's direction and head out. I look as hot as I'm ever gonna look. The hem hangs halfway between my knees and my crotch, and my hair bounces in front my shoulders like a true WAM, waitress/actress/model. God I heart L.A., it's like someone went to hell and tried to decorate it with Palm trees.

This date is a total disaster. Shocker. First thing the guy tells me when we sit down at a wine bar is that he just divorced this quiet French lady because he realized he's really attracted to Asian women. Lucky me. I finish my fourth glass of red wine. He says he's also been to China. I ask if he went there for the hookers. Through his ear-to-ear grin he replies, "I didn't have to pay. Ha-ha. Everyone in China wants to fuck a white guy. Redheads especially." Great job, dude. He kisses me on the lips. I want to puke and wash my mouth out with turpentine. And his fingers are all little chodes. It's very off-putting. I've been backing my stool away from him the entire night but trying not to be rude, and for some reason I couldn't just bring myself to say the word "stop."Can't he notice I'm not having a good time? Or is he that oblivious? Or he just doesn't care? I feel really bad leading him on and not delivering now. Men ought to be so grateful for women's guilt. I bet it gets them 50 percent of their fucks.

I'm on top and he sits up to hug my waist. I shove him back down against the mattress, "Fuck my Asian pussy you ginger-hair fuck!" I slap him and punish him til he cums like a full bottle of tartar control toothpaste that was stepped on by Fred.

I come back to my dark studio. Light from Fred's place illuminates mine, and I'm hating my face, hating my inner thighs, hating my fat-soluble boobs, hating my armpit hair, and really, really hating my droopy left eyebrow. It ruins everything. I turn on my lights. Fred's blinds are open but he sits in his La-Z-boy with his back toward me. He's mad. He should know I had a terrible time and that it meant nothing. I take off my 3-inch clog heels. I'm tempted to jump out of my window. Fred won't move. I walk to my window and open it. Fred's surprised by the noise and he turns his fat, triple-chinned head around. At second glance, it looks like he's been crying, his TV has no signal, and it seems like he's hurled his remotes and PlayStation against the walls. They're shattered across the floor and one of his posters is ripped. He waddles to his window and opens it too. I look straight at Fred, walk backward to my bed, and lie down on it, our eyes still locked. Fred rolls onto his bed, facing me. We share a slight embarrassed grin. I unzip my little black Hollywood dress, pull it off my shoulders, and down my body.

I have on a skinny black thong and no bra. Fred looks away to the ground. Then back up at me. We stare at each other, ten feet apart, maybe less. He's wearing his XXXL dirty black T-shirt that hasn't been washed in weeks. I pull down my thong and take my legs out of it. It's cold from the wind but I like how it stings my skin. Fred just stares at me, paralyzed. I want him to undress. I want him to get naked and touch himself when I touch myself. I caress my boobs and make my way down between my legs. Fred watches me and takes the bottom of his shirt in his hands. He lifts the shirt up an inch, then runs to his window and yanks his curtains closed. I listen for him to unbuckle his belt and he doesn't. I close my window, sit on the window frame facing my room, my bare spine pressed against the ice-cold glass. I lean forward, sulking. On impulse I squeeze my boobs together as hard as I can, pressing them together like two balloons. I'm pushing them so hard I wonder if I can make them pop. My eyes water from the pain, so I stop, catch my breath, and let my tits sag lower and lower.

Fred never opened his blinds again and I've gone full nocturnal now as well. I've got to keep going. Some people are broken and unfixable and I won't let myself become one of them. I box up my minimal life, clean the floors, and sell most things. I consider knocking on Fred's door to say bye, but that might be awkward. He's been quiet these days. I hear his slippers every once in a while, but that's it. I even wonder if he's been eating. Finally, I hear him pick up his keys. In a split second I race outside. I stand in front of my building and wait for him to come down. When he does, he sees me, pauses as he closes the door, hesitates about going back inside, but he doesn't. His Toyota's parked behind me so I know he has to walk past me. He drags his enormous legs down the cracked sidewalk, still in his slippers, and stares at the cement. As the distance between us gets smaller, I open my mouth to talk, but I don't have any idea what would be appropriate to say and then I'm totally frazzled—his fucking shirt is maroon and this whole time I've been thinking it's black. Fred glances up at me as he goes by, like I'm just another sidewalk pedestrian. I haul myself back inside and pack the last of my trinkets and plants. Fred doesn't have any plants in his apartment. He comes home eventually and packs his refrigerator. Fatso.

There aren't any more boxes to move, they're all in my new place, and Fred's blinds are still shut. I stare at his ugly brown curtains and think of a million things I could scream over like, "Fucking make something of yourself," or "Lose some fucking weight, Fred," or "I'm leaving forever, don't you have anything to say to me?" or "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," or "Everyone has someone out there that will love them a little," or "You cunting whore, stop going on empty dates and fucking them." But I don't say anything. I can't. I need to leave now and never think of this dark cave again.

And then Fred opens his curtains ever so slightly. Just a small amount so I know he did it, but I can't see inside his muddy abyss. I smile, write on a piece of paper, and tape it to the window facing him. I leave for the very last time and lock the door behind me. I hope in a minute when Fred knows I'm fully gone, he'll open his blinds back up and look over into the room and read my note. It's just one sentence—"Keep it moving, Fred." There's a smiley face drawn beside it. And the thing he'll probably think is, "That's not my fucking name."

Beth DeAraujo is a writer and filmmaker in L.A. and graduated middle school from San Francisco Day School. She has asthma and is afraid it will affect her teaching or force her to quit smoking. She tweets at @BethDeAraujo.

[Illustration by Tara Jacoby]

In what is the softest beef of all time, rapper Drake called out Jay Z for liking fondue. Jay Z responded by telling everyone Drake was as soft as lacrosse, a full-contact sport. Now the Jay Z-affiliated Brooklyn Nets put the lint-rolling rapper in a little dressup jersey on the Jumbotron at the Raptors-Nets game last night.

If this is how we're #YOLO-ing, let's only live never.

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