Monday, May 31, 2004
The Mother again, akimbo and sighing.
"Huffing" would work better, but I just can't see her doing this.
For a couple of years, I've been telling anyone who wanted to know that I had an old resume' that needed tweaking.
The sore truth is, I don't know how to make one, let alone save or print the same. I have never worked with 'floppies'. I've been unsuccessful trying to seperate and file documents in my e-mail account. These things are so much scary gibberish to me. Yeah, I can fake the knowledge, to a point; I know most of the buzzwords, and these so popular and just OLD that they have been elevated to the common lexicon. But I still don't know how to 'download': to me, that sounds like taking a dump, something I just did. Once again, I found evidence of bleeding.
However, I must do this. The Little Social Worker demands it of me. If I told her that I'm not so computer literate, she might become suspicious of me, courtesy of the bullcrap factor. I have been reading an old (30 years) book by the psychiatrist/psychoanalnalyst T.I Rubin, subject being self-hatred and its anodyne, compassion. He identifies "pretension" (or personal mythology-slash bulls*it) as a major source of self-loathing and its offshoots. I have fibbed about my computer literacy for some time now--I'm "alternative" and old, so why would I not know PC basics? My rationale for that fib, right there. However, I've got to do this, and I am simply scared.
The Mother (bad, soupy day) was just in here, her bedroom, hands on outthrust iliac crests, demanding that I leave this alone, and get to the damnable resume' issue. She said that I was inviting suspicion by shooing her; truth is, I just can't think when she is hovering there.
Back to the Lex, and no computer, later on. The butterflies and elevator drops are coming on.
c h
Sunday, May 30, 2004
More good horse therapy: I shedded out the burro today, and was able, at the least, to get his cross showing again. He is a hairy and somewhat neglected little thing, neglected in that burros, among horses, tend to keep to themselves and thus discourage prolonged shows of affection in busy ppl. My old ma is such a person.
I laid hands on everything that breathes, and a good time was had by all. The little filly, Sparkle(horse, a reference my mother doesn't get, but that's okay), makes these sweet, high grunts and moans when she's stroked or brushed all over. At first, I thought she had an allergy or other respiratory problem, but later conceded that she does this because she enjoys a full-body massage. Nothing wrong with that. "Brother" does too.
Sparklehorse will tug at your clothes, if she can, and Brother has a thing for shoelaces. I was breaking one of the older geldings to lead--he's sort of like a giant yellow Lab puppy, except he's not yellow, nor is he a dog--and when we went to trot, I tripped myself and went splat in the dirt. Good guy that he is, he just stood there, while the foals came over to check me out and my mother the sixty-something tomboy, wanted to know if I was okay--three times. I felt like playing paralysed there for a moment--can't I even trip in the dirt and get up by myself?--but didn't. It wasn't necessary.
I do need to get back some skills, such as driving. First, there was living in a city with decent public trans--you didn't need a car unless you went further than 40 miles pretty regularly. Then there was this place, which has an LA complex. It simply is not that big, yet every Brittany, Jamaal and Pedro has a car. If there were fewer cars on the road, there would be fewer car stereos, which is a rant unto itself that I don't have the energy to engage right now. (There's also the issue of gas prices: these ppl just will not carpool, another subject that could quickly flash over.) Nevertheless, my parents don't believe that I can, at my nameless age, handle the responsibilities car ownership, and I myself don't really believe that I could drive one. When I first landed here, I chose not to buy one, reason being that I knew that I would drink again, and sure enough, I did so. Hugely. Now that I am confident that I will not drink and drive--hard to do that if one doesn't drink--I have no money with which to buy a little junker to get around town (and the outlying TB farms) with, and no money with which to insure the thing, nor to do the tag dance at city hall. And my folks have never let me drive any of their three vehicles, even though I never lost my license!
There's a lot tied up in that issue--ma admited that she'd let my uber-responsible, overcompensating younger brother to drive a vehicle he wasn't insured on, but won't let me do the same, even with her in the car.
But dinner's ready, I've been told. Gotta roll
horse, with the ponies
Friday, May 28, 2004
Wow. I got some comments! That's pretty cool--and there is no sarcasm there, none. I think I may know one respondent from another site (I was a potty-mouth rabble-rouser, and got booted for flaming, if that rings any bells) at which I am no longer allowed to visit: that is, of course, until I get my own 'puter, with its own, valid ISP thingie, to verify that I, regardless of what name I may go by, am indeed "real" and not there to insult other posters any more.
Re: "grit": recently got a hold of Chuck Pahlaniuk. He's brutal. This may account for my fascination with bodily fluids, and things like that. Got my tax refund as well, meaning I can pay off my library fine--fist to the sky and again--and read, by gum, instead of watching endless law enforcement drama and 'Animal Planet' on TV.
Had some good horse therapy today. Shedded out the two mama mares--my own ma has no time to--and the little boy foal wouldn't leave my duckboots alone. I went around the mare, and around, and he went with me, taking my rubbery toes in his mouth, untying the laces (these little creatures are pretty much gentle as dogs, and can be fooled with while outside, no restraints needed). Funny about the foals--last night, after violent weather that threatened to tear the roof off the old grey barn, I dreamed that they wouldn't come to me--they do--and that they refused to be caught as well. That's unlike them.
Baby Ovary--real name 'Reverie'--is one of the most feminine creatures I have ever laid eyes on. She hasn't been ridden much, and has never been bred, but is she pretty. Big and pretty. Sort of like Monroe, Harlow, Russell. She is a Rocky Mountain, a small gaited horse native to the KY mountains, and she got herself real dirty sometime yesterday, or this morning. I was getting into loosening the mud, which called to mind dreadlocks for some reason, and she rested her head on my back, nibbling at my hair but never taking hold. Very soothing. I hope that when my mother must sell her, she sells her to me.
Later, if I can. Again, sincere thanks,
hoss
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
A fatigue like quicksand is on me. Float long enough, tread slurry, and someone will be along shortly before the limbs give out and go under. That's what the shinies and happies out there will have you believe. Don't believe it or head to the bar.
Dreams. Seems as though there were some interesting ones that I'd wanted to note for further elaboration, but I have no money to buy the notebooks in which to do so. A couple involving a high-school crush whom I must see with my eyes before I am gone--it's been about twenty years now, and this person is still popping up in dreams. Sometimes he is injured or dead; others, about as improbable, her favors me, we almost have sex in always dark places.
A dream I do recall pretty well: this girl, D, who came to my high school in eighth grade, had been introduced to me by her neighbor, who described me and my fellow weirdoes as "nice girls". She liked us well enough until my own private Plastic Heathers hijacked her and filled her in on the necessity of dumping us. She did that, although she pretended to be nice to us for about half a year. In this dream, however, cast in half-lit ochre and bile, she dragged me from place to high-school place; she opened a door, apparently to a gym, and all these goose-stepping cheerleaders came at me, aggressive as Nazi geese.
The cheerleaders glared, cheered, essentially said nothing. I made all of this out as a sort of low-grade turf war over this girl D, who really did not give a shit. Her older sister, B, who was ugly and mean, but had a grandmother in NYC who would buy her and her new "friends" hip clothing in fancy stores, is now trolling the yahoo waters of certain Philadelphia suburbs. She calls herself "Sensual B". This last, I find amazing.
I've harbored a secret hardon for D. I've never forgiven her the necessary adolescent betrayals and acts of venom she perpetrated, with her new, fun-girl "friends", against me and my little wierdo theatre people. She wasn't pretty then, she was a full-blown alkie by sixteen, eating face with her wrestler boyfriend in the halls of GW high school, and getting pregnant right about graduation. My ex-best-friend recently told me that D squeezed out four or five pups and still looks the same, which isn't necessarily a good thing. I go to sleep some nights with my mind's eye on her belly.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Here I am again, at my second home, the library. The Little Social Worker had what her ppl call a "home visit" earlier today, and seemed to be trying to hide her frustration about my attitude toward getting employment. I'd been under the impression that this Nameless Social Service Organisation would hook me up, but that's not so. I have to do "legwork", make phone calls (big dread there), and prioritise. That last is pretty damn impossible: I've never been adept at making lists, so how am I going to break a list down?
While I was fixing a lunch to schlep with me, the LSW was photographing the bathroom. Exclamation mark. Photographing. The. Bathroom. For all I know, she shot my little bedroom too. I'd made the bed, thrown an Indian tapestry over it; bedmaking is something I've never truly understood: why make the damn bed when you're going to come back later and mess it up again? Why spend twenty, thirty minutes attempting to square the linens, pillows and spread, when I could be plucking chin hairs and squeezing blackheads on the sides of my nose? The way they pop right up is fascinating. And then the nose is bright red. I mean, who has time for things like making beds? I can see laundering the bedding in a timely manner, but that is where my appreciation of that sort of thing ends.
I'm becoming convinced that I may have been misdiagnosed re: the borderline stuff that I've been going on about since I began here. Many ADD traits--not being able to follow stepwise instructions, spending two hours at a time trying to get out of the house, losing a story because of the words, accumulating papers, like envelopes torn open and two-year-old bills that I haven't yet perused, spun-out attempts at lists. Not being able to locate identification; forgetting where I put my keys and change. This is pretty much life-long. See, I feel as though my number #1 identity is that of Borderline, and I'm becoming tired of being a walking diagnosis. Where it's possible that the two conditions overlap, and they probably do with me, I'd rather explain my failure habit as a symptom and consequence of ADD. It's less off-putting to the untherapised.
This girl has no idea how much it hurts to get rejected for jobs chimpanzees could likely do better than humans. She wants to put me in a damaged-people labor program and I want to finish my nursing degree in a BSN program that accepts Lilly scholarship students. There is an interim, and in between receiving disability (for BPD and major depression; they don't give "drunk checks" around here any more) and going through the process of getting back to school, I'd like to work about 30 hours a week, at something that pays reasonably, like shit technician (nursing assistant) or overnight watch for the developmentally disabled. My record inveighs against this, so I'm sort of stuck with the job training thing. It'd give me a bit of chump change, and a reference that would confirm that I showed up on time, did my little thing, and did not glare or argue or whatever it is that I've been observed to do.
Hell, I'm boring myself to death. The LSW gave me some homework, as they call it, and one item is getting together a resume'. After I'm done here, I plan to look over a few books on that topic, but there's a hitch: I am no flipping good at Windows Anything: it's that annoying following-directions business again. And I don't have the change to actually print it, providing I actually did it. Oh, well. I must at least give it a try over the weekend.
There is something I'd been meaning to air out, and it just came to me. Michael. The pseudonymous man who refused to let me take his spare bedroom while I slug about trying to snag the eldritch job. I miss the son-of-a-bitch, feel his tinnitus in my head, and resent like hell him wanting to be available, on his terms, for sex and sex alone. I. Don't. Like. Sex. Not liking it isn't a problem for me right now, yet I'd appreciate some kind of validation from someone who, like Michael, had made a mess of things and came back strong and able, able to make money, pay back debt, and in general, feel like a decent human being. Yesterday, my time here had ended when this subject rose from my murky mind. I'd been in thrall of some passion to write something, and I couldn't remember what it was. Exclamation point again. Michael lives less than two miles away. My shoes aren't made for walking today--a sub-conscious effort aimed at avoiding a gym date, I think, but it'd still be entertaining to hang out in that neighborhood, go to a meeting at the motel/inn there, and accidentally run into Michael, with whom I left the impression that I was going to stay in my parents' basement, about thirty miles away.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Please, someone, anyone, fix my 10 May duplicate postings. I have always had difficulty following written directions, oral directions, and so on. I get stuck between steps, if that says anything, and nothing in them is relevant to anything else. My learning methods are odd, yes. But I do need help and my doc refuses to give me Adderall, seeing as I once had a big problem with that sort of thing.
That said, I lost a nice entry Sunday night, at that time advised that I was working off-line. The computer lied, repeatedly, and the entry, about a horse, was lost. I hope that someday someone will invent a microchip that records a person's thoughts as they occur (or great sentences), and then permits that person to "jack in" to a monitor that prints those out. I forget everything halfway good, anything that might provide glimpses of a story's insides--there and then gone.
My father didn't bark once on the ride back to Lex. I was amazed. He opened his apocrypha and revealed that he had been tagged to be an intellegence analyst in the mid-sixties, but decided to go with a civilian job with computers. I was amazed. All of this was happening in the heat of the Nam, and of course I hadn't a clue what Daddy did at work. But it was a thrill to go inside the IBM building at 4 p.m. and let him know that his ride was waiting.
My roommate was getting manic today. Bipolar disorders are psychiatry's new common cold, diagnoses that should lose steam and stigma, for many ppl who get out from under substance abuse suddenly discover that something is way out of whack. Their depressions are said to be more disabling than anything an alcoholic borderline depressive can manufacture. We talked about praying to God to let us pass on in our booze-driven slumber.Getting on the down train with the rest of the derelicts renders one's starting point irrelevant to the rest of the journey. (I must aver here that I detest the idea of "drinking down"--as in, who the expletive am I to look at another drunk as "up" or "down". In this business, distinctions like that segue into one another to the point that the drunk will drink with anyone, no matter how annoying, just to avoid for a few hours that loneliness that is ever there.)
Okay. It was good to connect with someone, if only for about an hour. This woman is pretty, knows how to put on a decent chirp-face, and it wasn't until the last week that I began to understand how someone like she *seemed* to be got into the mess she's in now. A series of blows to the heart of the head, bad decisions, a little addiction and a big-time crash. Kids and evil exes involved. I told her I'd go to the library and try to get the goods on her ex's new wife. This new wife is a nurse, and here, nurses are supposed to notify the nursing board of any run-ins with the law. She has had a few--terroristic threatening (of my roommate), harrassing communications--around '94, '95, and may have gotten a couple more blemishes on her record. Which I sort of suggested my roommate then show to her lawyer, but the jail website won't come up. I do not need to meddle. I should cast up a prayer that I do the right thing, and I just did.
Now, this com[uter here is telling me something silly: first, iit gives me 120 minutes, and now it's saying that I have about one minute left, and I haven't been here for more than a half-hour. I'd better put this up here, find out what's going on, and then come back backwards.
horse with cable TV
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Yo, Ron. I think that is your name. Can you help me out here? I need you, or someone with your skills, to delete all but one copy of my 10 May 04 entry. I really do have a hard time following directions. More to the point, I don't see any. That said, here I sit at my mother's computer at the crossroads of nowhere, again. Dim respite from nonstop rain and protection from eating. Eating: nothing to eat, for one, and for another, if I tried (read: "snuck") to find any, a violent reaction would ensue. That of my father.
Mother came 30 miles this morning to get me in Lex. She knew I had to stop at Faith Pharmacy to get my low/no-income trazadone, and I had told her that there would be a wait. I'm not sure what organisation runs the effort; it sits at the worn-down heels of town, not a rich person in sight, not even a crack merchant out in the grey weather. Just wall-to-wall poor and damaged people, a bunch of pharmacy students all bright and shiny running from this room to that bearing drugs, drugs, drugs, but nothing really good if you know what I'm sayin. There was a lady with a moustache and no teeth wanting Zyprexa out loud. No shame there. Jesus would be right at home, which brings me to the Mother.
I was talking to a gay couple from the country. I look up toward the doorway and see pink--my mother, bone-thighs clenched together, saying that she needed to "go somewhere". I found that odd, very odd, said to the men, "That's my mother." She then went somewhere. To find a bathroom, when they had a bathroom on the premises. She'd not considered that the ppl staffing the place, as well as the patrons, would be on-site at least three hours, and would have to pee. Or, she had, had considered that, and was showing that part of her that I would like to slap silly. "I don't associate with--" and "I don't do (name that vice)" have become new catchphrases for her. It's pretty painful to watch.
So I wished my acquaintences the best and used the facilities myself, seeing nothing unusual there. Then went to stand outside, beside the seedy little building in the rain, my head ticcing back and forth in search of my mother's old blue sedan. As it would emerge, a seeming ten minutes later, she arrived with the announcement that she had to drive seven miles to find a bathroom (as much as it feels that way at times, Lex is not a crossroads and has many bathrooms), and then went on to state how bad she felt about not buying anything at her destination, a convenience store. I was not quite buffaloed, for I'd brought something to read.
Then, this: she can't be coming in every weekend, it's 22 dollars back and forth. (She forgets that she and Dad own three vehicles.) I hear what she's saying.
(This week, a Philadelphia guy got beheaded in Iraq, and today a Philadelphia horse with a Philadelphia jock up won the Preakness. I'll take any mention of home--better yet, news footage--I can get, even if it is plumb awful. Oh, and the jockey: apparently he'd assaulted, while drunk, a guy with a pool stick a few years back. He went to rehab and is clean now. In the meantime, he took a guilty plea on the assault vs. 7 years locked up. The press got hold of this, which is how I know about it. But my mother, she claims that if she had been given that choice, she would have gone to prison. Uh, um, yeah.)
The miniature foals are delicate and charming. I love their innocence and sweet milky breath. Born four days apart, they are growing fast. I know it has to happen, this business of growing, but I would like to freeze them all the same so I could take them out and play with them forever.
As for my father, there's not much to say. Except that he won't. stop. barking.
Go Smarty Jones,
c h
Friday, May 14, 2004
First of all, help, in big letters and matchsticks upside down: Either a worm or I managed to send five, I think, copies of my last post. This was not my intent; don't know about the worm. Ron, if you or one of yours comes across this message, I hope you would be kind enough to delete all but one. Also, I want to change the "homeless in..even though..." blurb, for I do, knock upside the head, have a roof and food source and two sore feet to get around town on, and I make sure to clean my corpus at least twice a day.
Since I got back from a weekend at my parents' little country home, I've been pretty down. My only 'up' moments are those in which frustration and helplessness run the show. Thought I'd have my disability (for major clinical depression, chronic, and for borderline personality), and a bank account and all my meds lined up and a bus pass cheap. That's not the situation: although a claims examiner stated a week ago Friday that a decision would be made on that date and mailed to me in a week or two, she also admitted that most first claims are shot down, and must be resubmitted. Which takes more time, as in months. And involves lawyers, who must be paid. In the mean time, what? I continue to thumb in order to get downtown--I simply lack the energy to walk, allergies are bad, it's a week or rain, and so on. Get my meds through patient assistance programs, those accessible through an MH clinic. Will I ever be free of flipping clinics? My first job out of college, I had a plan with a fifty-cent co-pay. I could have been taking powerful immune-system drugs at 2K a script, and they wouldn't have batted an eye, not that I knew about anyway.
My teeth are bad. OF the ones left, they all hurt. At least one needs extraction. IF the other molar must go as well, that sets me up big-time for sag face and gerbil-jaws. Damn that bulimia. Distructive, disgusting. From what I hear, I can picture disoriented jockeys flying every which way, being stomped in the dirt, and getting to lay up in the hospital on good drugs before having a chance to "flip" (induce vomiting) and do it all again. Or twenty-five-year old supermodels with no lower molars. All of this leads to one thing: bridges. Not to chew food, who needs food, but to hold my face up. And since I've taken numnerous recent vows to stay clothed unless before a physician or massage therapist, nobody will have to know that I don't have all the teeth I was born with.
I have a lot of anger toward the little social worker, who is about a decade my junior. She, well, she--ah, scrooge it: I cannot take orders from children with tongue studs, even if they might happen to be mud-fuds, astronauts, or some other damned thing. This one, she's just a BSW. No threat there. But what shakes me up some is that she is visibly left of center, as I am, makes no effort to hide her decorations, but is sitting there behind the wheel of her Volvo, spouting 300-level jibberjabber in what I construe as a patronising tone. That, or such is her demeanor when she must deal with a chronically twisted old person.
I suppose the above is a snip of borderline thought in action, as in: she makes no effort to hide counterculture affiliation in order to do a conservative sort of job, and I can't reconcile those things. In college, I had this Marxist professor who wore a blue chambray workshirt and jeans--clean jeans--day in, day out, maybe even to bed. Classmates would joke about the man not changing clothes; I, on the other hand, was certain that he had at least five uniforms consisting of chambray shirts and jeans, and that he did shower, albeit very economically. Do I want the young woman's position, its implicit authority, her cool self-possession? She works hard, and I don't imagine she gets paid a whole lot. Not more than 27 grand. She has two children and no more rich (I've heard) hubby, and made out OK in her settlement. I envy everything but the kids. And I still can't appreciate the entirity of a person who looks to have made a career out of following the Dead, and uses words like "accountability" and "responsibility" and "motivation".
(I have a lot of motivation to follow the Dead, for there are always great drugs at the shows, and cute guys who are so fogged up that they can't tell I'm closer to their mom's age than their own. I enjoy free music, although sometimes I must bear responsibility for getting from show to show. Sometimes I am accountable to other ppl to find them accommodations and or food. Sometimes, one or more of them is accountable to me for the same. We are all responsible for not acting wild in public and getting busted. So I guess I can do this accountability stuff after all, BWA-HA-ha-ha-ha.....)
My head meds ration is growing smaller. A 40 of Prozac/day, 300 trazadone at night, Klonopin PRN any more, and a reintroduction of Wellbutrin, an old speedy fave--but no Neurontin. Neurontin seems to be the key med. It softens me up, evens me out, causes me to feel a though I need less of the stuff. I was on my lowest load in double-i, and all that frustration, nightmares, and anxious depression came on me like a wave of sludge. I need to look at my other blog, and reiterate my plea that Ron or his agent delete last post's extra copies. I'mn still not sure what happened there.
tired horse
Monday, May 10, 2004
I don't consciously troll for response to what I put up here, but I appreciate it nonetheless, even if it strikes me as unempathetic or even harsh. Helps me, momentarily, to imagine ppl out there considering my poor arse trying and failing to successfully imagine other ways of going at this existence. I'm trapped. I need to chew my brain off. As I'll get to in a minute in the 'Benzo' blog, I'm now experiencing anxiety independent of being around ppl and the imaginings that that engenders. Failure, and age, and more of this ad infinitum. Looks as though it doesn't bore me enough yet to approach some sort of breaking point, or breakthrough, or whatever it is that minds do when they are wholly saturated with toxic gum. It's time to dismantle the habitrails of the defective gerbils and take away their speed. These hard-core 12-steppers speak of "getting out of [one's] head", and the Buddhists, of "being in the moment". What if, Oh Great One, all moments suck? Muck and suck and ancient tar of misery and gerbil bones, bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. Gravity.
I don't really want to take more drugs, but maybe I must. I can't sit through this. The mother is a problem. Get a load of this crap:
I offer to help her vacuum the dog hairs from the kitchen/living room (there are four hairy dogs in this small house, and each dog continues to shed). She does this three times a day, there is that much hair. I ask her to write her preferred method of doing this in list form--she always has these my way/highway methods--so that I might accomplish her desired end. And she refuses. A short list referencing what implement for what area/item would help me do the work she kvetches incessantly of doing, about to the extent that I bemoan my emotional discomforts, and yet she refuses to acknowledge that ppl have different ways of learning and avers that if she cannot tell me once, show me once, that whatever embarrassingly simple procedure she might be talking about cannot be done her way and her way alone, then she must do it. And that's all there is to it, a phrase she exhales like dust.
(Something's wrong with this puter--it has a worm, I think. Tried to post the above and might have succeeded, in order not to lose it. I do have a point.)
That's all there is to it, she huffs. She was a teacher for a couple of years, and is as stubborn in her own way as I often am. Her ken has no space for the marginally evil soft sciences, never mind that those grow harder by the minute; I may have some sort of learning disability, or my own head is warped beyond her idea of reason b/c of licit and illicit substance use, or--and/or--my crazies keep me from seeing things the way she does. Oh bloody well. Point is, I could get this job done, just as I could feed the little horses as effectively as she does, and will not allow me to do, if the old lady would just make a wee list and a tiny diagram--horse initials/feed box in an open barn, plus the ration due each horse. Do this once and let me carry it around to refer to until it's mine.
I don't know if she has a useful clue how demeaning this is, and always has been. The borderline theorists call her behavior "invalidation". I eat wrong--too much. I sleep--the new alcohol--too much, although I was up by nine AM, seeing as I am not employed. I watch corrupt public television. I like the dogs and do not yell at them as she and Dad do. Now that I think of it, this has been an ongoing sort of thing: if I can't be taught as she was taught, I'm not worth teaching. Feh. (So why do I choose to remain in this toxic toxic mesh, one might ask? Well, this is my one best answer: I love the horses, and cannot succumb to the not-infrequent impulse to gorge myself, as there is nothing to gorge on here. Actually, I tend to lose weight at Camp Restriction, where the 'normal' adult is sixty-seven inches tall/115 pounds, or seventy-two inches by 140.
I don't like my size, but it is not killing me yet--sixty-nine, probably one-sixty. The charts indicate this is acceptable. Just barely, but not enough to stress over, even though I will and do.
To wit, I have a hunch that a young woman cyclist killed over the weekend was the wife of a guy I was somewhat obsessed with eight years ago, right before the nursing school debacle and final descent to bottom. Right name, right age. Musician. God-in-training. Now, I am in no way happy that the girl was killed and her teenage companion gravely injured, but this is one thought I had upon reading about the accident today: So he's free to go to bars and open mics and eventually bleep again. I must lose weight.
bwaAAHHH-ha-ha-ha-ah
sick horse
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rant of career screw-up, social retardate and bad references walking, all grown old
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