Friday, July 23, 2004
There is this woman. Pretty. A lawyer. Forty. With lots of cool clothes.
Of seven, only two of her DUIs are on her police record, and I had worked up my courage to ask her hers were cut down to size, because I am trying to return to work, and could do without two of my AIs. I get to the park area today, and there she is, cell phone to ear. Well, okay, professionals can get away with this sort of thing, not to mention afford it.
It's noon; everyone goes downstairs to the Dungeon. This woman looks pretty good for forty, and is seated next to this Young Guy, maybe 30, tops. Young buck speaks. He is getting married this week, to his best friend. I wonder if the guy is gay. He slaps the woman on the thigh. Her bright little eyes have a shine.
Later, she speaks, shares this: she is getting married, this week, to her best friend. By this point, she and the guy are clasping the hand of the other. Yes. She is the young man's best friend. The thing both of them like best about their relationship is that they pray together, twice a day, at night and upon waking. Together.
I can infer from this pleasantness (noIcannotrelatetothisnoworever) that despite their Higher Power(s), or perhaps because of them, the two are fucking. DAMN, this Create-Your-Own-God crap gets on my nerve. Yes I would like to have a partner, but my God saw fit, as they sometimes do, not to give me the potential with which to acquire socail skills, and thereby sail grandly into such a thing. There is one problem, though, and one that would hold true across the continuum of gender preferences: I do not want to fuck, or be fucked by, anyone, now and probably forever.
On-line, mirroring off--. Dastardly again.
needs remaining teeth floated and filled.
ch
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Went to PACE this morning, despite frightful storms passing overhead and lightning falling everywhere, or rising from the ground. Whatever lightning does, and nine-hundred-some strikes recorded as early as 8 a.m.. It all let up though, and I got there: no way was I going out in that mess.
It was weird. I'm feeling bad to start with, that old fat kind of bad, and b/c I'd binged hard--I mean hard--last night, I had a right to it. This old abuelita-looking thing that used to hang like a feedsack on me, it's now tight about my torso before giving way to an empire skirt that no longer tumbles straight to my knees. It grazes my sides, calls my attention to them. This is not good. And if I could have vomited the binge back up, I would have--but the ever-friendly and communicative roommate Vanessa had come back to the apartment.
I was feeling bad. So there's this girl there, a fellow fixer-upper, and she's acting all superior. She was an eventer, dadgummit. Envy spasmed and was done, but every time I addressed a question to the mind-blowingly ignorant group leader, this girl ticced tacced tapped everything a person could think of tapping, and said condescending things. To me. Who has been around this block--unhireability--several times before in this life. And because she had been an eventer--really--I let her talk on down, and did not sigh and roll my eyes as she tapped her little feet and tiny nails. (As for this group leader, a woman whose chin fat precedes the actual chin, and someone who should never wear sleeveless garments, she was not aware that there exist consumers of her services, for which she is paid, who have zero favorable references, know no one who would deign to say kind things about them, and has actually made up real-but-dead references in far-away big cities to address that failure, which, of course, it is. Who have created jobs and families out of air, who have made imaginary homes for even more imaginary kids, suffered the loss of imaginary spouses, and so on. Who have solicited to the point of paying for references from real acquaintences who provided hallucinatory employment.
This woman thought it was okay to use a shrink as a personal reference. I guess I should have said that first. Um....)
The girl made me uncomfortable, the leader was an idiot. And now I am here.
Food. And the roommate. Boy did she make a statement yesterday while I was pretending to sleep to avoid her ass. ...this is not good, the little voices whisper, no, not good at all. She'd brought back ripe tomatoes from wherever it is that she is from, and used this huge--but flimsy--knife to gut the fruit for consumption. Then, this woman, a neat freak, left both knife and leftover discs of tomato on the countertop, just sitting there, as in spilled blood. Whoa, Nellie: somebody was pissed.
Old girl has this antique teal glassware, one piece of which she'd been leaving atop the microwave, where, of course, it could get whacked by either cabinet door at the appliance's sides. But it did not. It came real close to death a few times, but made itthrough these moments, so I placed it in an empty kitchen cabinet. I did not think at that time that I'd forget to bring it out of hiding before Vanessa got back--but I did. I went to my room when I could have replaced the ungodly little thing.
It's just a cup, just a cup, the voices continue....
At seven this morning, at the height of a terrible lightning storm, I hear Vanessa's alarm start to chirp, and then, her TV come on. I'd awakened at five-thirty myself, gone back to sleep out the commotion, but come back to wakefulness early. So I run a bath and get in. Wash the unmentionables, get out. Reevaluate this woman's subtle dominance of the lavabo--the hanging of the towels. She has one and a half racks; I have one half. The twisting of the winds, go the voices. Something a hopped-up newscaster once said, during a tornado. I will never forget this.
The psychologist yesterday asked me if I'd had the DTs. Technically, I've come close, but haven't, not really, thank Klonopin. Then he asked me if I'd had seizures, to which I answered 'yes'--because of not having Klonopin. And then, questions about hallucinations. 'Only when I induced them,' I replied. Took him a moment to get that
I figure I came across disorganised, but with a superior verbal memory, and in contact with reality.
There were moments: 'Who is the president?'
--laughter. 'Why are there taxes?'
--a serious smirk as I considered several adolescent replies: to bug people, to further encourage dishonesty among the working public, to make life on life's terms, dammit, more miserable. To fund wars--you don't know that?
Who is the president?
whhhhhHHHHHEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeh
heeheeheeheehee
Superb grass indeed.
ch, only kidding there
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
I really wish that I would not be assigned to the so-called 'Computer Center' (more like 'talking center', or 'yelling...') when I come here to surf the Web. The guy that runs the place is loud. The ppl that come up here tend to cluster, three to a machine, screaming among their mad selves--the Computer Boss doesnt do SHIT about them. It is possible that he cannot hear right. Neither can I, although our procedural difficulties are doubtless very diverse, and you don't find ME bugging the yellers and screamers and laughers, other than the occasional, 'Hey, look, I mean I'm SORRY, but I have REALLY BAD ADD and cannot CONCENTRATE on what I'm DOING when ppl keep on TALKING'
Example: this pro-ana Mexican hoe with runny black eyeliner and a cheap red thong is gibbering at her boiferundo, a blue-eyed black guy, who gibbers back. I don't hate her b/c she's skinny, I hate her because she and friend are LOUD. The old dude at the multiple consoles pays them no mind. If he'd look up, he'd see their leechy mouths moving. I've conceded that he probably doesn't hear--GOOD THEY LEFT, ALL THREE OF THEIR ASSES--all the clattering jabber. Let him find another job, then. Let ME run this place. Iron-fisted, shushing, punk-rock librarian. I would brook minimal distraction and no children at all.
I went to the deceptively-named Beauty School to get my hair cut, something I haven't tried since a traumatic experience there about three years ago. I saw that its instructorship had changed hands, but the old bat that commands the phones and dispatches the students is still there. I saw the hair I wanted on the first magazine I laid eyes on, but that made no difference to the old bat: hanging by her toes, she told me that I would have to "schedule" for Thursday. As I have done in the past, I asked for the most advanced student available, and as she has done, the old bat nodded in apparent assent.
Right, said Fred.
Well, i was ticked off, and took it out on the street, galumphing into town among the Men at Work and rampaging skatepunx, cursing at traffic. I haven't done THAT in a bit of a while. Cursed at traffic. It looks silly, advertises impotence, shrills of mememe. The final 'me' in a sequence I haven't figured out yet. Could always look it up, I guess, but then I'd be shown and not told. In this case, I need 'told'.
What the fark IS a meme, anyway?
Saw a bunch of AA alkies during my travels--this one here, that one there--and conceded that I should go to a meeting or two. Keep on avoiding that pesky pesky roommate.
Ice. Peace. Cool box of darkness.
hoss, containing the berserker
The chirren pretend to vomit.
Where are their parents?
The bit, Leigh, is greased today with cayenne pepper cream. Good stuff, if you have arthritis; not so good if you are a horse bridled by someone with arthritis. I have arthritis, but no pepper cream. I was once thrown by a horse I had carelessly bitted.
Shite, my hands hurt. It is Tuesday, I left out early today to catch the bus and its load of people stinking already at the hour of 8 a.m., and went to PACE, who will sort of employ me pretty soon and thus give me something to do--and I'll fall to sleep with meager thought given to eating other ppl's food. Or I hope I will, that is. Yesterday, I bought toilet paper and dishwashing liquid, and used my food card to re-up Vanessa on some food of hers that I had eaten. And today, for Vanessa, some Pringles. I can go through tins and tins of Pringles at one sitting, and I did--hence, that purchase. And all this gibbering, thinking I'm trying to make sense of, and then destroy, this compulsive eating thing of mine.
What I mean, perhaps, is that I hope and pray that Vanessa will not rat me out, turn me in. I don't want, and cannot afford, to be bad in this way. (I would rather torture and dispatch ppl who talk in libraries GAWD that pisses me off.) The OA text says that ED'd ppl cannot eat as non-ED'd ppl do. And I can understand this, call it mine, now and then. But to continue on unto death, unable to eat with others, to watch them order food, eat it, unable to coexist with other ppl simply because of the conflagrations that arise when my compulsions are active--that picture really sucks. As if I didn't have enough bullshite that would continue to separate me out from the herd in not one desirable fashion.
(No, I do not wish to be like them, like the herd, like it in all of its vainglorious and stupid permutations. Rather, I am bone-tired of being outcasted for quirks I cannot alter or control. GARDDAMN, chirren, SHUT UP ALREADY. SILENCIA AND DONE!)
This morning, I almost farqued myself but good. Alarm goes off at 5:30. I drink some cold coffee, take a capsule of green tea. Listen at the news--two meth mamas pissing off the neighbors, and the Islamic Marine iconically insisting that he did not desert. Hell, I would've, and would've gone back to sleep, too, if my brain had let me. I did try. That was my way--sleep, if at all possible. But sleep wasn't possible today, so I got up and got on with it, and was out the door in plenty of time to catch that bus.
If I hadn't shown up at this PACE deal, I would probably be in some way in flames right now.
Had a good time this weekend, with brother, his wife and their four kids. Dogs, horses, bio-parents. I'd like to say something about that, but don't know what, and haven't the time at the moment.
unedited hoss
Thursday, July 15, 2004
To clarify: Only genuine arsewipes refer to themselves in the third person, and as for "hole(s) in the subway", I *do* refer here to an unintelligible lyric of a very old song that comes to me from a place far far away and not at all fondly remembered.
I'm just really upset, is all.
As recently as this past Sunday, a drunken Vanessa (roommate, and subject of the rambling entry below) had taken my hand and blubbered over about her (truly lamentable) family situation. What a good listener, what a good person I was, and later on, a case of beer and one Peter (her boy toy) later, how FUNNY--and today, the woman has not only identified a rather attractive container of unknown items on the bottom shelf of our refrigerator as "Vanessa's", she has declared--if pink Post-Its could declare--that it is not to be opened. All this, after steaming through the tiny kitchen we share like a tanker hightailing it out of Kuwait, albeit proudly, colors astream and Moet still clinging in useless droplets to her prow...
...he...
...he...
...he...
Thought I'd mix things up there, if only to make myself laugh--but I can't do it. Not only may my own considerable ass be on the line (vis a vis the "eating other ppl's food" issue, which I *did* initially try to head off by asking Vanessa to declare boundaries in the kitchen), I've screwed up again, courtesy of what has to be a compulsion as headstrong as Saddam himself. It's rudeness, it's theft, it's disGUSTing even if I don't vomit, which I don't--and I don't stand a chance of controlling it. I must be by myself, and thta is not always possible.
--Wait. I *can* (this is easier, the asterisks, than using the italics thing) control it under certain circumstances, say in the confines of my parents' home. For one thing, they rarely have much food around, and seem always lurking, around the corner and ears peeled, for me to crack the 'fridge or open the "pretzel drawer". They practise restriction--of amounts, of calories, of flavor and sensation, often preparing and consuming the very same thing three nights in a row, even as the quantitiy in question grows duller and more tired with each trip to and from the oven. My parents have always seemed to hold leanness, spareness of frame, as a virtue suggestive of hard labor in the very name of the Lord himself. (And if this guy next to me doesn't give it up on his bloody stinking wad of grape gum, I may well shove it into his nosehairs.) Oh, make no mistake--fat ppl are just all right with them, as long as the fat ppl in question are far removed from the family tree. Fat ppl can be sunny, clever, even cuddly-cute, as they lead with their second and third chins down the already plushly lined aisles of Wal-Mart and Piggly-Wiggly. But just let one of their very own start growing a spare tire (to go with the one they have just finished cultivating, as would be true for me) and they teleport to this high, colorless remove, from which they judge the unquick and undead--myself again--pretty harshly.
I can restrict just like they can in their own home because I don't have any other options. If I stay there for four days, I tend to lose about one clothing size. My face, bony today, although it begins to lower a scarf of skin where my jawline used to be, will become bonier yet, and my two pouches--SACS?--of lard will detach from their general position on my one major tire--a good thing, actually, because as they define themselves by breakng away from the Michelin, so does the Michelin lose a little oomph itself. (Don't even mention the words "Rubber" and "Road": all I can envision when I hear that jingle is this used prophy--oh, never mind.)
I go to their home this weekend--I would really like to tell this guy how bad his gum smells, and how vulgar he looks chewing it--and will see my brother, et al. I will leave Vanessa here, or there--she goes to visit her family as well, where she is apparenty venerated as laborer/caregiver/homemaker/cuckold/victim/all-around-good-time-girl--and she will doubtlessly be glad to be gone of me. Please, now, I don't hate the woman. I don't even dislike her. I just dislike that she dislikes me, because I liked her and hedgingly thought that she--ex-cheerleader, one-time beauty contestant--might even like me, really really like me, and insodoing undo all the doings of the Heathers and Mean Girls that populate my past--god, some speed would be nice right about now....
Poor Vanessa. She is all of those things, all the things I listed. She did them, earned them, was them is them, and has every right to be really pissed off at me for ever eating anything of hers at all. I just wish she'd set the boundaries in stone when i gave her the chance, rather than expecting me to be capable of doing that ever-elusive and indefinable Socially Acceptable, Right Thing.
Damn.
And she holds court, b/c she won't allow me to approach her on the subject, won't brook an apology or NUTHIN.
Should I give her the dorn refrigerator that sits at my parents' home and let her have at it?
For even if I, and most assuredly only momentarily, were able to pull off that set of Socially Acceptable, Right Behaviors, the low, cretionous, yet ever-scheming beastie within me would be CHAFING, I tell you, CHAFING--
needs a harsher bit?
Nice featured blog-blurb. I hope I have the time here, at the library with its micromanaging computers, to read it. I did arrive with something of an agenda, though, and even though some reading I've recently done seems to suggest that "dealing with it" might not be my best strategy if I want to defrock this possible situation of its disturbing potentials, what the hock. My heretofore effusive and frighteningly usual-seeming roommate "Vanessa" appears to have Hyded on me in a large way.
Not that I didn't expect this--I've stayed alone for all these years for one big reason, namely that I don't get on well with other ppl (and that I tend to eat their food, if they have any, which is probably why Vanessa's ass is on fire). At first, OOHHH, SHE didn't care (about my bingeing, that is, although I tried valiantly to get her to impose some limits at the inception of our little journey together). See, SHE wasn't LIKE THAT. Had a heart as big as the trade deficit, or so she wanted me to think (and does think, of herself, no doubt). Eat ANYTHING, even though I raged about my weight problem and shadowboxing. food addictions, begging her to label her edibles and so on.But I DON'T WANT IT, she insisted. It was just THERE, HAS BEEN for MONTHS. So, EAT IT. And I did.
I urged her to help herself to my groceries. Vanessa's own weight problem is a bit bigger than my own, but she has tits, you see--she can get away with it. Plus, good Southern gal that she is, she knows her way around all kinds of men. Rich, richer, nearly famous--she's had 'em all. And so she can cart around a stomach that matches her cheaply lacquered smile.
But Vanessa rarely helped herself to my groceries. I tried to use my Food Card (like "Food Stamps", except that you can't get change with which to buy alcohol and so on) to buy healthy stuff, foods that I wouldn't want to binge on (even though I frequently have--last night, most oddly enough, was the first time I went to bed without a headful of psychotropics--another tale, another time--and belly full of junk). Cheese, in any form, even the dreaded FAKE cheese that can make ANY artery resemble,say, a landfill--I am weak for cheese. Pasta and cheese. Cheese and pasta. Ice cream, if it has been properly broken in. (But not, please, no, not ice cream made of cheese....)
I won't dare mar the virginal surface of unbroken ice cream. However, if someone has gotten there first to despoil the stuff, watch the fark out: I'll MICROWAVE it so that the damn SPOON won't break in order to fill up a bowl or four. And I have. And neither Vanessa nor her 26-year-old boi toi have seemed to react to what I will stand naked before the court and name hugely aberrant behavior--until today. And it was just Vanessa, because Peter--uh-huh, Peter--was in school.
She had her fifteen year old son over to the apartment this weekend. Just for six hours on a Saturday, and she'd bought for him some cheap ice-cream snacks--all she could afford, I guess, on a crazy check (for which I wait as well). Sweet, perversely naive child, and no, I'd feel pretty shetty about eating his food, except the child is almost NEVER THERE TO EAT IT. So I swiped, as I should not have, two so-called ice cream cones dipped in fake chocolate (this, scholars, partly explains the, um, OBESITY EPEDEMIC, in children and adults alike), and the next day, Vanessa is pissy. "I'd appreciate you not eating Gary's snacks," she snipes. To which I can reply, "Uh, okay."
I stewed. I ran through my repertoire of DBT techniques, none of which included scratching my damn head raw. Finally, I snatched up the food card and a couple of dollars that had seen better years, and marched off to purchase some more fake ice cream and fake ice cream sandwiches, and a pint of TV for my very own. I thought all that'd be proper atonement. I thought I"d do the TV with some of my very own cranberry juice (as opposed to Vanessa's 'Juicu Juice', which comes in SACS...or POUCHES...or some absurd, marginally obscene thing) and knock myself out and not have to worry about fake anythings for the rest of the night.
well.
iIi went under the radar on all that TV and ate the fake ice cream, all six cones of it, that I'd purchased for the invisible child Gary. Which would mean that I'd have to whip out the Food Card for yet another box of the damnable stuff, and that would be so okay with me--except that Vanessa is not speaking to me today. Stomping and sighing and all of that girl shit that an otherwise 45-year-old person is basically entitled to do, even though it has my very own personal stamp of "Childish" at its very center, not to mention "NonCom" and "Invitation to a Slapdown" as well.
I've gotten my ten-minute-warning--no surprise there, as for once I seem to have succeeded in trancing out at this heavy metal lounge sort of place--and will cut to this, before I re-up: I've done it again. The "it" is wired into me, it seems, and to ablate that quantity is years if not lives away. Profound sadness. The. J. Has. F*cked.Up. Once. More.. And all of this will be recorded, discussed, thrown about as a reason to throw me out, no doubt no doubt. I refer to myself in the third person, now, a very dire sign indeed.
DAMN. DAMN SHIT FUCK THIS AWFUL HOLE IN THE SUBWAY--WHICH WOULD BE ME AT THIS POINT--THAT DEMANDS STUFFING WITH OTHER PPLS SHIT OTHER PPLS TIME OTHER PPLS WORDS AND HANDS AND MONEY AND BOOZE AND FOOD.
And dammit, I didn't even puke.
Today, there's something on the lowest shelf of the refrigerator, says, "Vanessa's Food--Do Not Open."
I can't even OPEN it.
Well, okay.
I can't and don't blame her, and may be making more of this than there is although somehow I doubt it and right now I hate myself about as much as I ever have drunk sober or otherwise, so duck and cover. the toxins are running.
Friday, July 09, 2004
Oh yes. The upcoming baptism. It may weld me to the Word, and no doubt make my parents very happy.
I am to wear all white. So my ma bought me size eight GRANNY PANTS! GRANNY PANTS!! Oh, ho ho ho ho ho, the vision, my ma, all 105 pounds of her, at night, readying herself for bed in her sleep shirt and her size 4 granny pants, and peltlets of her own running from the seat of her uterine prolapse to her knees.
Whadda ya wanna say those pants won't fit. My thighs and ass have gotten really big.
That's "chilled-air flourescence". Duh.
In the chilled-air flourescent air of the central library, da Lex, KY. It's later; the drunks have been rousted, placed in plastic handcuffs, and taken away in the wagon. This is done in the mornings, when they've still got a bit of shine on and can blow over 1.0, 2.0, maybe three.They'll be placed in the tank, to lay abou on cold concrete and and drink water until their BACs come down and the breathalysers read 0.5--about what a 150-pound adult with a glass of wine in him would register. Then, usually penniless, they are let loose to hike or thumb back into Lex around four p.m., to let the BAC continue to drop to zero--at which point they will be allowed into the men's shelter to sleep for the night--or to hustle up some change and get stagger-ass drunk again
I guess it's about the math--questionable sleep on pallets arranged head to toe, not much space for a man, the floor hard beneath him. Frank says to go for the spot under an old spinet piano, and to get a sleep mask. The kind movie stars and hard-core insomniacs wear, and earplugs as well. Mine are bright orange--you buy them in eight-packs sometimes offer to give them away. I did that when I stayed at the Salvation Army. Sally's. They wouldn't let me back in after a 300-pound social worker started yelling in a crowded lobby about the PROzac that had been found in my bag during a random search. You yell Prozac, you basically violate confidentiality. And this lard-bag got me banned from the place and not a thing was said about her telling about 20 ppl that I have chronic depression.
There were a few times when I needed Sally's. I didn't need this incompetent social worker, with her eating "issues" rolling large beyond any sort or sense of control. Heh, heh, I got thin there, long and iron-legged, pretty darn close to clean. Maybe that's what Alicia O'Grady-Merriman resented. Ifshe ever feels the need to Google herself, well she's here. The lard-bag, one insult among endless insults I could throw out there.
Now, I've worked up a head of gas. I didn't really mean to; I couldn't get on here yesterday when I came into the place teed-off, brewing up some righteous hate for someone who is basically too trivial to be hated. That person would be my neighbor "Elmo", as in "Trash Can". A psychotropic-eating poster man for assisted living situations. Big ugly rat-bastard back-stabbing tub of excrement. And yes, the other word, the one that is conceived and rises behind to the teeth to be spat out in almost pure derision, that word is in my mind at this moment, and I would love to place it right here.But I will not, although it remains one of my favorites, sharp-edged and versatile, meaning what you want it to mean when you want to mean it.
Elmo is thirty-three, though his habits and genetics make him appear to be in his mid forties.Long Island Italian on a series of bad hops to KY. That would be the one thing that he and I had in common, and hardly enough dirt with which to grow a bond. He is a long-term mental patient, in and out of hospitals, for years consuming the dopamine-depleting drugs that are now shown to engender a ferocious dependence on nicotine. And he smokes deep and dirty, taking that hard, generic stink deep into what is left of his lungs. I have my somatic fascinations, but this guy makes me shudder to think. So I don't. There are other aspects of this wreck that compel at the least the eye.
He is always eating. A self-declared schizophrenic, he kisses up to his almighty doctor by eating the alarming quantities of psychotropics that stimulate the appetite as they dull the grey matter. He doesn't care. He's sobuh, he works his program, calls his sponsuh (who, no doubt, urged him to turn my six-pack carrying self in to our keepers) and does his suhvice wuhk, and now has a job, my roommate tells me. Carrying shit about construction sites for about ten hours a day. Hey, this makes me a little bit jealous--I haven't really tried to find any since this critique/stipend thing is just two weeks down the road--because I need to get tired out so that I don't eat, or want to drink myself silly just to knock myself out and get something like sleep. I don't want to get told "no" the way I was getting that very response last spring. It's a kick in the pants, a slap in the face, a fist to that part of the brain that underlies the ego. Can't risk tht right now.
But Elmo is stupid. Has appalling habits. Stinks, and is covered with an ursine pelt that runs the surface of his chest and back. And he saw fit to rat me out--yeah, so what if I was gonna drink, although I lied about that, I was stressed, and I have no one, no one, no one at all to unravel the knots in my neck and talk with me about their troubles, not mine, to offer me a haircut and a movie and settle up with a kiss on the cheek for now--yeah, buddy, I'm one lonely organism. I felt threatened on that day that I bought and consumed that sorry beer. Threatened by events Elmo wuld set into action--hairy old tubby old Elmo, hiding behind his Venetian blinds, looking out but never into a street scene in our little ghetto that included me marching home with my miserable cat-phiz beer.
God, I wanna GUT the guy with threat and venom. But he'd just take it right back to our handlers, like the rat-snake bastard that he is. So, whadda I do, sit on my hands and not get caught at much of anything, although I did drink a pint of TV, this mixed with Roommate's Capri Sun fruit beverage from her patriotic picnic...no Trazadone in the house, and long too twisted into mats and knots to even think of sleep.
bwa-ha-ha
|
rant of career screw-up, social retardate and bad references walking, all grown old
|
