Saturday, September 25, 2004
to anybody who reads this:
on the advice of our overburdened guru, i am checking over and out with this blog. may revisit it or may not. if this seems the equivalent of taking all my toys and going home, so be it. i will probably be some place where you can't use a computer anyway, soon. (not jail.)
peace, those of you who stuck with this
crazyhorse, stockyard bound
Sunday, September 19, 2004
aw, geez. expletives. though laced with typos and one genuine error--the plural of "arcade" is not "arcadia"--that piece was a simple attempt to distract myself from that thing that is all i can worry today, that thing i can chew on like a dog, which would be the possibility of eviction from my living situation. although i enjoy mucking stalls (in this case, mucking barns), and although i-- jd, or ch--did not throw out my back, or anything else, mucking stalls, i was surprised to find myself in a bemused state of mind, and jumped on that, and discovered that i cannot be funny--in a good way, know what i'm sayin.
just boring, and very very sad. i did some wrong. estimates of how much wrong i actually did cannot be given, for they vary. if that roommate really believes that i was trying to threaten her by utilising a bloody rat trap in a "threatening" way, and if she convinces the social-workin ppl of that, i am evicted. this would hurt the parents more than it would me. i'd find some way to get through it, even if i'd be rendered depleted, dissipate, at the end. cachexia of the emotions. stress hurts the brain if allowed to continue too long. for me, it never lets up. i'm pretty glad that at least i find myself occasionally funny, for if i lacked a sense of humor, i'd be ossified.
my parents are too old to intervene here. if they did, things would be just ugly all the way around. they would ride me like the dog i am. hey, i love dogs, even ones with gingivitis. but i can't and should not have to deal with the kind of blows they are capable of throwing my way. not because i am so bloody special, byt because none of us should have to endure the kind of venom that is so often generated when i mess up in yet another special-as-hell fashion.
i'd like to let this deal go, quietly, or grandly--whatever. just get it out of my head. would like to turn it on over. i have tried to do this. have prayed a lot, have discussed the matter here. i am simply not capable of letting anything "go". don't want to hunt it down and kill it if it gets away, either, but there is something in me that just can't do this. that something is called "norepi", pronounced, "nor-EPPY". it is a hormone. it is a neurotransmitter. i have way too much of it, but won't tell you why, at least not today, because--oh, dung, she is yelling, telling me i'm "done", like a expletive ROAST or something--i don't have the time. someone is always kicking me off things--computers, exercise equipment--and out of things--supportive living situations. my brain has the glue to keep on chewing hell out of bad thoughts, but i don't have the brains, and, i suspect, guts, to stay
wont you be my neighba?
c h
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The season's frost had come early, so the woman found the horseshit hard, cold.
Sure humped a lot of horseshit today, calfshit as well, and that calf, now about eight months old, lays patties that have to weigh at least two pounds.
The job--oh, that fucking job--is such a bad fit. They always are, and that being that, and me having used up more than my allottment of sick days, I have to think fast. I have exhausted my repertoire of diseases and female maladies; I need something crazy good. And I know just what that good thing is (love those flashes of clarity). It is that Sylvia can't come in today because I--she-- threw out her back shoveling horseshit. Just like the time I locked myself in a Job-Johnny to avoid handing a paper I hadn't quite written. Totally insane enough to serve my ends, if I recall right.
Winter is here. You'll not know it by the calendar, nor the red and green arcadia of lights, nor the newscasters' trifling banter. You will not now it by first snowfall, either. Winter is here in November. Last night it was so cold the horseshit froze.
"Horseshit" screamed the fat and florid man.
Time had been long since the barn, grey with age now and imploding upon itself slowly, had been cleaned. Mr. Bush knew about barns; he spent a lot of time in barns as a child, finding comfort in the noises the animals made. Later he would become an alcoholic. He suspected some near-occult linkage between the two conditions, but could prove nothing. All he knew at this hour, this point in time, was that time had been long since the barn had been cleaned. Horseshit, piled upon itself in the corners of several stalls, was layered in the gossamer of spiderholes--webs, he corrected himself--and most certain, mold.
Have to get off now. For no real reason. The mother expects that the adult child is conducting terrible activities on her computer, which the daughter knows to be patent--
aiming a kick at a backside or ninety-nine
c h
How egotistical of me, how narcissistic. At the folks' house now, reviewing the week's 'work', if one will, and I don't yet think it's shite! Angry, illogical, with the taint of that borderline 'projection' stuff that is supposed to be just too much for y'all normals to take, and entirely about myself--which can be a damnably tiresome subject--but I didn't think it was THAT bad. It wouldn't have reached out and punched me had I happened across it at one of those queer times when I was literally beside myself, tensely watching--
That's the norepi for you. 'Nor', then 'eppy'. Norepinephrine, something I seem to produce in excess. Some folks call this substance 'adrenaline', for it is made in both the adrenal glands and the brain. Hormone and neurotransmitter, the stuff behind that fight/flight idea, to which a new option has recently been added: 'freeze'. Too much norepi--sounds like something that resides on the African veldt--and one's executive functions start getting blinky: a person in such a state literally cannot think. So they just stand there and take it, whatever 'it' turns out to be. I've done this all my life. Too late with the snappy comeback, and forget about the fists. If I'd been a cop, say, I would have been shot at least nine times before I'd unholstered my weapon.
--but dead people can't do that, can they, unholster anything? The latest datum on the roommate war seems to be this: the rat trap I placed on the kitchen floor, the intended symbol of someone who betrays confidences to authority figures, or 'rats', was construed to be a little hint of things I might be capable of, such as putting arsenic in someone's venison stew. Now, brutha, please. Even for someone with 'brainlock', that's numb. Unholster some arsenic. Yeah. Sure I will. If I were in the sixth grade, maybe.
On that subject, I have been behaving very childishly. Nothing I have done re: this Vanessa these past couple of weeks has been kind, or even absent malintent. She may have been trying to get me to 'act out', as They say; she may have been trying to get me to leave on my own; she may have this, may have that. Whatever she may have/may have not done, or thought of doing, I was just this big red A Rod. Could it be the norepi, or the absence of prozac, or this guy I saw today, sitting on an astroturf-looking median, native-american style, and bearning a sign reading "Homeless Vet--Need Help"? Could it be the four dogs stinking?
RD, Beulah, Sarah, True/
I love ya but don't want to live with you.
(Actually, I'd love to be around them, stinking ears and leaky glands and all. I just don't want to have to be evicted there. Uncertainty sucks, specially when you're doing the Saveyerass Shuffle)
Your Friend,
Best Friends 4-Ever,
horse
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Okay. Character sketch time. This dumb-ass RE-tard seated to my left, who will not stop talking out loud. I have asked the librarian (who's a bit of a champ in the loudmouth department herself) to keep a lid on him, and she was quite forceful in her librarianesque way, but he is at it again. About nineteen, with a girlfriend dumber than I am about computers--she has to sit there to HIS left and look at HIS email instead of using a machine of her own. She's passable; he's ugly. Wouldn't be so remarkable if his attitude were not what it is: entitled gold-tooth dropout baggy-shorts wearing motherfucking ASSWIPE. Where do these stupes get the bucks to stick fake gold on their teeth? --------druuuuuuuuuuuUUUGGGGGGGggggssss, looks like. Not, hey, Ma, couldja lend me a fifty or, maybe, a hunnert, so that I can get a PIECE OF FAKE GOLD TO STICK ON MY TOOTH?
---and while you're at it, leave the motherfucking gum IN YOUR DAMN MOUTH, not on your TONGUE, where anyone and everyone can see it--
Oh, goody. Now, security is coming, just because this HIGH motherfucker can't shut up. I did ask him nicely, called him 'Sir' in fact, and he has to raise his voice, and be stupid enough to sit here and wait for 'em.
Or not. He seems as though he may be leaving. Maybe he wants to jump my ass. That would be interesting. Perhaps I should take my glasses off before I leave. Wouldn't want a piece of glass in my eye.
So. Perhaps I was a bit of an asshole as well. I'm thinking that the abrupt withdrawal of Prozac, in favor of Wellbutrin, three weeks ago, may have something--a little, or maybe a lot--to do with all of this emotional scattershot. Maybe I should chase the guy down, stage-whispering, "Hey! Hey! You, in the white t-shirt and the pants that are about to fall off your ASS! I'm sorry I asked you to be quiet, even though you were talking instead of whispering in this, a LIBRARY, the sanctum of sinners, saints, sleepers and dreamers sadly awakened! Hey! You little SHIT! Come back here! I want to aPOLo----uh, hey, man, I dint MEAN anything by that, hey like apologise is a GOOD thing, hey now, man, put that away now, naah, brah, you don wanna DO tha-----
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~slug to tha gut and let's think of something less entertaining--to me, that is~~~~~~~~~~~
Character sketch number #2: Tom, one of a number of men named Tom, that I have encountered in AA this past year. You think I'd get this far without mentioning AA? Sorry. Can't do it this session. Must be that powerful-mad dizEEEEZe. Anyhow, this Tom, drunk in the afternoon or still hungover from last night and smelling it, tells me that he is now the Accounting Manager for K-Mart's Electronics Department. Uh-huh. And you'll all see me on the next installment of "The Apprentice" (if you happen to have TVs...). I'll be the one with the Fro-Hawk.
Anyhow, this guy, a native of the Boston area, wound up in the Lex last spring--as mine have, his parents, for some reason, decided to spend their senescence in KY, and so he is here also, on a bad bounce not unlike my own--and I ran into him in the Dungeon. I wanted to pick up on a bodybuilding vibe, so I did. Short guy, big chest, mangy headwrap and leather that's seen better decades. Talking all that Big Book yang, something I did not--and do not--want to hear too much of, but knowledgeable about bodybuilding as well. So we started conersing. (Around here, "talking to" someone seems to mean "softening [that person] up in order to have sex with" him or her.) About bodybuilding. I wanted to get back into lifting, burn off some of that beer fat and pick up those parts of me that age seems hell-bent on dragging down.
We pal around a bit. He wants to buy me coffee, but it hasn't been brought home to him that Starbucks won't accept food stamp cards. He's a seventies metalhead (goes with the roid-eating deal, I guess, but neither metal nor the seventies is a favorite topic of mine), but I choose to overlook the headphones clamped 24/7 to his ears. When he removes them, he's lucid, even entertaining (when not discussing that damnable book), but seems inclined to pick really specious arguments. Too bad I can't recall any--I guess they just didn't last that long.
Well, he gets himself thrown out of the Grope Center in no short order, for fighting, arguing, something along those lines. I offer him a place on my floor (at that time, March of this year, I was in this crackerbox efficiency, crashing on a pallet, negotiating joblessness and 250-pound women who looked like inbred bulldogs wanting to kick my ass....those were some good days, man). I'm still kind of attracted to him, in this cringe-inducing, pathological, old-broad-going-to-seed way, so I'm hoping we can arrange to fall off our wagon. And we do. Spectacularly.
This might well make an entertaining sketch--or cautionary tale--if I had the time and place to do it with planfulness and purpose and the absence of gum-chewing bimbos. But this isn't the time or the place, and there is a bimbo, seated right where Gold Tooth Boy was just one half hour ago. Falling off our wagon, uh, well, okay. He wants to fuck, I do not, and the only solution to that problem is for the both of us to get so damnably drunk that he cant and I won't. That's what happens. Three times in a row. Meanwhile, the alkie neighbors--the ones to the south side of the building--are begging me to get him out of town, for his parents have forsaken him again and he has taken to cadging beer from these ppl, who are, after all, strangers. The crackheads don't know, nor do they care. This Tom, he is talking about finding work and taking care of the two of us, the two of us madppl in that Murphy bed of an apartment, and he lies about drunk, listening to that execerable old metal shit on MY CD player, at a time when I am trying to sleep, and no one is looking for anything except more beer--and that's about when I get the idea to try to sober up and throw him over the second story railing.
At six in the morning, not even dawn, I'm screeching that I can't have THIS kind of drunkenness going on in the APARTMENT I am going to LOSE because his lying ASS didn't go out and look for WORK like he had promised he was GOING TO. AT six in the morning, not even dawn, he has somehow located these two AA dropouts who have, equally improbably, secured a car, and want him, and by default, me, to go riding around DRINKING all day.
This is untenable.
Long story short, he goes off with them, comes back pounding and hollering and the cops are called, by someone else for once, to remove his ass. He goes to jail; I get to look him up on the now-defunct jail Web page. He has several interesting pictures up there to gawk at. DUIs, all, and a few non-payments. And now, stinking of beer at two--or three--in the afternoon, he is managing an electronics department, and by the looks of things, still camping at the Y.
I guess we're co-users, which in this day and age, might make us friends.
I've been warned. Must amuse myself now for four hours.
nay
~~~~~~~~~~~~misery~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Had to be up early today, in order to see Rebeccer, who would then take me to the disability lawyer's office, where I would answer a deaf old man's plethora of questions. Rebeccer, who herself had been up all night at her other job, wanted to know how my visit--and why They always call Them 'Visits' mystifies me at the moment, but not enough so to do more than remark upon it--with the new directorate went. That was yesterday. I guess it went okay. I was acquainted with one of them by virtue of my stint in the Salvation Army--a low-key-seeming (at this point I trust my judgements about as much as I trust most people) young fellow, who took charge of the interview. The new director himself sat at a distance, across the room, in the chair that I hadn't smeared with vaginal fluids. I guess I should explain that. It's sort of like pissing on someone's toothbrush--if you're, say, sixteen and drunk, a source of immense, occult satisfaction. I did this as well--both the furniture and the toothbrush are Vanessa's. But I am not sixteen, nor was I drunk when I did either of those things.
I did something else as well, something that in fact brought the two gents in question to my temporary abode: aware that Vanessa had been in my room, found the veterinary syringes I would give my mother for her birthday (quaint, no?), and told her very own handler, Olga, something that got me drug-tested this past Friday, I was pissed. Really pissed. 'Incensed' is too elegant, and recalls, well, incense. So, let's say 'pissed'. And I was. So I crossed the Big Street to purchase two rat traps, which looked more like plastic pans of goo, and if Vanessa had been thinking, instead of ratting, might well have wound up on my head. But they did not.
I thought about this action. And the note that accompanied it. Nessie had, looked like, been drinking, had left a beer bottle, empty, on the counter. I figured I'd kidnap the bottle, and alert Nessie to the presence of the rat traps at the foot of the counter where the bottle had been. I did this. Took some pacing to work up the courage to pen a masterfully childish note on the subject of pact-breaking, or 'ratting'. Since I'd been thinking about shaving my head, I didn't think I'd be too peeved if Nessie somehow saw to it that the rat traps wound up in my hair. Conflict engenders change.
Uh-hum. It sure does. Yesterday, got a call from Rebeccer indicating that the new directorate would be paying me a visit that afternoon. This conversation spoke to the foresight involved in not having bought a twelve-pack that morning. Nessie, see, was gone, although she had left a freezer laden with what looked like mountains of venison, and a few stir-fry dinners. From this I deduced she wasn't really going anywhere at all. For being "chronically mentally ill", I sure am a smart one.
The rat traps had set Nessie off, albeit temporarily. No clue where she took her ass. Agreed with the uber-handlers that I should lay off the pranking of Nessie, and that yes, a round table, mediated by People Who Can Make the Both of Us Talk (and won't THAT be fun), would be a rollicking good bloody fine get out the RPGs wonderful fucking idea.
~~~~~~~~~~~shame? naah, not yet, anyway~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The attorney I spoke with today seemed to have had a stroke. Elderly gent, perhaps seventy, and the very person to whom I had been referred with regard to winning my disability appeal. He explained that he no longer appeared in court, and that his partner, a very able lawyer, would be handling my case. I signed this, I signed that--I don't have much to sign away now, do I, so I collected my papers and went on. Hot bastid of a day. Clogs with names--'Adrienne', 'Barbara', 'Britney'--rubbing a hole on top of my right bunion (had to be Britney, just had to), so I did what I had agreed not to, and thumbed back into town. Ride of the day? Weird one. A woman, with a kid. The kid had just bought these hot pink pom-pom earrings from a costume jewelry store at one of the malls. I complemented the kid on her taste, but was secretly aggrieved that the driver saw fit to deposit me three or four blocks from my destination, which would be here.
Every damn day this week I have to get up, haul the big cream cheese out of the saggy-ass bed and somehow find the wherewithal to make it out of the house I have come to regard as yet another form of incarceration. It's all done in Nessie. She has decided to merge her Autumn gewgaws with the cold blues and violets of her early Amerikkkan, and the effect is an ankle bracelet from hell. A pumpkin-looking candle that will never see flame, perched on the purple shag covering of the toilet tank! Yes! And more like it, plastic leaves and acorns and shit. Could the New York Penal System have done any better? Put the bracelet on the cat and call me in the morning, because I don't intend to spend any more time there than I have to, other than to hang one of my Sid posters, covered in plastic if I can do it, on my bedroom door.
I hope I can hang with this outfit long enough to get a single. I could have a pet there. All I would need--GUFFAW--is a statement from a therapist that a PET would be theraPEWtic. Indeed it would, dumbasses. (Which brings me to the two or three pounds of cat litter, some foul SHIT-shit (REAL shit) from an unknown source, and possibly one dead and rapidly decomposing grey creature that I found in the trash can yesterday morning when I went out to retrieve it from curbside. The doing of someone who cares not much for one or more of the duplex tenants, but most probably not the doing of Nessie: she is too much the girly-girl, never mind the rapid rate of her decline and fall and decay.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~retching~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Reminded me of going outside on a bad sauna of a stinking summer morning, still drunk and liver screaming dully, thinking I wanted something fatty to eat, purchasing and eating same, and then finding myself beset with not the urge but the NEED, the gut thing fistfucking skyward from my innards, the knowledge that no, I should NOT have tried to eat that, and hurling the whole bilious reeking mess into a trash can outside the very place where I had bought it.
Someone saw this, red face and stagger and retch, clutch the pole--and offered me a napkin. One napkin.Thank you very much. But the stench of the dead thing was deafening. I forgot entirely about the kindness of this one sole stranger, and grew conscious of the bileslick on my chin. Someone had played a very nasty trick on me. And I did the best that I could do deal with it in an adult manner: turned the hulking plastic container upside down, loosed the contents sticking to its bottom, righted it and doused it with Nessie's Lysol, and commenced to spray the whole mess out with the absent neighbor's powerful garden hose. Managed to bag both the cat litter and the grey thing, and doused the plastic with Lysol as well. (I might add here that Nessie needs to buy some more Lysol.) Fuck, I was thinking about setting it on fire, but figured that that action wouldn't go over well with the local law enforcement folks, who, just the other day, had to take Trouble Rat, Nessie's new confrere, away to Eastern State Hospital--again. I had no wish to join him there.
The day being hot and threatening more of the same, I propped the nearly empty trash container against the fence enclosing the duplex yard, and went inside, where I did phone The Agency, and report that something evil had come my way, and would Disinfectant Man please get his ass Out There and dispatch the maggotry that doubtless remained.
I've been given my warning. I am really thirsty. Looking batshit as hell, and so so tired. I think I will further irritate my bunion with the irascible Britney, and go on down and get my trazadone, so that I may sleep, through Nessie, if she comes back, and my dreams, if she does not, to get up tomorrow if there is a tomorrow and deal with more of this
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`neverending CRAP~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
if I were drunk, the wheelie cops would have taken me away
dry
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Okay. I was where--yeah, okay. The men.
I stay out all day because I am not comfortable in the domain of Vanessa, what with her tacky-ass Early Amerikan decor and pictures of her children and nephews and nieces and cousins multiplying like fucking mutant rabbits every time the bitch gets a piece of mail. Her music--if you've ever heard yourself puke, remember what that sounded like now. Too bad I had to sell my CD collection--the stuff I used to own would make HER want to move.
I stay out, and men drive me home. We sit and talk, sometimes, or not. That's where the "men" thing is supposed to end, but in order to make it stick, I yank something out of my goody bag that makes even me blush: I tell Rebeccer that I am gay. That I have had more than my fill of heterosexual relations, that I did my darndest to convince myself that I was straight, which is in part how I ended up the addict that I am, and that I am--justifiably--loathe to tell ppl such as Vanessa, who would doubtlessly freak. And get this--Rebeccer's response to this lie of a revelation suggests to me that she herself is gay (too?). Oh well. This little fillip should shake and bake an already unstable political situation. The higher-ups are grieving and leaving at an interesting, if not alarming, rate. What will become of the poor clients? Who the fuck knows? Right now, with all they've put me through, it's hard to care.
I came as close to demanding, even using the word itself, as I ever have, that Vanessa and Trouble Rat be drug-tested that very day. Said something like, "With the feeble legal resources available to me, I might pursue things if they are not." Rebeccer asked me if I had reason to believe either was using, and I told her that I had no idea, that I wasn't up under them or around them, hadn't spoken to the Rat in months, and hardly had shit to do with Vanessa any longer. Said that maybe they were--or maybe they weren't. That was for the lab to determine. (The lab in Texas, of all freakin places.Texas grows bushes.)
I got rid of any bottles, and bottlecaps, anybody might possibly dig up. Vanessa's pee is probably Lortab-laden, and I'm hoping she was tested, and that the test rang the right note. Yesterday, I kept at Rebeccer about convening a roundtable of my "accusers", a word I worried until it grew tired and silly in my mouth. I don't think any of my great ideas are going so see fruition, though, because of this one little thing: they never HAVE, so why should they start NOW?
I've never gotten much respect, so I conclude that I'm not respectable. I don't command much of anything except maltreatment from those around me. I don't know if I'm exaggerating. People I've met on-line don't count here. They don't have to interact with me on a regular basis. There have been times when I've acted like an abused dog, and that's quite the way I was treated. Acted like a dangerous drunk--much the way I was treated. Acted like a liar and a sneak--I was watched, openly distrusted. But I'm just trying to get by, here, get by and get out, and THAT brings me to the subject of thumbing:
Per Rebeccer, I've been "seen" thumbing by "lots of" her peers--outreach workers--on this Versailles Road, a major artery into the Lex, where I do often do just that. There are three outreach workers and two directors, and somehow this bitch sees fit to multiply that number by about three in order to threaten me off the road. She couches this in terms of "sound decision-making"--if this town had a "sound" transportation system, she might be a little closer to having a valid point. These dumb motherfuckers who drive are in NO position to draw any kind of conclusion whatsofuckingEVER about how "sound" thumbing may, or may not, be, in a town this size. This ain't Miami or LA, places that have not only elaborate networks of highways, but among their respective populations, more persons that might want to do a hitchhiker harm than you'd find in a backwater like this godforsaken armpit of a zipcode. Bottom line is, I'm the one who has to get someplace, I'm of the station where lateness is often penalised with termination of employment (presuming I get any), I'm frequently beset with a bag full of heavy books (today, I looked like I was hauling a wardrobe of stripper's outfits--I've lost some weight, and my hair was up and raggedy and I suppose I appeared to the peeping Vanessa as though I might have been heading out to a daytime gig--HAH! Not in THIS body, although the addictive process might be fun--to narcotics, I mean--this time around), and the weather sucks, and since the fucking bus runs a whole one time a goddamn hour, I am to accept that my time is automatically less valuable than that of those who drive. Some bottom line, huh? I may not have gratifying work, I may be--for now--living off the guvmt or one of its agencies, and I may never be a professional anydamnthing, although, angry as I may be right now, I would like to, within the next two or three years, be educated to a job that would kill neither my ass, nor my brain, nor my time, nor my creativity, nor my ability to do anything with it; but, as I was attempting to say, the value of my time cannot, must not, be gauged by the likes of Rebeccer and her car-driving, cell-phone-chattering ilk. I'm not a transplant surgeon and I don't have access to the Button of Death, and I don't have any bleeding brats to pick up any damn place, nor do I plan to. Have any, that is. But DON'T YOU DARE JUDGE ME BY MAKING ME WAIT FOR THAT FUCKING FRIGGIT--uh-HUH--OF THE DAMNED!
i happen to enjoy hitchhiking, you--you--you...oh fuck it as much as i hate ellipses if you want to admit defeat use an ellipse to do it oh fuck it don't take my final vice away
ride me you beast
Surgery is great fun. I kid you not, although I haven't had any recently. If the makeover show of the month rang me up, AD, I'd be on it in a negative second. The good drugs would be but secondary gain.
Speaking of good drugs, specifically Lortab (which is too weak for my constitution, and with which I have little to no truck unless teeth are involved), the--BLUE LANGUAGE ALERT--bitch cunt hoe bag roommate gets 'em from the ditzy old lady across the street, with whom she is fabulous friends. This has a bit of relevance: bear with me.
Yesterday, the annoying little social worker calls me an hour before she is to pay me a visit. "It's Rebecca. How are YEW?"
--"I answered the phone."
--"Um, well, you're still there?"
--"Yep."
--"I'll...see you in an HOUR, then, okay?"
--"Yeah. Alright."
I had been thinking about escaping before she got there, but since I needed to talk to her about being placed on the list for a one-bedroom, I figured I'd hang around. Hang around outside, that is, for I wished to talk to her in the privacy of her car, or wherever she felt would be an appropriate place for such a conversation.
I'm outside. Reading a cool book by the poet and science writer Diane Ackerman, "The Alchemy of Mind". Read it if you can find it. There are three police cars in the street, just sitting there, and not one of them remotely concerned with me. I figure that Trouble Rat, with whom I share a dividing wall and nothing more, is threatening to kill himself again, so I don't look up until old Rebeccer turns into the drive, wanting to know what's going on. Nothing, I tell her, for that is what I know.
She has this apologetic look on her face. I start to tell her that I wish to speak with her in private, but she cuts me off: it seems that her own handlers (she is mine, unfortunately, although that may well change) have ordered me to pee in a cup, again. And why is this, I want to know, so she tells me.
Her bosses have been receiving much disturbing information. About me. I've been triangulated, by both my roommate Vanessa (V, for brevity's purpose), and Trouble Rat. It would seem that I have been calling TR names. This is rather impossible by my standards, for I never see the guy, save for the occasional AA meet. Besides, calling him names would be not unlike sitting on the sidewalk, magnifying glass in hand, and slowly frying defensive little bugs. It wouldn't be any fun. (Besides, truth be told, the only times I have called ppl names--while sober, that is--is when engaged in a flame war or drafting nasty letters. I haven't done either with Trouble Rat.)
So the poor old bugger is tripping, and as it will emerge, tripping badly enough that an ambo will show up about two seconds after Rebeccer pulls out to take me to drop my trousers yet again. (Trouble Rat, meanwhile, is en route to Eastern State.) She's driving, and telling me that there have been "reports" that I have had both alcohol and syringes in my room. And this is what I tell her:
--"Yes, I have had syringes in my room. Veterinary syringes. They don't have needles. My employer was throwing them away, and let us have some, since he knew we all have animals (or know someone, in this case my mother, who does)."
I had the damn things in a plastic bag, well inside the aperature of my bedroom. Inspection would have revealed the word "veterinary" and the absence of needles to shoot up with. But, I guess one glance at the contents of SOMEONE ELSE'S SHIT, IN SOMEONE ELSE'S ROOM, was enough for old Vanessa to get the fuck on the horn to her very own sucker, oops, handler, and let her know that I was banging, um, lessee, trazadone? Neurontin? Klonopin? Wellbutrin? Folic acid? Green fucking TEA? in the supposed freaking PRIVACY of my room.
Did I use the word "aperature" properly? I'd been wanting to use it for some reason that is not important right now, so if I screwed it up, FUCKALL. I'm pissed. RE-pissed, if you want to get really picky. My ma's birthday was 8/26. I presented her with the "works" the following Saturday, and she was much pleased with the gift. So Nessie had been in there prior to last Saturday. Looking, perhaps, for beer. To drink, I mean, for the bitch is every bit the alkie I am.
She and I had a pact that I have not yet violated. It had/has to do with alcohol and men. The other night, the one when I ran out and purchased a couple of cheap forties, she didn't see me return with SHIT, for she was in her spideyhole, happily watching television (she repo'd the one she lent me on the day that the repairman installed a lock on my door, or did I forget to mention that?). It was late at night, dark late, no security lights dark, and Trouble Rat wasn't out front with his bargain-basement cigarettes to even hazard a guess at what I was bringing inside. So HOW THE MOTHERFUCK DID EITHER OF THESE MENTAL BEHEMOTHS KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING?
--they didn't, says the timorous voice of reason.
Unfortunately I've been given my ten-minute warning, and this whole thing will have to read back-assward, but I'll try to chop-chop: they want me to piss in a cup, and I'm actually pleased to do this, knowing I'll be clean, but I am also highly highly ticked off, for Miss Nessie has been drinking and drugging and plotting and scheming to, it looks like, get my ass out of there because I am not quite what she ordered in terms of a roommate. She's figuring she can enlist Trouble Rat, who can't brush his teeth without directions, in her campaign--Thursday night, the two of them (and she has had said innumerable times how he creeps her out) are huddled in the far corner of our shared back yard in tight discussion. I don't know if the Rat is tripping at this moment, but he's hanging on Nessie's words.
I say nothing, go inside, stew, sleep.
And, then, Friday and everything Rebeccer has disclosed, PLUS THIS: the brothel I have been running. Men, in and out of the house, often past ten o'clock, the curfew of all of the poor motherfucks in the program I am seriously thinking of leaving. Through the front window, I presume: Nessie has been the one with the boy in the house--excuse me, MAN--so I figure this tale is of the Rat's telling. Men, indeed. In the evening, they drive me back from AA. I am not comfortable in that crackerbox, especially w/o the telly and Nessie humming all the time--HUMMING!!!!!--so I stay out. It's a crime, hey?
I've gotten my two-minute, now, and must keep this thought fresh in mind--have also been warned about thumbing. More in this in, I hope, a bit.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Mictlan--I picture a thin, pallid Celtic youth, maybe six-four or five, bones the scaffolding of a massive talent--can write circles around me when he's asleep.
'MarieMarionette' has the stories, lays them out with an elegance that does not betray them.
I don't have either one, but that's not really the problem today. (Also, I owe deep and sincere--as sincere as a diagnosed narcissist/wastebasket/smile here stateside--apology to all of you whose blogs I have not been able to get into. It's a time thing, you see; I've gone on and on about the public computers, and since a stranger's word as is good as anyone's lately, I may be getting one, a local university castoff, minus the technical support. Boo.Hoo. The second I have a decent block of time in which to do so, and a couple of cups of oily Joe at hand, I will go through each and every blog referred me by way of your comments, and print out the good parts, if I may.)
Today's Ride: Not real memorable. A hard-bit Southern man, face baked to leather and hair slicked back, pulled over and volunteered that he was going downtown. To work. At 11:18 a.m..He was wearing one of those nerdy short-sleeved shirts; his car was clean, and had attack seatbelts--the kind that some hitchhikers shrug off in anticipation of a bad situation. I kept mine on; didn't exactly feel one in the air. The man--fifty, sixty, still working--didn't say what he did, didn't know where the library was either. It surprises me, but a lot of ppl who have lived here most of their lives have no idea.
That said, I am that kind of furious, that reddening of the gut and the bones and a bad infection brewing where my amygdala usually sits. Warning: if you shy from colorful--hell, obscene--language, quit reading now. It's about that stinking cunt my roommate, the manipulative ho bag of Fair Oaks Drive--Google THIS, bitch--the lying hoochie old enough to be yo mama who can pick you off from a thousand yards and not bat a fat black eyelash, the kind you have to draw on with a steamroller.
I'm sensitive about my date of birth, okay? That sensitivity may not be a beacon of stellar emotional health, but fuck it, I've had some rough times and skeevy moments, and I have the goddamn right to knock off as many years as I can, if I can get away with it. And it seems that I can. I stick with five years, although the horny little jits from the treatment centers and the court cases mandated to AA will try to flatter me with twenty-nine. (Not in ten years, bubba, but never mind, you're not the one I am so very PISSED at right now.) Told the bitch I was 33. Bitch went through my drawers and found my duplicate driver's licence, which stated otherwise (bet she was looking for Klonopin, but failing to find any, took the ammo just in case). So she goes and leaves this card--an Odilon Redon print, and very strangely, Redon being the artist whose sad little moon-flower-face I want tattooed on my back at some kinder gentler point in time; I just couldn't remember his name--on my door, wishing me a happy XY'd birthday!!!!! Go on and catch me in the one lie I no longer even conjure BITCH HOE. (I just demur, or tell 'em I'll never see 35 again.)
You want salt way up in your pussy? Chlorine bleach all over your herpes blisters? (This is someone whom I initially assumed to be a tetracycline baby, seeing as she has grey teeth, but just last month, she told me that she had once used Clorox on them. That's right up there with the guy I once walked in on removing calluses with his TEETH. Must be teeth in the air today--I'll know that for sure in about an hour or so, because I had a VERY VERY bad day at the little job yesterday, and may well be asked to not return.) I'm thinking of hurts, bad ones, and this just came to me: an anaesthesiologist, addicted to Fentanyl, shared his patient's dose with himself, and the patient, paralysed by the other drug they give, woke up and felt just about everything, but was unable to say anything at all. Damn fuck, that hurt me. Flip it over, and it pissed me the pigfuck off. So...I asked my handler, the anal little social worker, to obtain for me a bedroom key, so the bitch won't be able to come inside and "borrow" my clothes that are TOO FREAKIN SMALL (for once)---
--and she did. I didn't notice it last night, for--for--FOR there was a note on my door: she had decided to repossess the television she had lent me, to give to her kid, who is staying with bitch roommate's brother, brother with the big motherfucking house, who probably has a doggamn TV in every room going 24 hours a day!
so there I am bawling like a baby, unaware of the key, wanting some booze to kick off the klonopin, nose packed full of snot the way they used to pack broken noses full of cocaine in the 70s--never had the pleasure, but heard about it somewhere, just like I seem to hear of everything I think I know--and I call the Lex's AA center and am finally linked up with some broad who keeps calling me honey and I guess she gets tired of me in much the same way most ppl get tired of me (if they don't just hate me coming off the blocks), because she FUCKING HANGS UP. or something.
I go out. The door slams. I march up the road with my last four dollars and, yep, buy a couple of forties, but drink only one. See, I was having a bad day yesterday. This new volunteer keeps showing me up, and is not shy about it. I fucked up, and just kept on keeping on, until the main boss decided to keep me up front and out of the way, where I couldn't do any further damage or piss anyone else off with my incompetence. And, after I was outta there--they were all in the back, cluster-fucking some poor bulldog with abscesses on both of his cheeks--it occurred to me: they have my police report. The vet--no crush any more; practicality has, thank God, intervened--has seen and heard me at AA. They think I am seriously hung over, or on something. So I couldn't drink much last night, and can't tonight--no money. I gotta go catch the bus now, maybe get off a couple stops down the hill and stomp off some of the cortisol and fury, fix my hair and hope my nose doesn't look all THAT red--less booze, more crying--
I seem to have 'kindled' myself all over (psych 101 vets will know what I mean). This ain't good. I let the hormone cream alone today, and will ask for more Prozac tomorrow. I am dreadfully uneven, and contemplating dramatic gestures.
Thank you all so very much. there is no sarcasm here.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Though I am not proficient at math, or arithmetic for that matter, I conclude that I have nine loyal readers. Thank you all. I hope you abide my typos--in the entry below, I was trying to type from a copybook, and when I reread the thing, I saw that I had made a couple of boners: 'cahnce' for 'chance', and some buggery thing for 'someone'.
I used to rant a lot about so-called 'borderline' issues. Today, or at least at the moment, those aren't so troublesome. However, some expert--I usually remember the names of these ppl ut do not right now--recently said that the sheer intensity of the pain that borderlines can emit, even without saying a word, often drives non-borderlines away. I've been watching for that phenomenon in some of the folks I encounter, and I can't help but wonder if that pain, especially when it isn't labeled as such, comes across in my writing, and thereby accounts for the paucity of my 'readership'. That's a funny word for me, or anyone, to apply to the person typing these words right now.
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rant of career screw-up, social retardate and bad references walking, all grown old
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