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Thursday, March 31, 2005 Oh yeah: today could be a Pit Puppy night. Neighbor has some young friends, including a six-month-old, a little boy about a year, and a larger older pup that plays rough (Basketball-Haid). I can just hear Nessie now: "Ah really hate to bother you, but thar's PIT BULLS--three of 'em, plus some scary lookin thing like an E-gyption god or something (more correctly, a Shuskie)--in MAH BACK YARD." REply? Smoking kills. Fresh air--no such thing any more. That aside, some air is fresher than others, and a good hearty whiff of horsehair mixed with mud mixed with horseshit, actually smells wonderful. I read an explanation of this once, of why omnivore shit stinks and herbivore doesn't--it's that old fermenting dead meat thing. Although there have been some notable and scary exceptions, horses don't eat meat (although some have willingly tortured and gutted much smaller creatures, such as RABBITS!). The micro this and chemo that are slipping my worried mind. I'd try to feed a heifer fish (baked, of course), if I didn't have one better thing to do: surviving--not getting through, but surviving--this depression. For now, the farts are coming out my ears. If I went over there this weekend, Mr. Should and Shouldn't Man will be there, trundling about with enraged eyebrows and tireless sighs. His counterpart would be looking aggreived, trying to broach at every corner WHAT WENT WRONG with Nessie and me. This is my answer: Nothing went wrong, because nothing ever was exactly right, and if you think, somehow, or don'cha, that one protracted apartment share with an ex-cheerleader of all damn things is gonna slap the morphine where it is most needed, you are actually pretty close to wrong. She--Nessie--has custody of the Shrieking Phone (the one over which I used to place pillows to mute its screech, this dead-on through thin wall, at all hours), and the Shrieking Phone has custody of my messages. I have a plan of frightful simplicity garnished with a whopping dollop of deceit (now that was a treat: using two equally despicable words back-to-back like that). Better put, how am I supposed to scare up some deathsome thing to do until I can finish some useful program of study or other without a phone? 33 dB earplugs and two HomeMedics multi-fQ machines just about cut it, 'SPECIALLY SINCE I DON'T HAVE TO TRY TO DAY-SLEEP ANY MORE. So it's one house of horrors--or another. Wish my uncle would drop upon me the monies to start again and go straight through three years of veterinary school. Chemistry, physics--didn't say I couldn't do those, just implied that they are to me as tiresome as they are potentially interesting, because they involve work, and though it might sound a bit off to say to someone you don't much like, "WORK YOU!", I don't like hard work too much. I've been trained not to: no easy 'B', not meant to be. No easy 'A', away I'll stay. Or I'd hire someone else to do it for me. Yeah, I think that would fuck. Maybe I shouldn't doctor horses, but rescue them instead. This area is ripe for near-dead horses. And I'd like a dime for every soul who really believed that hard work and a positive outlook could and would sign off on worldly success? Change the lens? Hah. My camera isn't even working, and when it was, I couldn't aim straight. I feel some better after going to Ancestry.com today and finding that someone I all too readily believed to be dead--health professional, miserable health, once mentioned here as 'Michael'--is not dead. He has just taken his flabby old ass off the local Yahoo. So I guess he's tied to the hitching post instead. horse, with a feeding tube come on to to what, to where? i've been feeling it in a way that is more real to me than those serial funks that have plagued me to date. is it axEPtible to not want to be alive, when a planfully defective lens and heart on this world can, and will, act up with the ferocity of carrion dogs? I don wanna know more about killing and death (most of which comes from books) than I already do. It's not about dying, though some paths might be more interesting than others...I JUST DON'T THINK IT'S FUCKING FAIR TO HAVE GONE ON IN THIS FASHION FOR AS LONG AS I HAVE, now. My father says that there are "shoulds" and "should nots" where emotions are concerned; my mother, who was a coont last night when it was imperative that she not be, has this tendency to add "don't you think" to statements about reason and the like. dont you think she should be glad i found god, dammit?!? One more fun thing to be raised with. Today's dreams were interesting to a fault. Vanesser was preparing to have a party. Unable to breathe, I went outside my spiderhole to find not more spiders, or even Saddam Cocaine, but Vanesser, down on the floor like a frog, with her back to me and her removing paint from some objects, replacing it on others, the whole little apartment reeking of turpentine and about to rise in flame. I dreamed that I tried to call the police, to explain that Vanesser was attemtping to kill me, but in a highly unusual way. I fell back asleep, that oceanic sleep of fear, and when I dreamed that I woke again, Vanesser's party was alive. She'd painted the place in molten indigo, gem and glass tones, stars tossed on the ceiling, and a number of faceless children had appeared, their handlers elsewhere. the children were of varying ages. Most of them, strangely friendly. There was this flubbery little creature, looked like a beagle puppy, except that it had no hair. I was kind of concerned about the kids and their jutting costal bones, but moreso about the flubber thing. It kept going places where it was going to get smushed, no doubt. Then it would emerge from a pile of precisely--an odd word to apply to the study of someone else's garbage, doncha fockin cogitate upon--the sort of trash Vanesser leaves in her wake: unstomped-upon boxes, uncrunched liter bottles. And the flubby, its translucent head popping up to nod that yes, it was okay, but no, it was not going to let you catch it. Again, again, I'd awaken, progressively more drugged by fumes, and progressively less able to do anything about it. The mother finally appeared, her presence unrequested. There was a lot of new shit lying around--housewarming ballet-wear, scuba gear, things I would usually have no use for, but bore stealing for its own sake. There were wet cigarette butts all over everything except the puppy. The mother kept telling me to put it back, to leave it where I'd found it. When I finally did come to, the sun had started on its nightly path out of sight, and her side of the place was cooling. I haven't bathed for two days, might try to stretch it out to three. No drinking last night, tonight, or todamn-morrow morning. There is an eight 0 a.m. apt. to be kept: I suppose that when I made it, I was thinking I'd still have a job. Have recently been thinking that it's time to go. In one way or another, it is time to leave this town, give myself a fresh start for another half a year. But, oh yeah--for this, something that would have appealed greatly to me when I was a couple of years younger than this one: This kid in Winchester, Kentucky. He my he-ro. Now I may have been a little smarter, and less, um, disturbed at the time (he's got three entries to the one that would have figured prominently then, that being clinical depression), but he goes and posts his fiction about taking over--read: murderizing--George Rogers High School. Then he claims the stories were about zombies, then he is identified as visiting hate-group websites. I do not know how they do that, although mean dad does--he was a computer scientist. I would have vistited some anarchy sites myself, absolutely no doubt there, and learned how to blow shit up, even though I was not great at chemistry and even less so at physics? Anyway, they have this chump in jail again, among much harder criminal types, like meth artists and personal terrorists and the occasional crack 'ho who got caught. Sometimes interesting shit happens over there. There is no need for this. Kids like this tend to be so without power that actually laying hand to some of the things they willingly bullshit about to their kindred or two--I'm not going on Montel to say, you made fun of me, so look how hot I am, but I would encourage the parents of todays haters and those who aspire to be like them to tie their mothers down--or something. The dialogue of man and its machines threatens to mutate around the limits of psychology as we know it. I just don't know how normal and average society and its well-paid scary minions justifies itself et al sometimes. Wednesday, March 30, 2005 This day recalls an old Indigo Girls song--my friends all do the laundry, or something like that. And there is this utter arse-whole in here, tapping feet and snorting snot and trying to sing. Vanesser had her meet with the 50-year-old would-be social worker; I called, canceled, today. Will do it Thursday, and in the meantime, perhaps, drink myself to brain death. My body needs antabuse right now. My mind needs something of a softer, gentler nature. Can't take this shite much longer. I am shitting blood, the ppl in here are driving me crazy, tell me I "need" a colostomy, and I will do myself in the garbage trees that line this little creek up Vur-Sales Road. Just as always, always focusing on the worst. Friday, March 25, 2005 In the church's computer outreach thingy, every bit as loud as any other lab I've been in, even with my rock-star earplugs firmly screwed in place. Outreach Lady says I'm not going to get thrown out of my living arrangement. 'Says' is the operative word here: trust no one. V-Coont is back in the house, so the warmpuppy/drinking party that I'd hoped to be a part of this evening probably won't go down. (The neighbor has a few younger friends, the friends have a Pit pup, almost full-grown and quite loving, as well as a Shepherd/Huskie named Philly, and the friends like to hit the whiskey about as much as I like to drink beer. And today's one of those generic 'nice days'--could be any season, really, but the sun is out, you don't need a jacket, and it is not raining. So, bring on the classic rot and roll, as much as I hate the stuff, the way it smacks me back into Bad Head and holds me in that space for as long as I am forced to hear it. I could do with a few ppl who are, for whatever reason, nice to me, and I could do better with those pups to love on. Whiskey--tastes terrible, carries a vicious backfire the next day, and always needs a mixer (unless you can hold your liquor yo). Anybody dig on that one? A couple of days ago, I dreamed of Number One Crush (there's a story here, but no time to tell it). We were at a suburban swimming pool, saw each other, and this is what he said to me: --I always knew that you were the one. And I said: --I know. I feel the same way. As he moved in to kiss me, I woke up. (This is what usually happens.) So, here at church, I Googled him. Now he never was a druggie, not much of a drinker either, but I found out that this guy is most likely a Fibbie! A Special Agent Fibbie (sort of like '...Barbie', ya know?). Lives where I thought he would, is the same age I thought he'd be, and has a Virginia--VirGINia!!!--address, as well as the PA ones. Works in Harshburg. Harrisburg, I mean, this mean little state capitol that lies along this wide and shallow river. Dawg, if I could drop twenty-five pounds, get a decent-paying job, and a credit card that would let me rent a car upon arrival in Philadelphia...noIamNOTgoingtostalkafed. I just have a mad desire to see this guy. He likes Bush! Can you imagine such a thing (yeah, I voted for dude scared of horses but i was under the sway of a megareligious friend at the time)? And I Googled myself, too, and found at least one self who lives in Condom County, Somewhere, Australia. The minute I saw the prophylactic in the hit, I had to crack up. I didn't inquire any further. I might later, I dunno. I'm just savoring the word 'Fibbie', stuck behind my sutured smile much like a tongue... Somebody stop me. Extreme anxiety does this. high hoss Thursday, March 24, 2005 Hey un: I've been in hide mode the last couple of days. Got fired from the job with the nasty coworkers (I'm starting to accept that coworkers will always seem nasty to me; accept as well that my lens is warped, pretty much for good). Odd little trip--I was informed by the trollop of a DON that I had consumed half of an alert patient's Seven-Up in front of her, and that I was to sign a letter of termination that basically stated that I agreed with the patient's assertions. Since I did not drink the patient's soda--I do not even like Seven-Up--I was not able to sign the document. (In other words, fuck no--can't sign off on something I did not do.) This patient is a conniving little malingerer: just previous to me taking that job, she accused a female nurse and a female aide of molesting her as they changed her diaper. Both women got the slip. She didn't like them. That's about end of story. My first day of orientation, my preceptor and I were taking care of her group. Patient said to orientator if Melinda, a weekend aide, would be working the next day. O said no, Melinda was off, and patient stated, Good. I don't like her. In a way, there was relief, and a real sense of termination; I'd felt the tides mounting to crash, or turn--red sea rising. I don't know what I mean by that (hint: it "just sounded good"), but I sorta knew the slip was coming. I hated that freaking job. I needed to prove that I could sustain one, to demonstrate that I was a competent, reliable worker, something that would aid me when I got around to applying to area nursing programs. I didn't get it, and that sucks. Throughout this, I was oddly calm. I asked the biker mama DON, a fifty-something nurse with flat-black permed curls and a big red rose inked on one big, saggy teat (I noticed this as she was giving me a flu vaccine). I asked that if the "investigation" did not turn out in my favor, would I be allowed to resign, and she said yes. That was an error--it saved the facility of having to go through the unemployment decision-making process. I've done it before. And before that. Not a good thing on anybody's resume'. So: ah hell, oh well. I'm unemployed. When I got back to the house, I searched for my keys in an old satchel I almost never use, and found those to be missing. Had to call the outreach worker. She was pissed (and that's okay). In turn, she contacted the maintenence dood, who showed up in a timely enough manner to get me a house key. The room key would be coming, and old Vanesser would be gone for a couple of days because as I would discover: I bought a pint of vodka--the reliable, if lethal, TV 80, and drank it all, mixed with overstock Arizona ice tea. I wrote her a scathing and vulgar letter and taped it to her door. Found out about that today, when Outreach Lady came around. I took a look at the rough drafts, was immediately appalled, and saw that I had given Vanessa my blog address (!) Whoa, Nelly. This shit needs to stop. (Outreach had seen the letter, and she may have poked around here as well.) It's a free country. I am ashamed. I've rid myself, it seems, of one hostile-seeming environment, only to make the other that much worse. Maybe God has been bashing me about the head with signs, signs that although I might be a competent nurse-researcher, I'm better prepared to write. unlogged, if you are with me, I need to know a little more about you. To answer your question, I am presently located in Lexington, Kentucky. I'm origanally from Philadelphia, haved lived in NYC and Atlantic City, and since I took a bad bounce over a breakup in '96, I wound up here, where my parents had relocated to take care of my mother's ailing folks and their farm. Having done the pre-reqs in Philadelphia, I was prepared to sail through nursing school, do a year of med-surg here and return home, or go to New Orleans, or sign on with a travel service, which, in essence, is a series of cruise ship tours. That plan crashed my final semester. My performance anxiety was at peak levels, and I couldn't satisfy a harsh instructor, so I was failed out. A few weeks later, I ran into a clinical group member at a convenience store. I was drunk. I had a DIY buzz cut in black. She asked what happened, and I told her, and I made numerous and hostile comments about the instructor. Then, my addled brain bastardised an old Cracker song and made a threatening-seeming joke about graduation. Joke involved guns. Former groupmate ran with this, the year being 1999/everything is Columbine, and the next night, campus police were at my door. I'll have to talk some about that living space sometime. It was really bizarre. Anyway, I wound up at the station house, wrote out a statement, and talked a bit with the grizzled, good-old-boy chief. He had an unexpected kindnes to him. He indicated that he found me credible, a young lady in no small distress, and spoke of me setting in motion the process of reentering and finishing school. Hard-core alcoholism set in, and with it, a resurgence of stimulant and benzo abuse. Good god. You think I'm out of control now. Shite happened, I wound up at Sally's (the Salivation Army--yes, that typo is not as it would appear). More shite happened, and I landed where I am now, with Vanesser. Or without her: she seems to have bounced, probably to some coke dealer's crib, and because she is ostensibly afraid of me. Lemme ask you this: if you think someone you are proxemically close to is becoming crazier than you, and you find yourself anxious about this, why the HELL would you continue to do things to provoke the person? I used to believe she was trying to gaslight me into leaving, but now I'm not at all sure that this is the case. If she's afraid of me, why would she so things to incite the sort of rage that I apparently expressed in the letter I wrote while sleeping? bbbbbBBBBBBWWWWWWAAAAAAAHAHAHAhaha. I'm not crazy, you're fucking crazy IIIIIIIIII HAAAAAAAATE MYSELLLLLLLLLFFFFFF! (from two of my favorite songs) Now what the fock am I going to tell my folks? Ah hell. I've got my own stuff to deal with and I need to get my head cleared. Just got my ten-minute warning, so I cannot exposit on the theory that a messy living space has a parallel in a messy mental place. Un, I have old poems to put up here (I failed miserably as a slam poet, would get drunk and want to mix it up with ppl who could perform without having to resort to that old crutch booze. I'd really like to get involved in a critical group. With serious people over the age of maybe 25. Though I can't completely trust you, as you will not give out specifics, I remain interested in what you seem to be trying to do for me. Sorry, Leigh, about the catty remark. I appreciate your criticisms, and was just in a horrid sort of shock the day I sniped back at you. Plus, the local mentally-disabled were getting loud, and I got into it with them, and wound up leaving. Bad day, bad life, bad little me --I have another email addy and I'm gonna post it here trixii916x@hotmail.com. If anyone feels comfortable trying to correspond through that venue, proceed without caution-- c h, not collecting a check Friday, March 18, 2005 All right, unlogged: ya got me. Do it. I need to hook up with some on-line critical groups--I don't shrink from harsh critique. I've always known that my biggest gift, and most potent undoing, is my talent for imitation. I can do anybody (except, say John Hawkes) for about a page, and then I fade. And lately, I've been having dreams about this writing professor with whom I studied at Temple University aeons ago--the relationship, if one wants to call it that, went south after this, um, mistake I made after the semester ended, but he was impressed with what I was doing at age twenty. As anyone familiar with my rants and weepfests knows, I'm almost twice that. I haven't practised much, and so have not actually improved, not that I can see anyway. But I write in my dreams; trouble is, I can't keep track of what I've written. Perhaps science will solve that in the near future. {cringe}. Or not. One sixty seven pounds in the sunshine. Something warm and damp blew in overnight, and the sun was out for a bit today. Since I worked last night, I took to bed thinking I'd get up at eleven thirty in time to go to my DBT group downtown. I thunk wrong, though, and stayed in bed until two thirty. Turned on the TV to see the great University of KY playing some of the most anemic basketball I've seen in a while. Their rival was a B-level school. Eastern Kentucky University, but they came within six points of the so-called Wildcats on two, maybe three, occasions. I think they was whupped, mentally. I think they were demoralised by the LSU debacle last Sunday. Nevertheless, I weigh 167. Elbows tucked at my sides, I can feel the fat there, gathering like some unescapable force of nature. Once again, I'm force-feeding myself mainstream feminist rhetoric on how it's OKAY to eat with gusto (whoever mothered that idea has apparently never seem the likes of me binge and vomit), how it's OKAY to have curves. Well, they're NOT curves, ya old coont; they're SLABS. Slabs of glabrous yellow tissue mounding up on one another. I have FOLDS now: my drooping bosoms curl up against my first tyre, and one can insert a fingertip between that tyre and my abdomen, which is now reaching around my obliques. Mitts of fat. I try to catch a solid rear view despite the gripping tension in my neck and back, and although I haven't yet descended into the kind of folds there that make for brilliant cosmetic surgery adverts, I see this silo, this brick, of nastiness. It sort of droops into a pocked white ass. Though I had promised not to, vowing to stick to the thrift stores until I was back into a comfortable size nine, I bought a pair of size nine jeans, new, at thirteen dollars. Not Paris Hilton material, but they looked as though they would look good if I could eventually squeeze my size fourteen self into these size twelve pants. Small twelve? Large twelve? I don't know, but when I tried them on, they barely closed at the waist. My parents on my shoulders, I nonetheless marched them to the counter and forked it over, thirteen dollars that I could doubtless have put to better use. Speed, Jesus. Gimme speed. That's all that worked before, and although I have also purchased an anti-cortisol supplement AND this Hoodia stuff (very expensive). I'm not drinking alcohol, just coffee. To make me piss. To make the scales smile like the sunshine, baby. This lesbian just tried to hit on me. She asked me if I was, or had been, a model Wednesday, March 16, 2005 Weather is simply weather, fluctuations in the field, the hand of God as has been prophesied, no malintent intended: but it can incite one to rage if it stays cold and grey too long. It is March, St. Paddy's tomorrow, and way too long--wet, sleet, snow with that grand old chemical afterburn. Pity it's not safe to eat the stuff anymore. When the weather is like this, this big wet banket, you want to stay inside, never mind what might be inside with you. Nine a.m. is not the hour to be doing anything but drinking beer and watching television, or simply sleeping hard in a dark, cool, quiet place. Today I need sunshine. If there is sunshine to be had when I leave here, I will ignore the power walkers and the incipient cases of cell phone elbow. So what if the things have given all kinds of folks permission to carry on with themselves. Which is what it sounds like, until you notice the cocked elbow, the head tilt, the pauses as if hearing voices singing inward from the bone of the skull. I must make a list for the annoying outreach worker (who is being 'split' to death by two cohabiting borderlines--might explain this later, if I have the time). This list is intended for submission to the director of the housing program, and contains suggested resolutions to issues that have been giving me brain wedgies for a long time. ('Splitting', a primitive defense mechanism, is one of the reasons too many medical professionals hate borderlines: in an inpatient setting, they will target a worker, usually a nurse or a tech, to be 'won' to their side as a pawn in some conflict that cannot be resolved in more usual ways. Splitting also includes the use of all or nothing thinking with regard to others close to them. One day--or one hour--the significant other is idolised, perfect; once the split occurs within the borderline's mind, the same person is demonised and worthless. The other person is usually baffled by these ultra-rapid changes in the way they are perceived--until they walk, that is, or decide to stick around and figure the splitter out.) The list will include filling the apartment with bunnies. Crucifixion statuary would rub me in another, better direction. And the family placemat, along with half of the bunnies, will have to go. If I leave a book in the living area--reading is part of living, as I understand it--it stays there until *I* choose to remove it. Because the city of Lexington has switched over to a one-day trash/recyclables pickup, V-cunt will have to start making an effort. Two women can fill up one trash recepticle pretty darn quick. Plus, not recycling is poor environmental stewardship. (Ain't it?) Man, I am not doing so well in this hate soup. When there is conflict, there are at least two inputting sides. At the least. My session with Lisa (shrink) today focused on dealing with a hateful co-worker, Saddam Cocaine. Lisa's suggestions, all backed up by DBT theory, verged on killing Saddam with kindness. Okay, perhaps--but the smiling shit just isn't doable right now. (She wanted me to practise smiling, something I haven't done since I was about 12, which would involve a mirror, and right now, I cant stand mirrors. MIrrors suck; more correctly, my reflection sucks long and hard, and swallows. At the job, I got on the platform scale, and found out that I have been guestimating my weight pretty accurately: I weigh 167.4 pounds at five-foot nine. I haven't been that big since I was about 15. One pair of jeans out of thirteen presently fits me. Its crotch is calcified with yeast. I cannot stand this. Have been on Antabuse for a week and have lost about nothing. Cannot even sleep on my tummy any longer--there used to be hipbones there. Tonight, the creepy little diet doc/pill pusher is in town. Eighty bucks buys a month's worth of something good. Do I want to go psychotic? Might be a good idea. Do I want to snap out and start fistfights (aka "assaulting") in public places? Do I want my white noise machine to start talking to me at night? Today I am a draft horse with a nasty disposition. I could make something out of that, but will not.
great unpublishable quicksand creature Tuesday, March 15, 2005 Oh yeah. Something. And the other thing, me referring to the coworker who's been given me shite as 'Saddam Cocaine' within earshot of a lucid patient. No doubt that THIS will get out. When I've been having little dashes of empathy come over me, as she was a CMT (something I am as well) at one time, until the drugs and drinking got her, and now she's coming in to work possibly cracked up and maybe that that is the reason she is so mean to me.
V-c is overdoing it with the bunnies. They are in every room of the apartment except mine. There has been this glass pitcher sitting out by the stove for ages, and today, I get up after my day of rest and notice that a football-size tin, covered with pictures of bunnies, has been stuffed in its mouth. Does it matter that I just now got a laugh out of this? There is an utterly grisly statuette of a child in a bunny costume, removed from its former resting place in the kitchen and placed on the toilet tank amid that fluffy plastic easter grass, that stuff which begs to be set afire. The thing reminds me of those Furries, or Fuzzies, whatever they call themselves: they enjoy dressing up in animal costumes, the furzier, the better, and having sex with one another. I'll bet old, cold V-cunt doesn't even find this thing appealing. Or maybe she masturbates with it. I just might dunk its head in pepper cream and find out. (pale hee hee) Go to work and get hated on, by staff and one particularly vicious old thing with a history of Munchhausen's syndrome. That's something I never studied as an entity to be therapized, but read a layman's text on pretty recently. If she weren't calling the State on people with such a predictable basis, she, too, might be funny: picture this. Old white woman in a single institutional bed. Crew cut, no teeth, Pinocchioing nose. Gut gone to soft seed of the senile; head and torso one way, legs the other, and myself, her caregiver, with no idea how she got that way. At four a in the morning, she demands with no lack of hostility to get up. (After this, she will nod off in piss for about five hours, until she wakes up and starts making demands again, this one, that someone change her, never mind that the same person she wants to change her NOW is the one who TRIED two hours ago.) It's, I wanna get up. It's time. I always get up at 3:30 (which is actually illegal; 4's the absolute limit unless the person can walk, dress themselves, whatever). It's, no you don't, we both know this, you so familiar with the state, we know you know. There must be a witness with this one. She's a liar, compulsive if unoriginal. She will accuse young women of rape, will not tolerate a man at all unless he is a nurse. And if he is a nurse with psychotropics on his cart, she will lie about him too, for {she's} NOT CRAZY YOU'RE FUCKIN CRAZY there's these old songs coming to your brain now to give you solace in trying times. (Myself, I will not laugh at her, for I know how that feels and it's really hard to miss, even if you are FUCKIN CRAZY.) It's four a.m., now, showtime. And there is trouble. My bulb just fizzled out. I have limited time here, and will write more about her later. Maybe someday she will become famous, maybe someday I will become jobless at her lying hand. I was going to read up on therapeutic techniques for ppl w/ Munchhausen's syndrome. Being bad to get attention, that's something I know something about, and the narcissism too. It's just that. It's just that. It's just that. That, I can't really think too good doday. And I had gotten my request for back-to-back sevens, starting at seven p.m., approved, plus a staight eight on Friday night, only to find out that this arrangement renders me part-time, which meant (at the moment this staffing woman told me about it) that I had to pick up an extra eight, and that eight was available only on Wednesdays. (There are all these thugbwais in here, identical Caesar haircuts waxed down and wide pants strung up on teenage hipbones, to sag just past the knees. And I want to kill 'em, or at the least, knock their jugheads together. i shoulda shoulda shoulda come the fuck here earlier, MAAAAAAAAAAN, when the ad-ults were in the house and the thuglets still on school property. Even my inner child is pissed off. I wanna get drunk, now, and start wailing, which is a realible sign, to the V-cunt, that I am as I intended: ammunition. But I cannot do this: I see the shrink tomorrow, at the unthinkable hour of nine in the morning. That's late, if you're a certain Munchie living in the Lex, but too early to be effective if you are me.) Be very very glad that you're not. (Those borderlines, BTW, are ppl w/ extremely sensitive emotional systems which become easily inflamed, leading to sometimes incorrect perceptions and frequently maladaptive behavior. They don't, in general, do well in society, but can often skewer it with uncommon vigor. Because it has been very very cruel TO MI!) Goodday now. I wish I had a computer, although there would be no doubt that the Cunt would have to spill something on the hard drive--she would bypass the keys, go straight for the nutmeat of the thing----- crazier than ever hoss
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rant of career screw-up, social retardate and bad references walking, all grown old counter
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