Haven't made much use of the time I've had to update this blog. I have had an impressive stretch of time, and a heavy load of depression to go with it. Am back at the old Company, albeit in a different--physically less demanding, but far more challenging for a person with ADD--position, and am now going to work a five-night, eleven-hour week. As it will emerge, this should be a very good thing. The writer doesn't have a lot of time in which to do so, but will nonetheless try to tell the reader why.

Yesterday, Sunday, afternoon, the chest-cold-besieged writer got ambushed by the landlord and her beloved other tenant, David. I wasn't exactly expecting this. At about three in the afternoon, they were upstairs banging about with uncommon vigor. I'd worked the night before, was hacking sick, and the noise was unwelcome. So I took a chance to get up and pee, which was when the ambush occurred. I was wearing a thrift-shop muumuu at the time.

There were those dreadful words, "We have to talk." Usually, those may be interpreted to mean, "You have to talk, and I have to sit there and listen at you and feel a creeping horror related to your misinterpretation of some behavioral quirk of mine." In fact, this happened, indirectly. Prissy David accused me of going not only into his room, which I have yet to do, but through one of his drawers, leaving the thing gawping open.

If I had not been taken so aback, I might have stated that I'd been curious about why he'd left his light on and drawer cracked for two days in a row, but then decided that his activities were truly none of my business, especially after he'd taken to writing 'David' on every damn thing in the frigerator. I might have put forth that my snoop drive is as healthy as anybody else's, and if I was indeed snooping, these points: a), why stop at one drawer only, and b), why leave the ucker open? I mean, du-OH-oh! Come ON, you incestuous nits!

I was also accused of something about poopy toilet paper, which, in addition to being other than true, harks back to early childhood, penurious parents, and a dyspeptic septic tank was easily overfed. All of that was foretranslatable into not flushing toilet paper, but rather taking it out in the trash. At present we have a little animal that digs in trash. She took my trash into David's bathroom. David seemed to think I'd not only used his bathroom, but left crappy paper in it, on the floor. That bit of Olympian conclusion-leaping, backed entirely by the landlady, was violentlyinsulting. These last seven, eight years, have been more than hellish; they've been on the cusp of right-F-there. I don't actually need indignities like that one there to further disassemble my spine. I've long doubted the saying about what not killing a body making it stronger; I am more than ever convinced that non-stop beat-downs make one increasingly bitter, more and more willing to get all of this over with, waiting for that one blow to the conscience that says, "God won't care; in fact, it's in His will. You just go on now."

These days I'm a little feral. I admit it. I am probably responsible, in fact, for whatever happened to David's drawer, as in the three weeks in between amazon gigs, I did some day labor and hung out with some homeless guys, both chronic alcoholics in dire need of food (which I had), shelter (cold, wet weather), and a long, hot bath. The one dude was drunk, got lost in the purple labyrynth of hallway, may have wandered into David's room and let his natural inclinations take over for a minute. The other stayed one night sober and was quite reserved, but showed up this Wednesday morning considerably in his cups at 11 a.m., just walked through an open door that I did not leave unlocked. Someone else did that, and David was home by this point, so I doubt that the drunken fellow had anything to do with squat that day, save freaking me out pretty badly. Af the landlord's behest, he left, went staggering down the street in a bad rain. I have yet to see him again. I guess I was using him as my own warped sort of social-sciences diarama, one that moved.

After that, it was back to the'zon. I can prove this with a printout of my time-punches. I was where I said I was, and when I was not, I was sleeping. I have four minutes and a whole 'nother part of this story to tell, the part about food theft and their plan to rehab my food issues by making me cook. I really think not, but as stated earlier, I was not in a position to explain my issues, nor to make a case for why immersion therapy sounded like a really bad idea: I have not binged/purged for over a year. I'm not 12-stepping that, but rather, reacting to the revulsion it inspires in me. Not doing it makes me feel better about what is left of myself. If not that pure, then that simple.

Will explain somemore later.

ch, green