Dear Xanga,
Ever feel like you just want to break down and cry? You want to cry for days, months and years, just because you are at wits end with all the bad luck and random tortures that hap upon you...!? I do. I feel very similar to that stuff right now.
So, the mold issue is still going strong - I'm super upset about it, mainly because construction is going about as fast and painful as shitting rusted nails from the Titanic into an overflowing port-a-poty. I'm also incredibly upset that we've become cash cows, hoarding money like it's going out of style and trying to find more money so we can pass it off to everybody we owe. They estimated that we'd be back into the house by Monday or Tuesday...lemme clarify when I say this Monday or Tuesday, meaning TODAY or tomorrow. Wrong, wrong, wrong... Everybody is wrong. No flooring is in, no painting has been done... Pretty sure they shouldn't be estimating anything if it's not anywhere close. :'(
Additional to all this other shit, I left my purse in my car on Friday night... I wake up on Saturday morning, pad out to my car and find the passenger glass is smashed in, a knife is laying on the floor mat and NO PURSE! Sheet panic ensued, and I could feel blood coursing to my face... It was hot and sticky all of a sudden and as I dialed 9-1-1, for probably the tenth time in my life, I felt that awkward, yet familiar sense... Talking to the dispatch operator is something that nobody has done as frequently as me, I assume. I have called 9-1-1 a lot...not really sure why I have, but I have. I don't know the first time I had to, but the earliest time I can remember dialing was with my mother when I was in the 6th grade. Some drunk guy came over to our house and kept knocking on the door. I have called it when I was in a car accident two years ago in November, I called it when I witnessed a car accident last fall, I called it on Saturday when my purse was stolen, I called it when somebody tried breaking into my house several years ago, I called it with my Dad when my brother was having seizures and turning blue... You get the idea... Kind of weird, actually. Then there's my step mother who has never called 9-1-1 in her life... Some people go years...lifetimes...without those three numbers, but they have a weird significance in my life.
I have to say, as well, that I'm so fed up with the answer, "Lemme think about it," or "I just need a day to relax." First of all, even if I say, "Lemme think about it," I don't actually mean that. I know what my answer is right away and I usually don't have to mull it over much more than a five minute span. Also, all the days to "relax" that I take end up with me in bed about 5 hours longer than I ever should be. A day to relax!? Does anybody ever truly have that? It's like, in my mind, just a day to keep the red veins at bay with your eyes and swig some rum.
I probably don't make much sense tonight. It feels good to blog, but I don't have much time, and when I do I just don't wanna. It's getting the energy to do that. I've got so much to say, so many predictions, it's unreal. There are a few things that I've decided I won't be surprised with if it should ever happen to me in my adult life... Thing one? I wouldn't be surprised if I commit suicide. I'm not saying that I'm going to, but I just wouldn't be surprised if I ever did. ...sometimes it would just make sense for me to go that way. In an incredibly awkward, yet satisfying way, I would be glad to know that if I offed myself, more people than two would care in the world... I def. don't feel the love now and it hurts more than taking a couple pills ever would. Thing two that I wouldn't be surprised is that I end up divorced. I just feel like it's going to happen to me... I don't know why, maybe a precursor to my life or maybe just a nonsense notion that my parent's decision would be mine too, as a natural way. Going along with that, I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up fat, ugly and alone... I really do think I'll end up being the crazy cat lady because in the end, Roy and Beebs are the only ones that can deal with me...if we ever make it to the natural end.
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"Fuck!" She cut herself with her razor. Her pale legs were draped elegantly over the bathtub in her dingy apartment. Shaving lotion was smeared everywhere, making a foamy, playful mess. She faltered with the cigarette package and lighter atop the old, pedestal sink. The yellowed wallpaper in the bathroom was evidence that she, like many before her, enjoyed a puff or two in the small space. "Bitch!" she screamed... A cigarette dropped into the bathwater, drenched instantly in foam and epsom salts. It floated, tantalizing her. She pulled another out and quickly lit it. "Some life," she said, gruffly to herself and the shampoo bottles, just after she exhaled in smoke rings. Yes, Rhonda McClellan had a rough life. Her blonde dye job was coming out while her course, black natural hair was coming in full force. A bad tan, some heavy eyeliner and a body that hadn't seen real food in years didn't exactly scream "class" to the upper class mansion she stood to inherit...before she was taken off her father's will. Being a hooker and a crack addict never really made the former County Board chairman a proud dad.
As she jumped from the bathtub, disturbing the water and spattering drops all over the mirror, she examined her face. Her black eye went from the color of an angry thundercloud to a pussy, golden yellow and pale green...at least she could open it. Sometimes the ways of the street were harsher than the 34 year old would like to admit. Food cards, homeless shelters, energy assistance and free health insurance... She was a very involved citizen, familiar with all the government handouts...and how to play them like a card game. Her gambling addiction, speaking of card games, had been in control as of late. Her battle with the bottle, however, was simply compensating for her casino ways.
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