Month: May 2024

Still preparing to go. I have always hated moving, and I hate it even more when I’m the one who has to get everything ready, even though I am excellent at packing, especially when I have funds for all the proper materials. Hating getting ready to move is entirely my fault. I have a very bad habit of acquiring things I don’t need (entertaining myself is also sort of a need, but how much am I entertaining myself when I never use the entertaining item? Get your mind out of the gutter) and then not getting rid of them for years. The not-getting-rid part might not be so bad if I did not have the awful habit of once in a while running across said unused objects and thinking, “I had better keep that because I’ll use it eventually.” Reader, I do not use it eventually. I should be ashamed of myself but this is lazy materialism, not serial rape.

Long story short, I should already be able to pack three bags and go, with no more than one to three cartons of things to go to Goodwill because I needed them here but won’t need them without a car. Instead, I find myself triaging my belongings into Keep, Ship, or Goodwill, which makes everything take ten times longer than it ought to take. I don’t mean the selection process; that has mostly not been difficult. I mean containerizing the objects so that I can transport them.

I would still be faster at this effort than I currently am, but I’m terrified of selling the car. First there is the obvious reason: once I have sold the car, it will be literal years before I can acquire another one unless something really unexpected happens. Secondly, it would be just like Dad to tell me he changed his mind about the ultimatum the very fucking minute I get back to Carrie’s from Lake Charles. Not that I’ll give him many openings to discuss anything with me once I am out the door, but it is not outside the realm of possibility even so. Thirdly, and maybe my biggest problem, I am terrified they won’t pay me enough for the car. This factor more than any of the others has slowed me down considerably because I am afraid it will stop me in my tracks.

See, I need starting-out money. I figure that if I can possibly still have five hundred left over after I get where I’m going, I’ll be okay for several months. If the specific one I have in mind is available where I’m going, I’ll be switching to a cheaper phone service when I get there. Failing that, I’ll look for something similar. I will want a local number anyway — high time I ditched the Ohio one. I may even do research into changing my hosting service, as little as I want to do that because I have one website (hi, Rory) that will be an absolute bitch to move. Probably I will end up not doing it. If I don’t then, if my phone service switcharoo happens, I’ll be at about $60 a month in expenses since I will not be paying for auto insurance anymore. It will buy me time to either find a job or else get some self-employment income going OR both. I’m fine with both. Nothing that my future roommate needs me doing around the house is going to take up my entire day, and one of those chores isn’t going to be a thing until winter, and another will only be a thing when she’s out of town, and then there’s only one other one. And I think she goes out of town a few times a year, but she’s not CONSTANTLY gone. Like me, she is a homebody. Doggos will have five-star service whether I’m working or not. So if I end up with both a job and a side gig, whatever. I will not suddenly be liable for rent, I’m used to not having much, and I have to keep in mind that a move will happen again at some point, so I’m not going to want to acquire much. I’ll be able to save up a LOT.

(Not enough to retire on in seventeen years, DAD. But a lot just the same.)

If I only get around $1000 for the car, my other problem is that I need to ship that of my stuff which I intend to ship to her house. (Or to her P.O. box. Either way. We need to talk about that, actually.) I will use the cheapest methods possible, and clever little me decided to employ a few flat-rate Priority boxes for the denser stuff, but it’s still going to add up. I’m assuming about $20 a box right now, average. There are more than five. You get the idea.

IDEALLY I walk away from the car sale with a net amount of around $1500. One-third of that for the trip, one-third of that for the shipping, and then one-third of it to last me… some amount of time.

It helps that I seem to be done with periods. That’s a major expense right there, gone poof. I still like those Poise pads, but I can wear one of those per day and I’m fine. Sounds gross, but we already do that with underwear, so who fucking cares. It’s saving me money. That’s all I care about.

I will also use the last of my Walmart gift card balances to obtain noms for the trip. No reason I should waste my money on the road. There is a special place in hell for transit vendors who take advantage of a captive market to screw over low-income travelers. This is a longstanding problem and not likely to end today. I will just have to plan for it.

It even occurs to me that I should take ONE water bottle, and also take some flavor drops (the bottles for those are small), and be prepared to refill the bottle at stops. They have water fountains or, failing that, sinks in the restrooms. DAMN I’M BRILLIANT.

And then I catch myself sliding my reading glasses down my nose to look for my reading glasses. Never mind.

(That didn’t actually happen just now. But it’s happened before. Because of course it has.)

(Sliding down my nose? Yes. It’s like a weird form of bifocals. My mid-range vision is still okay and my distance vision is fair to middling — good enough to pass a DMV vision test — and anyway, reading glasses are designed for close work. I can’t focus on anything through them past about two feet away from my face, thus must slide my glasses down my nose to look far away. And that’s the weaker ones. The stronger ones are worse. Shorter focus field.)

ANYWAY. I could ask Dad for going-away money, but I haven’t even talked with him about leaving. (More on that in a minute.) My other option is on the “a little help” page here. I set up a new GoFundMe. I would rather not go begging like that, and if there were some way for me to offer little premiums like a doodle or whatever, I would do it, but I think I’ve said somewhere before that I’d be an idiot not to exploit all possible resources in a situation like this. It’s masochistic. I am not a masochist, just a complainer. There’s a huge difference. The masochist would be enjoying herself and thus NOT complaining. That aside, even little dribs and drabs here and there from the GoFundMe would help sustain me for a while. Look at it this way. You’re not funding some poor girl’s self-mutilation mastectomy. You get to help GFM give money to a terf. Feel smug. You’ve earned it.

I thought about doing some more Ubering and that was my first impulse, yes, but these fucking roads… I thought the southeast Columbus metro area was horrible. There are entire sections of Louisiana’s state highways where the pothole-patching IS the pavement. And of course it’s uneven, and my suspension is halfway to shot so I feel every fucking bump. I think my poor car has taken enough abuse. Hopefully Carvana will take good care of her and then whoever gets her next will be a retiree who just needs to run errands once a week. She’s earned a retirement herself.

(I know she is not literally female. But she mah bud. She saved my ass SO many times and, for a while, she was even home and safety. This is another reason I’m dreading the sale. That car is also the last place my daughter and I ever sat together to enjoy a meal: car picnic with sushi, natch. This is going to hurt. I fucking know it.)

Speaking of retirees. No, I have not talked with Dad about leaving. I do not even expect to be in his house past the end of the weekend. I’m not telling him and I’m not saying goodbye. He was a shit to me about the matter of the Ubering. First he was happy because he viewed it as me getting a job — which was fine, I never intended it to be my final stop, I just wanted a stopGAP so I could keep my bills paid until I found something better — and then, VERY SUDDENLY, he did a 180 and issued the ultimatum. You know what? I’m done with Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde can fuck right off. Dr. Jekyll appears to have kicked the bucket lots of years ago. I don’t need this shit. So he can think I’m mean all he wants. Everyone else can think I’m mean too. None of them ever had any real use for me anyway. I was an obligation. If I need to tell you how NOT fun it is to be viewed as an obligation, you need to get out more. And now I’m not that obligation anymore and oh boy, they all want me to know it. Read ya loud and clear, assholes. This is me, taking matters into my own hands. Hey, it’s not suicide. I will be leaving you with no mess to clean up. Not even my leftover books and things like last time. You’re fucking welcome.

It’s funny, actually. The situation at L’s will be such that I might finally be able to align my life more closely with what I want my values to be. Feminism is part of it but not the only thing. It has long vexed me that EITHER I can hang out with people who ARE NOT loony vegan genderdorks OR I can hang out with feminists but I couldn’t seem to accomplish both at once — at least, inasmuch as said loony vegan genderdorks claim to be feminist, and of course they aren’t. That problem’s about to be solved. Either I am in for the disillusionment of my fucking life or I’m in for some massive improvement in my circumstances. I really hope it’s the latter. The signs are encouraging.

Don’t count on me talking about my housemate much. There are safety issues involved, because we have a lunatic-overpopulation problem in this country and none of them are being kept in check when it comes to uppity women with a command of the facts. (Y’all quit acting like this is a difference of opinion. We are literally getting our lives ruined for TELLING THE TRUTH.) I also don’t anticipate a situation like the one with Matt and definitely not like the one with Dad. For one, I’ll actually be able to breathe the fucking air because L doesn’t smoke. It’ll be fucking great. And no animals pissing and shitting in the house either, other than hoomins using the toilet, unless someone has an accident. I expect the latter will be quite rare.

Okay. I got on here in the first place to test a couple external drives I found in my stuff, and I thought I had better provide an update to the latest festivities, but now it has turned into more procrastination. Let me get on with that other thing. ‘Later.

So, while I don’t quite have a firm date yet, I have pretty much settled upon taking a bus all the way to the Left Coast unless something weird happens. Like, I’ll probably get a few more of those Bayou State scratch cards and see if I win that $4k after all. I doubt it will happen, but if it does, my ass is flying out. L, my strongly prospective housemate, advised me on how to get to Crescent City by airline instead of having to catch a bus in Medford. And I wouldn’t mind catching a bus in Medford, but if all planes is faster then let’s do that instead. This just isn’t terribly likely. I suspect my first two wins were a fluke. Even with much better odds than the Powerball.

Really, I don’t mind long road trips but if it’s a crowded bus or fuckery happens it could get unpleasant. I will do it anyway in the service of saving money, especially if I get fucked on the car. If a diabetic man twenty-two years older than me (Dad) can survive riding a bus from south Louisiana to central Ohio and then out to southern Oregon and then BACK to fucking Montana, I can do this. Come on.

I think I have some wiggle room on when to leave, because Carrie has invited me to stay over to avoid future angry interactions (she has known Dad something like thirty-five years; she knows how he is) and I am going to take her up on it just to make things easier, and I also want to see more of her before I go. But I need to get the car sold this week, so I absolutely must get rid of everything I am absolutely not going to be mailing or carrying over there. Goodwill’s going to fucking love me again. It’s all good. I thought about selling my sewing machine and keyboard, but… I am just so fucking sick and tired of dealing with people. They can’t even handle a simple thing like defining woman and man, they flake out on or dramatize the simplest personal interactions, and back when I offered things on Freecycle I got no-shows a lot and that shit was literally free. And that’s if I don’t get robbed. Might as well stay out of trouble, keep my stress in check, and do some good for humanity. I know Goodwill has issues, but they also employ people and help the disabled. It’s not all bad.

I need to get the car sold this week because I need some lead time to get the Greyhound ticket. I cannot fuck around with that and I also need to get luggage (no more carrying my clothes in bags!) and also ship my stuff off.

If I sound confident, it’s not on purpose. Part of me is screaming WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? YOU DON’T KNOW THESE PEOPLE IN MEATSPACE! YOU HAVE GONE MOST OF YOUR LIFE WITH NO CAR AND IT FUCKED YOU! But I’m living with someone I don’t know NOW and he’s got a little bit of a lying problem and a drinking problem and also a cruelty problem, and you can get just as fucked owning a car as you can going without one. I’ll be a mile from town and I need exercise. If I get enough money for the car, I’ll have enough left over to keep me for a bit after I get there. I will have internet at home, I will have desk space to work, I won’t have to travel all over creation just to get the simplest things done. And my roomie will not be constantly up my ass to entertain her somehow. Yes, please.

(The dogs may be up my ass to entertain them once they get used to me, but I may be able to head that off at the pass when I’m not in the mood for it by the simple expedient of closing my bedroom door. I have a feeling I may not be doing that a whole lot, though.)

I’m pissed. I thought I had $30 in the Uber account but it was more like $20. I don’t think this is anything shady on Uber’s part. I think I just glitched. I still have a decent amount of gas in the car and I shouldn’t need to tank up again before going to Lake Charles to sell it. I don’t want to do any more Ubering. Every time I drive those horrid roads I feel the car rattling apart just a little bit more — the suspension has been grumpy for a while. I know I have been paranoid about that for two and a half years, but you have to figure my paranoia will be justified eventually. So I am not sure what I will do for money if something comes up. Being this low on money will likely push me to Carrie’s sooner because I can’t just keep buying Atkins shakes. They are cheap meals (a four-pack is seven bucks and some change, five bucks and some change if I get the Walmart brand, and I drink two per meal because I’m too low-calorie as it is) but duh, every time I buy them I am spending money I need to keep. It’s going to get untenable if I don’t get out of this house soon. Eating the food in the house would push me into Dad’s path and we are just not going there. If he wanted a relationship with me, he should have quit fucking biting my head off.

I just remembered I’ve got something like $35 left in potential Walmart gift-card balance. Well, that’s good. That needs to be spent before I leave the state anyway because as soon as I cross that state line I don’t have Medicaid anymore until I apply for it again. Whose bright idea was it to have state-based public health insurance? I wanna slap ’em. But that’s my answer to needing noms until the car’s sold. More tape and boxes, definitely, if needed.

I am getting my shit sorted today — well, I got a start on it. I’m on hold right now because Dad was asleep when I got home and the one roll of packaging tape I have is NOISY when I try to unroll a piece. I know a lot of those brands make racket, but the one I just used up wasn’t like that. Duck brand I think? Small green dispenser. I don’t want to go all the way the fuck back to Jennings to get more Duck, and I can’t this time of night anyway. I’ll wait until he’s awake to make tape noises. He might still complain but at least it won’t be because I woke him up.

(I actually just got an idea to make it quieter… let me see about that first.)

I am aiming for what I tried to do when I left Matt’s house and not take things with me I can’t replace later, keeping in mind that if things go the way I hope they will go, I will have some money to buy a few things. I won’t want to go crazy with it but, for instance, the paper I want to use for portraits is less than five bucks a pad on Amazon. I’ll keep my pencils at least. That won’t be a problem. There is no way in hell I can take my fixatives with me — they are in aerosol cans and USPS would shit and I doubt Greyhound would like them either — but a can of that shouldn’t be more than another ten bucks. The thing with pencil portraits is the work you put into them. The raw materials are not a big fucking deal.

Oh shit, I’ll need a ruler too. AGAIN. Sigh.

At least this time I don’t have to worry about some idiot mailing me shit I don’t need. Matt got in his yuks two and a half years ago sending me boxes full of literal trash. Moving on now.

I just really hate having to get rid of things. I feel like I should change my name to Inanna.

Spent some time with Carrie today. Mostly it was just visiting (and I showed her a couple more Gary Meikle comedy reels… she couldn’t always understand him, but she definitely laughed in the right places), but we also talked some about my situation. She’s pissed at Dad. Understand that I have NOT been after her like “omg my dad is such a monster, please hate him” or any bullshit like that. They will remain friends unless he REALLY fucks up. I am completely fine with that. I have expressed my ire, absolutely, but I also tell her — and this is the truth — that I do get where he’s coming from. There is nothing actually wrong with him wanting me to be employed. It is not the premise I have an issue with, it is how he looks at it and responds to it. He does not have the answers to my problems that I actually need, especially when no one will fucking hire me and even if they did, there’s no way I can earn enough to be safe in retirement in just the next seventeen years, so he might as well calm the fuck down and let me figure it out because I literally have nothing left to lose. He doesn’t even know what the fuck is going on in most areas of my life but BOY DOES HE FEEL FREE TO JUDGE. Carrie places most of the blame on his drinking. I just mentioned above that they’ve been friends for thirty-five years. She knows how he is on the booze. She’s actually fussed at him about it and told him she can’t be around him when he’s drinking because of his behavior. He’s been in love with her for decades (she’s never felt the same about him, though she loves him as a friend and sort of a bonus brother, and she told him so) and if even her declared boundary hasn’t put him on the strait and narrow, well, don’t fucking blame me for the outcomes of his life because he doesn’t give two shits whether I’m around or not so what influence was I supposed to have, exactly?

She and Doug have talked about things too and while Doug has not been talking with me directly since I told him what is now going on, he’s also pissed at Dad because Dad directly broke a promise made to him when they were discussing me coming back down. So let’s piss off the favorite child too. Great going, Dad. Doug and I have had our shit in the past and I have no idea what’s coming up, especially with me living a whole lot closer to him before much longer, but he really went to bat for me on this one and Dad was totally unfair to him. I hope Doug’s not expecting a sudden epiphany. It’s not going to fucking happen. Dad is Dad. The end.

I’m glitching again but the tired kind of glitch. Let me see if I can grab a couple more things out of the front cabinet. I think I have two more boxes and the sewing machine there. And then maybe figure out getting my ass into bed. It’s way too hot here right now and I was uncomfortable last night, but maybe tonight will be better. At least it won’t be hot like this on the northern California coast. I never wanted to move to CA, but there are worse places. Opelousas, for instance. Rafah, definitely. [flips both middle fingers AND both middle toes in the general direction of Israel]

‘Later.

At the Lafayette library again. I basically spent the day here yesterday alternating between looking things up and stress-scrolling (you can still scroll on a laptop. Sort of). I did some delivering today though, and will go back out and try to do more, but it really died down after my first two trips. Grumble.

I found out that I can maybe get $2000 for my car from Carvana, though it may be more like $1500 once they look at it, if I’m lucky. I don’t think I will get over there to sell it in the next seven days, and in fact I want to actually take it in and get eyeballs on it before they give me another offer. Because I don’t want them coming back on me later like “you sold us crap and now you owe us money” — when I sell this, I want it SOLD. Done. No additional drama.

Part of it is that if the car were in much better shape I’d almost not do this and I’d opt to drive to California instead, except I don’t know what the delivery market is in Crescent City, and I don’t know if I could earn enough money to both sustain me here and buy gas all the way there, and delivery on the way isn’t really an option because I’d have too much stuff in my car. I could get out of that one by getting rid of a lot of stuff first, which I am going to do anyway, but having to stop to deliver all the time is just going to make the trip longer and it’s already a 37-hour trip. We are talking probably three or four days. And sleeping in my car, or else probably getting motel rooms at $100 a pop. And going up the Rockies, and my car already did not have good get-up-and-go even before it started aging badly. It’s a feature, not a bug, with the Sonata.

Part of it is that if I can get at least $1500 for the car, I found out that if I get an airline ticket to the nearest biggish airport to Crescent City, which is just north in Oregon, and I get it in the middle of the week, it can be less than $400. It might still hit $400 with additional taxes and fees, but I will be surprised if it goes over five. Then I would take a bus to Crescent City and that should come out to less than fifty dollars. So I’d have $900 left over, worst-case. With it being a plane trip, even if I eat, that shouldn’t cost me more than an additional $20. Carrie has said she will take me to the airport, so no cab there. I will no longer be paying for auto insurance, either, so that should last me a while. Housemate has a car, housemate’s neighbor has a car and a truck, and when I get there I can buy a bicycle. I’ll be okay for a little while. The weather stays mild, too.

Driving — or worse, renting a U-Haul — would be a disaster. I’d get there with basically nothing. I might not even be able to swing a U-Haul if I get less than $2000 for the car.

This is weird. I’m looking at the Greyhound site, and it is telling me that there are no trips from Lafayette to Crescent City. BUT, if I search for Lafayette to Medford, which was also the nearest viable airport? Oh yeah. BUT. The destination in Medford if I took the bus from Lafayette is NOT at the airport. Which is where I would have to start from to take a bus from Medford to Crescent City.

But I just looked up info about local cabs and apparently there is a really good one in Medford. I think this might actually be my best bet. It’ll definitely leave me with much more money at the end.

Now it just comes down to deciding what day. I think at this point I need to focus on making money for food, gas, and postage. If I can keep those squared away, I’ll be all right.

(I also need some decent traveling bags. Because right now I have two: Jack and Shit.)

I may also finally try to sell something on Marketplace. I will photograph the Things Involved tonight so I can jump on that NOW, that way I won’t find myself waiting til the last minute to hit Goodwill if no one bites.

Okay. Let me try to make some more money. I hope.

Am at the Jennings library. I need to look up some stuff and then go driving but wanted to check in.

I have this Facebook friend in northern California who is a published author, which is why I friended her (I think I sent the request): I like her writing. She also happens to be a terf and is plugged into that community, but years ago she caught the attention of the low-carb community thanks to her exposé of the health pitfalls of vegetarianism, so we’ve intersected at least twice.

Anyway, from time to time she advertises for a free roommate, as in she does not charge rent. She has a couple chores she can’t do, and she needs her dogs looked after while she is out of town. I have never looked into it because I thought, “yeah right, I’d have to share utility costs, surely.”

Well, she just happened recently to advertise again. It is not a thing where she constantly asks but never gets, just that people move in with her and then move out again later. This was another later like that. I still dismissed it at first because of the above rationale.

But after Dad blew up at me I gave things a good think. I DMed her last night, asked her some questions, and suddenly I have an option.

Here is what I am thinking. If I sold my car, I could find an alternate route to California — rent a UHaul van for my stuff, or get rid of most of my stuff before I sell the car and have Carrie take me to the nearest bus station. Either way. And then get out there and buy a bicycle and look for a job in town. I would also have lots of time to finally get that proofreading course done because my day wouldn’t be taken up in full-time job or delivery driving. (I will be surprised if the town she’s near has got much full-time stuff.) I could draw, too. Apparently there is a desk in the room.

It would be a real place to regroup and relaunch, in other words. And I have not had that up until now. Dad should have been that, but he was too busy being a paranoid hateful fucking control freak.

And no one’s going to expect me to be a fucking social butterfly. Bonus.

This is probably all going to hinge on what I can get for my car. If I can get at least $3k I will feel comfortable with it. It’s supposed to be worth $6k but I know how people are.

You’re going “Dana, you’re crazy,” but the actual crazy would be going back to Ohio with a half-gimpy car and no friends. If this works out then I will have Roommate Friend and then another possible friend up the way who stops by now and again (and he’s another writer I’ve followed for a long time and I really like his work). PLUS, given where it is, I’ll be a lot closer to Doug, so striking up an actual in-person relationship with one of the few relatives left who still likes me, also his kid, wouldn’t be a bad thing. Long as I don’t have to live with him because, after what happened when we were kids, if that one goes wrong it will go very, very wrong. Do not want, thank you, drive on through.

Okay. I have not had breakfast yet and I’m running a little bit behind. I might write more later, though it won’t appear here til tomorrow, probably. Unless I go to the Lafayette library again. You never know.

Am at Dad’s house (I am not “at home,” I still have no fucking home) today doing laundry. Curious to see if he will ever fucking nap. It’s 2pm and I got up at 10am (didn’t mean to run that late, but I didn’t get enough sleep night before last, and I was feeling it by the time I got back last night… guess I was making up the time), and he hasn’t napped once.

If he’s hoping to pick another fight, it’s not happening. Or if it does happen, that will take great effort on his part. I’ve got protein shakes and I WILL stick with those all fucking day if that’s what it takes.

—

Yesterday was Star Wars Day, as in “May the Fourth be with you.”

Today is Revenge of the Fifth.

I like knowing things like that, but they make me sad, too. I felt like geeks were my community for most of my life, though I never thought it was a perfect situation; like nearly every other human social group, they’ve got a little bit of a woman-hating problem. But it has gotten to the point that now they are pretending not to know what a woman is, and some of the women in their community actively pretend to not be women now, and you’re a bigot if you notice. Their argument? Well, there are ninety genders on Planet Whatever in That One Television Show, so of course trans is a real thing here, in real life.

My 1950s-Westerns-bingeing dad thinks that liking things like Star Wars is childish — told you he’s an asshole — and I will never agree with that, but there IS a certain amount of childishness in the geek community. It would be less irritating if they did not also paint themselves as The Most Intelligent Social Group Who Will Save Humanity. My fat ass they will “save humanity.” They want to upload all our brains to computers. After spending half an hour ranting at you about the unstableness and lack of anti-hacker security of ALL the current popular computer (therefore also smartphone) operating systems. Make it make sense.

Anyway. I also happened to check out the three newest “saga” Star Wars films on DVD at the library on Thursday. I wasn’t even thinking about what yesterday was. I just thought, fuck it, I haven’t watched these through in a while, and they were all on the shelf, so I grabbed them. Dad always manages to interrupt me if they come on satellite and I’m watching them. I’m always nice about it — it’s HIS television, so I hand him the remotes when he gets up from his naps — but if I didn’t take the initiative, he’d ask for the remotes anyway. It’s happened a couple of times. If I’m watching on my laptop, he can’t do that. One, I’m in my room; two, it’s on my laptop; three, there’s no remote. Plus, if I have to step away, there is Pause. Suck it, Dad.

I’d be less spicy about this, but he’s up half the night when I’m in bed and watches whatever the fuck he wants then. Needs to feel more Lord of the Manor, I suppose, and especially now that he can barely do a fraction of what he used to be able to do. I am the wrong punching-bag for him to take his frustrations out on. I would have been his most sympathetic ally. (I did not say ABSOLUTELY sympathetic. I said MOST sympathetic, as in degrees. I would never have been 100% okay with his behavior.) As ever, he does this shit to himself. I wash my hands of it.

Oh, he can’t help himself? Get him declared incompetent then. Either he’s responsible for his actions or he needs to go to the veterans’ home. Fucking pick one. I’m not going to do it, because I’m already too much The Evil One, and not only in his opinion. Y’all think I’m shit? Fine. This is y’all’s mess now. Have fun.

I am not sure I will actually watch the DVDs now, though. I checked them out just before his shitstorm, and now I don’t think I would have the focus. I’m back in survival mode. Whee. So I guess I can go drop them off at the library tomorrow.

—

I need to edit yesterday’s post because I said his second bail was in 1997 when actually it was 2017. Had me a brain glitch, and those happen much more often when I’m upset. He suddenly decided to move to Montana in 2017, no (believable) explanation why. (“I’ve always wanted to live in Montana.” Uh-huh, and your reason for not doing this when you were more able-bodied is? He hadn’t had his initial kidney failure event yet, but he still wasn’t doing WELL.) I found out later that that was around the time Carrie got married to Stanford. I bet it was no coincidence and I bet I know why. My father has had a thing for Carrie since the late nineties or early aughts, and I noticed it even back then. How many actual Guy Friends of Women do any of us know about who ever bought the woman in question a diamond heart pendant? Yeah. That’s what I thought. Carrie for her part was astounded and then very thankful to have such a “good friend.” I think she knew but was trying to be class about it, since she was married at the time. Byron, at that point. The cheating fuck. I suspect Dad was thrilled when Carrie finally shitcanned Byron, which took a lot longer than it ought to have; one of the times I was here, she had left but not divorced him and was living in a mobile home in town. The final straw was when she got colon cancer maybe a decade ago and Byron started screwing around again. And this is why you dump them the first time they cheat. But I’m sure Dad thought it would finally be his turn. And then it wasn’t. And Dad didn’t want to be around to see her being happy with someone else. It’s possible he had always toyed with the idea of moving to Montana but told himself it was stupid, until suddenly he needed somewhere to go. (Tellingly, “needing somewhere to go” did not include the possibility of moving near either Doug or me. Remember that when he cries that his kids won’t talk to him anymore. Doug might, but I fucking won’t.) Sold his nice trailer and most of his belongings. Took off.

He was on the way there when he visited me in Ohio that year. Then he went to visit my brother Doug in Oregon. Then he went to Billings. And it would have worked out swimmingly had he paid any fucking attention whatsoever to his own medical regimen and asked the right questions, but someone fiddled where they should have faddled and he got the wrong dose of something and then wound up in kidney failure. He spent a lot of time in the hospital and then had to move back to Iota. And lo, here we are.

He does all this stupid shit and it is never his fault, then he looks at me and does not even know what I am doing and pronounces me a loser. Sure, Jan. Keep telling yourself that.

(I AM a loser, but not for whatever reasons he imagines.)

I suddenly find myself wondering how he behaved when Carrie got sick. Was he there for her the way he expects her to be there for him now? Because that was well before his kidney failure, obviously. She’s never mentioned, and he doesn’t talk about it. I first found out she was sick from Facebook. He knows, or he ought to know, that I consider her a family friend and he should have guessed I might want to know (I didn’t reach out to her, but only because I think what I post on Facebook would have offended her, and I wanted to leave that can of worms firmly sealed). He said nothing. The excuse of “I was freaked out because the woman I love was in danger of dying” only goes so far and he’d have never said that to me, anyway.

I get an idea that he mostly thinks of people in terms of Rules and doesn’t have much theory of mind. It’s one thing to try to interpret people’s motivations based on their behavior, but it is super difficult to set up a list of Rules by which to measure them and expect that list to always work. I don’t even try it. I have more like broad guidelines and then I try to take exceptions into account. I don’t know how good I am in the theory of mind department, but if I haven’t gotten totally pissed off at someone, I do try. In fact, it gets me into a lot of trouble because I give the wrong people the benefit of the doubt and then end up totally wrong about them, to my detriment. I don’t understand him at all. He just strikes me as perennially hateful. Like he gives people things as a transactional tactic so he can call in favors later, but doesn’t actually like those people. Except Carrie, and now he’s mad at her too. (I have been here since December and could count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen them interact, which is weird because she lives less than five minutes away. If he asked, she’d come over. He doesn’t ask. The same thing happened two and a half years ago.) He just needed someone to share his bank accounts in case something happens to him, and he doesn’t trust Matilda. If he and Carrie ever had a final falling-out or she suddenly died or something, I suppose he might turn to his other sister Emily, but that’d be a last resort. I have no idea why, but his idea for the humiliating anniversary present for Emily makes me think that’s true. That bullshit failed only because I delayed helping him put it together and then (I guess) he forgot about it. Or, best-case scenario and I’d be shocked, he had second thoughts and then thought I forgot and decided not to bring it up again.

He’s gonna be in a mess when I leave. But see what I said above about him doing this to himself.

—

Okay, enough of that shit. For now. (I very much doubt I am actually done.)

Yesterday, after I posted my post here, I went back out for a while to see if I could get any more deliveries. I can’t decide how I feel about that, because I ended up in OPELOUSAS.

Impression: There are a LOT of cool old buildings there… and most of them are empty. I don’t know if Opelousas is in the process of failing or has already failed. It’s sad to see.

Also, and I don’t mean this the wrong way, there were A LOT of black people. Like, more than the average. It makes me wonder about the general demographic history — did a lot of Louisiana black folks just happen to move to this one town? If so, what was the draw? I don’t wonder enough to research it (there are a lot of things I’ve been curious about in life and I’ve only looked up a fraction of them, and I have no internet access as I write this anyway), but it was hard to miss.

Also, and this isn’t Opelousas, but I took I-49 to get there and what the fucking fuck is up with all the fucking mansions on I-49? Both sides. Damn. I almost felt like I was back in Dublin or New Albany or something. It was unreal.

Anyway. The way that worked out was I had this one delivery that went out in that general direction and then, when I dropped it off, I got the first Opelousas call, and then when I dropped that off I got a second, and both the Opelousas deliveries I did were over $10 (each). I could have gotten more work there, but it was getting late and I wanted to head back. If I lived in Lafayette I’d have stayed and worked the area for a while. I don’t live in Lafayette and I needed to eat, so I noped out of there after Delivery Two.

By the end of everything, I had gotten almost to $50. I did indeed get Chick-Fil-A, exactly what I said I would get, though I’m not sure I will get it again, or at least not the kale. The kale wasn’t bad (and there is also cabbage in it), but I think they added sugar, and I don’t know why they call it crispy. Crispy implies dry, and this was wet. I wanted kale chips, not whatever that was. It was definitely crunchy, though, and you get chopped roasted nuts with it, which go nicely. I had $14 or $15 in cash which was more than enough to cover it and I was able to leave my earnings alone. Though $20 of that’s going to go poof tomorrow when I get gas again. I am probably done giving Dad rides, so I’m done letting him pay for gas. If it occurs to him to hand me money I won’t say no, but that’s not likely to happen. I’ll be stunned if it does.

—

Don’t take this as my final decision but I’ve got the skeleton of an idea and I might run with it.

I mentioned the job fair at a local nursing home. I’m going to see if my Humana points will cover putting together a job-fair outfit from Walmart. If not (because there aren’t enough — they’d pay for it, in theory), I’ll earn the money. Either way, I’ll go to the job fair. Let’s see if I actually get a job.

If I do, I’ll tell Dad and then bide my time. After I have some pay stubs together, I’ll see if that income-based apartment community in Iota has a vacancy. They did recently, but I can’t imagine that lasted. If they do at the point I’m talking about, I’ll put in an application. If I get it, I’ll move out of here. Won’t even tell him I’m going. Buh-bye, asshole. Browbeat someone else. I’m not your fucking punching bag.

In case that falls through, and I predict it will, I’ll just keep the job-fair outfit and hope that I can use it in Ohio.

I don’t want to be here, but I know now from experience how hard it is to make it in Ohio with no backup, when even the charities play games with your life. If I can get a toehold here, then fine. I’ll go along with it for a while and hope that I can move back to Ohio later. But if I can’t, Ohio is plan B.

So the nursing home is not my only possibility, but it’s the only one that’s going to keep me in Dad’s house long enough to get stable unless I manage to find something else this month. I am curious to see if his belief that showing up in person will get me hired holds any water. I don’t think it will, but let’s see. I literally have nothing to lose.

Of course, he could also kick me out tomorrow so I really don’t know what’s going to happen.

—

He’s yelling at me from the hall. “TAKE CARE OF YOUR CLOTHES.” He doesn’t know when I started them and the machine can’t have been done more than half an hour.

Right, Dad. I was gonna leave them wet so I’d have nothing to wear tomorrow.

Fucking nightmare.

—

Anyone who knows me and reads this also knows my mother’s alive, or at least she was in December when we last communicated. (No one on that side will tell me when she passes away. Trust.) She and her husband live in town now and apparently have a spare bedroom. She told me about the spare bedroom and the implication seems to be that I could crash there, at least temporarily, should I run into problems.

So here’s why I’m probably not going to do it.

Our relationship has been… fraught. She was accused of abusing or at least neglecting me when I was a toddler, which is why Dad got custody of me. I finally got to see her again when I was seven and spent the next three and a half, four years visiting her in the summers and at alternating holidays (sometimes Christmas, sometimes… I want to say Thanksgiving, but maybe spring break, which is longer? Can’t remember). Then Dad was deployed on an aircraft carrier when I was eleven and we moved to Missouri and I was told I could only write to my mother if I sent it to Dad to re-mail, and I would not be allowed to visit her at all. I decided I would not have my letters to my own fucking mother handled that way, so I shut everything down until Dad was back home. There was bad blood with her at times, both about that and about other times, like when I was in Iota but didn’t go see her. Then when I had my own kids, I caught her giving Thea Diet Dr. Pepper one day, and Thea was a year old. Then I heard about Mom lying to my brother Chan about his paternity, which he didn’t find out about until his actual father had passed away. (He’s a Pearl Jam fan, which is a really strange coincidence. Go listen to the song “Alive” and you’ll hear what I mean; that first verse is autobiographical for Eddie Vedder.) Then I heard Mom had stolen money from one of Chan’s kids. And I keep hearing rumors about drug use. People probably spread rumors about MY (nonexistent, except for caffeine and, right now, metformin) drug use so I take that with a salt quarry, but it could also be true. I won’t ask her, so I’ll probably never know.

Oh, I skipped something. Then there was my grandfather’s death and I wasn’t told about his medical crisis until three days into it when it was already too late to say goodbye. I barely made his funeral in time. Then there was my brother Chaise’s death and I had to hear about it from Dad, who is not even Chaise’s father. Then there was my grandmother’s death, and no one on that side of the family told me about it, and I’m not sure Dad even knew. I had to find out from the Find A Grave website. Weeks later. I bitched very publicly, on my Facebook, about people not telling me, and then Mom fired off an angry letter telling me off as if I’d been the one guilty of wrongdoing. Oh no you fucking don’t. So that was good for several years of no contact. Especially after I told her off right back.

It wasn’t like I never tried. I did try, and that’s probably why I’ve lost my one surviving maternal half-brother, because Chan has been at odds with her ever since the dead-father situation. But he would have known I was trying to maintain a relationship with her. He would have been offended, too. So I’m functionally down to one brother, and it wasn’t even worth the loss when you get down to the final tally, as I’ve never been able to depend on Mom for anything.

Because that’s the other bit. I have tried staying with her before, back in the ’00 crisis situation (I’ll put that here at some point). She “couldn’t afford” to have me stay, so I went to Dad’s. Even though she and her husband both get Social Security and possibly disability at this point (and he may be retired military as well, I can’t remember), she’s going to say she can’t afford me there again. Bet me.

Also? More importantly? I don’t want the only time I talk to her being when I need something. It didn’t used to be that way, but here in recent years it would end up that way. That’s not a good way to treat people. I don’t want to make it a habit. Either I need to strike up a relationship when I don’t need to live in her house or I need to leave her the fuck alone. Even if she doesn’t like it because she already lost Chan (and Chaise before him). It’s better this way.

So it is this weird mix of still being angry at her, particularly as she never admits wrongdoing past the initial reaction to her offense (she’ll admit when she does something, sometimes, but that’s as far as it goes), but also not wanting to be shitty to her (well, more shitty than the not talking to her thing), and I don’t know what I am supposed to do with that. I’m stuck. The end.

It occurs to me I could just write her a letter and tell her that. I might. Hopefully she still has her P.O. box. Even if she doesn’t, the post-office people are really good here (it helps that this town is still so small) and they might forward it to her. And then we’ll see. Maybe she should have a say in where this relationship winds up.

I wouldn’t even go there if not for my situation with Thea, which has given me a bit more insight into my mother’s and my estrangement. I suppose that makes that a mixed blessing. A backhanded compliment from the universe. Some bullshit like that. I’d rather have my daughter back in my life and also not have things fucked up with Mom, but I’ll take what I can get.

—

So, the health thing.

I have this blood-ketones meter I found on Amazon a few years back that was actually affordable. Problem is the strips expired before I used them all and I need to get more. I also don’t have any keto pee strips. So I can’t check whether I am in ketosis right now.

There is a possibility I could be. I do feel different, and I seem to be peeing a lot more, which is a sign of it. I just don’t feel different enough yet.

Something else I am wondering about is how this stuff all works when you’ve actually gone diabetic. I wonder that because my fasting sugars haven’t really improved. My postprandials are somewhat better, but it depends on what I intake. When it’s the Atkins shakes, and I have two per meal, that’s good for a twenty-point rise. That would be fine if I weren’t diabetic because say my fasting was 95, my postprandial would be 115 and that’s well within the safe margin. But post-supper with solid food it can go higher, about fifty points or so. Going back to the hypothetical fasting of 95, that’d be a 145 postprandial. I don’t want to go over 140. And more to the point, my fasting sugar is NOT 95. Right now it seems to want to be in the 150s, or maybe the 140s on a better day. This is not a safe situation. Even if I never see fastings of 190 anymore, and I did see those a few times before I began this experiment. But I also saw 140s and 150s most days, which is why I say my fasting sugars haven’t really improved.

But it’s useless to say ketosis isn’t helping when (1) there HAS been SOME improvement and (2) I don’t even know if I am in ketosis yet. And that’s another thing: it may take longer to get there anyway if you’re diabetic. I am really flying blind right now.

One benefit of being on Dad’s shit list is he’s not likely to yell at me for not wanting to eat crap, since I’m doing my utmost to stay out of his way. I’ll take it.

I should explain about the shakes. They allow me to be out and about and not buy crap to eat but, at the same time, get a good amount of protein into me. They also function as multivitamins, really. They’re kind of crap themselves, and if you looked at the ingredients list you’d see what I mean, but they’re not Doritos. It does bother me that my blood sugar goes up 20 points after two of them, but one shake is about 160 calories and 15g protein. I need more of both, and doubling the intake works fine for that.

I wonder if I’d do better on Keto Chow. My guess is “probably.” But the Atkins shakes are also cheaper. KC is about seven dollars a serving — I’ll check again when I’m online, but that’s what I remember — plus you have to buy the fat you’re supposed to add. A four-pack of Atkins shakes is less than $8 at Walmart and already has the fat in. I have to think about saving up to get out of here if it turns out I need to do that, and I should probably say “when,” because that’s what it’ll actually be. So I’m just going to have to be annoyed at the twenty-point spike. Ideally I reduce that, though. I’ll see if I can figure out how.

I’m not doing Atkins, though. I have nothing against Atkins, but I have my reasons. I just find their products useful for cutting sugar, and they tend not to be ridiculously expensive. More expensive than their high-carb equivalents, yes, and especially the candy, but that’s a given. The food industry uses carbs to pad their profit margins in the first place. Your food is killing you because it is cheap. Atkins shakes may be cheaper than Keto Chow, but they’re also not chocolate milk. Which, at this point in my life, if full-sugar, would make me very sick. Milk itself fucks me up pretty good.

—

Dear God this is long. Sorry about that. I have this longstanding pattern of writing less when less is going on, for I hope obvious reasons, and I really wish my longer posts had nicer things in them. That’s yet another project I suppose I had better work on. I wish it were all up to me, and I’m not one of those dipshits who thinks that if you don’t talk about the bad stuff, then it’s not really happening. But as a project, and for the sake of my mental health and my future (what’s left of it), I need to push harder to cut out the bad shit and bring in more good shit.

I don’t even know where to begin.

Sigh.

I might not have turned into a blubbering mess over Dad’s bullshit last night, but I’m also still not okay. I ended up in bed after 1am and it was probably closer to 2am. I woke up between six and six-thirty and then could not go back to sleep. Somehow, I am still functioning. If you want to call it functioning. I just don’t fucking care.

My first delivery was nice: twelve dollars for a Panda Express. The second was shit: four dollars and some change for Wendy’s and I had to drive to Duson. I’m back in Lafayette right now and sitting in their library on Johnston Street.

(Why do they call it a street? It’s practically a fucking highway. Well. Technically it IS a highway.)

Funnily enough, there was all sorts of shit on the map and when I clicked out of active status, the app fussed at me because it was a “busy time” with “lots of orders.” Okay so when were you going to send me any. I must have gone ten minutes at least with nada. Maybe I’ll try again today and maybe I won’t. I’m seriously considering getting those grilled Chick-Fil-A nuggets with their crispy kale because I forgot to set out meat last night to thaw.

Still got that feeling of basic unreality over Dad’s rant yesterday and I wanted to share more thoughts about that.

First off, I think he ranted about me buying things — he was kind of slurry but I think he went there — because clearly I had to have bought that glass dish with the lid. If he thinks I also bought food, I am not sure why — maybe he noticed the new broccoli and cauliflower bags in the freezer that both together cost me less than five bucks? Could be. Nothing else was out where he would have seen it. If I want to just get out the door without talking to him then that’s two meals I can take with me (and now some crunchy snacks) and they’re already in my room ready to go. Not like they would draw bugs. They’re sealed. So, unless he’s snooping around in my room — and that possibility is definitely not off the table; he goes into my room to turn off my lamp — there shouldn’t be anything to see.

(The lamp is an LED desk lamp. It burns almost no juice and if I get home when it’s getting dark, having that on is helpful. Does that stop him fucking with my stuff? Course not. He doesn’t even ask.)

But here we see his almost talismanic belief that if I never spend money then I will have a great retirement. He tells me I don’t understand how bad my situation is. I’m the one knowing IT DOES NOT FUCKING MATTER WHETHER I SAVE EVERY FUCKING PENNY BECAUSE I SHOULD HAVE STARTED SAVING FOR RETIREMENT THIRTY FUCKING YEARS AGO. IT IS TOO FUCKING LATE. I AM FUCKED. He makes this big deal out of me being fifty — how is it in any way dignified for a fifty-year-old woman’s father to be telling her how to deal with money and for her to never be able to buy anything? Bloody stupid man. And anyway, you don’t give someone that kind of financial advice without asking where they are financially FIRST. He’d have felt pretty stupid if I’d won the lottery without telling anyone and then it turned out I had a couple mil in the bank. Fuck. But he doesn’t want to know. He thinks he knows already.

He goes on and on about what perfect life choices he made after the Navy and conveniently overlooks that (1) he was an able-bodied man and not wholly responsible for any children, as I was grown and Doug was not with him for part of that time and when Doug did move down, Matilda or some other woman usually looked out for him. For free. (2) As an able-bodied man he had access to blue-collar work that paid very well for the area. (3) He tells me it was desk work, which is even more insulting. If I do desk work in a hospital I get just above minimum wage; if he does desk work on a fucking boat then he’s giving ribeyes to all his fucking friends because he’s got money practically dropping out of his asshole. Guess which one of us is more useful to society in these scenarios. (4) He never had to get a job again after retiring from the Navy. All he had to do was scale back his lifestyle. And he did. It’s not my fault he decided he wanted more money than that. (5) He has TWO sources of income now. I have zero unless I’m delivering. If I do find a job it will pay LESS than he’s getting for doing NOTHING. I don’t care what he says he “earned,” that is still the truth. And you still see signs of stupidity, like the way he just bailed from Tennessee in 1992 and then just bailed from Louisiana in 2017, and the latter bail was even stupider because he had a nice place to live and now he basically lives in shit. I mean someone made a real effort with that trailer (it wasn’t Jodi; it was the previous owner, probably), but it still doesn’t stack up to the one he bought. And you know why he sold that one? Because Carrie got married. Bet me. That is a STUPID reason to give up everything. And then he went and injured himself taking his medication the wrong way. That’s how his kidneys started failing in the first place. Sure, Dad. You make THE BEST choices. Tremendous. Bigly.

Probably because we are too much alike, I pick up on his vibes pretty well and I know what he means by me “doing nothing.” He’ll pass by my room AT NIGHT and see me on my laptop or he will pass by my room AT NIGHT and see me playing games on my phone. It is AT NIGHT. When I would not be working anyway, unless by some miracle I pick up a night-shift job. What the fuck does he expect me to do AT NIGHT. I have no idea. But I can tell that my AT-NIGHT idleness pisses him off. Regardless of time of day, too, if I am even looking at something with a screen, it pisses him off. I can forget finishing that proofreading course here, because he will parse it as Doing Nothing. I could go to college by distance ed if I kept my Gold Pro status with Uber because free tuition to Arizona State is one of the perks, but I can’t do that in his house because it’s staring at a screen and thus Doing Nothing. I literally get paid monthly for writing essays on Substack, but if he sees me writing, I’m Doing Nothing. I want to draw portraits, but that is also Doing Nothing. If I tried to explain any of this to him, he would declare it bullshit and shut me down, too. He doesn’t like me crocheting or knitting, either. Fucked if I know why. That also happens AT NIGHT a great majority of the time. So: ALSO not Done Instead Of Working. There is no work. It is AT NIGHT.

Guess what he does all fucking day.

Watches TV. Or sleeps.

Yes, yes, I know. He’s “retired.” My screentime involves actual interaction with something and he’s sitting there letting a gigantic screen beam bullshit into his brain but I’m the bad one here. Fucking clown. He used to be a bookworm, and now he hardly does that either. He has ample opportunity to request library trips. He never does. He’d rather just sit.

And drink. And lie about quitting drinking. And drink some more.

I appreciate Doug trying to rescue me by negotiating my move back in with Dad but I really wish he would just relax. Doug’s life weirdnesses are at least partly his fault, yes. Dad’s bullshit is not Doug’s fault, and is a very large part of the reason he and Doug never had a good relationship. And it’s the same way with me. I said something the other day, maybe on Facebook, maybe also here, about Dad not liking me since day one and me not actually being a wanted child. I meant it. He treated me like I was a pain in the ass from day one. He has never let up. If we’ve been apart for a while he’s usually happy to see me again but that lasts maybe a month. Two if I’m lucky. This is supremely fucked up. I’m tired of it.

—

The only real drawback is I burned too many bridges in Ohio and I’m not sure what to do about that. But it’s time to start looking.

Library’s about to close. Gotta go.

So I got home from the Jennings library and Dad was in bed. I unloaded things and took my glass food-heating dish to the kitchen (I am tired of heating things up in plastic, and it was less than five bucks) and put a few things away that had been out drying, and then heard Dad turn on his bedside lamp. After how nasty he was yesterday, knowing his Asshole Phases can take two or three days sometimes, I went back to my room and closed the door. He seems to understand that that means “leave me alone” even if my lamp’s on. It was the same this time.

After a little while I was really feeling suppertime, so I went out to the kitchen to clean the glass dish and prep the ribeye I had put in the fridge to thaw last night, and while I was working on all that, he called me over.

It was more of the same as the bullshit yesterday, only an angry lecture instead of a passing bitch. The upshot of it is that I am accomplishing absolutely nothing that he wanted me to do and that if I don’t get a job in the next month, he’s kicking me out. Only, given how mercurial he is about basically everything (which is weird, because he’s also a stubborn jackass about other people, but it’s okay if he flits back and forth the fuck around), he started out with something like a four-month ultimatum and then whittled it down to one almost immediately. So I have no faith in the one-month number either.

So originally the Uber Eats thing was fine, and he understood I don’t have a schedule, but if I don’t go do it when he thinks I should do it, I’m “doing nothing.” And it has been months since the one time I asked him for money.

Gotcha.

I would be more upset, but sitting there listening to him enumerate all the ways I suck ass was like listening to him talking about someone else.

…

You need to take a good hard look at reality and see how bad the situation is. Check. Did that two years ago. And again one year ago. Even more so last December. Still doing it now. Already there, Dad.

You know about all the birds and the bees and the flowers and that’s bullshit. Right: you get all those stupid plants that you keep killing or tearing down from a fucking CrackerJack box. Guess that knowledge ain’t so useless after all, huh. Sorry I don’t want to murder everything on earth like you do with your dumbass jokes about running over birds. What was I supposed to know about, Dad? The proper way to scrub a fucking toilet? If you weren’t paying your sister’s friend to clean your fucking house, I’d show you I know that one. I have actually wiped our toilet down between her visits a time or two. You and your shit-splashy ass. You’re fucking welcome.

You don’t know anything about HUMAN stuff. About PROPER HUMAN ways to do things. You think bourbon and Coke is a fucking food group. You think a cruel joke involving too-small lingerie is an appropriate anniversary present for your youngest sister. You think a woman can sAvE uP fOr ReTiReMeNt scrubbing toilets at $70 a week for seventeen years (ain’t no way I’m retiring at 65) with no husband to back her up. Which $70 a week you are not even paying me because some random friend of your sister is more important. Asshole.

You lost your son and you lost your daughter. You never asked me one single fucking thing about either of them. You just sat back and let me struggle except for that time you threw me a thousand bucks right after I got Mike arrested. You have no fucking idea what’s going on, by your choice, so just keep your fucking yap shut. And kindly do consider how YOUR son and daughter turned out. Two different mothers. Both kids equally fucked up. Almost like there’s a common fucking denominator there, DAD.

GET A JOB. You don’t GET jobs, Dad. You are GIVEN a job. NO ONE WILL GIVE ME A JOB NOW. On the RARE occasion someone in Ohio gave me one, I wasn’t fucking suited to it somehow — including, in one memorable case, being let go because I’d had COVID less than a month previously and was still getting aftereffects. Sure. I fucking planned that. Of the things I AM suited for, ACCORDING TO THE JOB LISTING, they will not even give me the fucking time of day. NOT EVEN WHEN I SPEAK WITH THEM IN PERSON OR ON THE PHONE. Half of them are fucking around with their thumbs up their asses. The other half can’t manage their way out of a paper fucking bag, and a state of employment is supposed to be a partnership in the civilian world, DAD. These assholes quit faster than I ever did, and I have been quitter extraordinaire much more often than not. They put me to shame. What do I do with that, DAD? I don’t even know where to begin, DAD.

Shit, my own cousin said she’d email me about a portrait job. That was early LAST MONTH. I even checked my spam folder. Nada. It will not happen. I have a theory about that. More on that in a minute.

…

That’s a sample. It went on longer than that.

I’m kind of proud of myself because I didn’t start raising my voice or blubbering. Part of it was the unreal feeling that he was talking about someone else entirely. Part of it was I haven’t been able to have a proper cry in literal years; the closest I got was when I realized last December that I would be moving back here. That was not a happy cry. That should fucking tell you something. But most of it was realizing the futility of it all. I will say it now, if I’ve never spelled it out before: I have never really liked my dad. He is telling me now that he doesn’t like me, but I beat him to it ages ago in the other direction. Although I may be imagining things and that may not be quite accurate because… he’s NEVER liked me. Always saw me as a weirdo pain in the ass. I sometimes say that he thinks I am slow and stupid. That came out in the lecture too. He all but accused me of being mentally retarded somehow even though I’m intelligent in some way. But intelligent in the wrong way. My father, everybody. My fucking father. And it’s been like this all along. The only time he’s glad to see me is if he hasn’t had to see me in years.

It wears off. Every fucking time.

So anyway, I stayed calm and nodded along and assented and agreed wherever there seemed an opening to do so. I wonder if he expected me to blow up. He’s probably pissed off that I didn’t. The fucking created unnecessary drama is getting fucking tiresome. The thing he doesn’t understand is that he’s shown his true colors again. I cannot be fucked to care about an asshole or about what the asshole thinks of me. It’s a character flaw of mine. I acknowledge that.

[eyeroll]

It’s not that I think he hasn’t done anything good for me. Of course he’s done good things for me. Any idiot or asshole can do good things for other people. It doesn’t mean they can’t be idiots or assholes. Think about what bribery is. Think about what kickbacks are. Think about what flattery is. People are all too willing to settle for surface glitter. Then they don’t understand why you feel ripped off because you expected gold. Because some people reading this are stupid: I didn’t expect my dad to give me literal gold. I keep hoping, against all evidence, that he will make some effort to understand the situation — like ASKING ME QUESTIONS or THINKING LOGICALLY — and NOT coming down on the side of deciding I’m worthless based on his own random unthinking flailing prejudices. Considering I’m not a drug addict (unless you count caffeine) or a criminal, that is NOT an unreasonable ask.

And yet.

He had told Doug flat-out when Doug negotiated me coming back here that he didn’t care what I did, I could work for a charity if that was what I could get, just as long as I did something. Here I am with something that I can use and AM using to pay my bills and put some money by (haven’t gotten to the latter stage yet, but that was the plan… oh well?) without overly tearing up my car (as long as I don’t do it full-time, which is WHY I am not doing it full-time… does he think I don’t like having money?), and he was all happy about that at first, and now I’m shit for doing it. Sitting there mocking me for how little I get per delivery. What the actual fuck. It is more than I make sitting on my ass at home. And right now I make about eight-ish bucks a month sitting on my ass at home, and once a year I might pull in another almost $100 if my annual subscribers on Substack don’t cancel. Won’t turn it down but… woefully inadequate. Uber Eats is doing me better. I’m no longer begging for help with bills.

But now? Nah. Now I’m shit and “doing nothing.” Right.

—

The really interesting thing is how happy he was at first when I told him I was doing delivery driving, and how all of a sudden THIS week he’s fucking furious. I have a couple theories about that. And they may both be true.

1. I didn’t go to Lafayette Monday or Tuesday. The reason I didn’t go is that I already don’t make a shit-ton of money there; I’m lucky to break $50. I’m not driving 25-30 miles and then only making $20. It is playing the numbers. I might have a really good Monday once in a while. I can’t predict that.

I did go Wednesday, and did break fifty. I thought I was doing well. I still do, considering. I make twice that much in Columbus on a Wednesday if it’s not a Wednesday in Diet Month. (A big reason I don’t make as much here is because I refuse to drive at night until I get my headlights in better shape and learn the layout of Lafayette a lot better. But even with that it can drag at lunchtime.)

I did not go yesterday. I mentioned elsewhere that I went to Carrie’s instead. The weather was nasty and even today, going out driving, I almost hydroplaned on 98 or 97… can’t even remember now. I don’t know if it is that bad in the city, but I was not going to put myself at risk to find out for MAYBE fifty bucks. If I had an actually reasonable and kind father, I’d have just stayed home, but he’s a dick so I went to the Jennings library and caught up some non-paying things. As you do. No one’s going to give a fuck if I wreck. They are just going to blame me for being stupid enough to drive to Lafayette to work. I say “they.” I mean Dad. You know I’m right.

So those three days he knew I didn’t go may have been the trigger. This is not an unreasonable assumption once you’ve watched how his moods work for a while. The fact I had figured on delivering tomorrow and Sunday wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. He had his brain set on how it should be and I fucked that up.

…OR…

2. My aunt Matilda has been winding him up. The reason I think this is a possibility is because the day I told him I was delivery-driving, he’d told me she and he had had a phone conversation, while I was gone, about me signing up for assistance. Now why in the world would they have been talking about me. Who started that conversation? Inquiring minds are kinda curious. I can live without knowing, but given everything else I’ve heard of how she approaches the whole issue of her older brother’s impending mortality and her low opinion of Doug, if not also of me… It’s not off the table. If she thinks she will get lots of money when he dies, she’ll take the risk of pissing me off to turn him against me. I mean, what am I going to do? Her daughter Erin will pound me into the Stone Age if I try anything, and we all know it. I’m not scared of Erin, and I’m not saying that out of bravado or stupidity. I have no opinion about Erin either way. I actually think she’s kind of cool. I just know that she has that particular option within her range of capabilities, and clearly she has a good relationship with her mom. (Her mother may have, in fact, talked her out of taking on any creative projects with me. Thanks, Nanny.) So my hands are tied, really. Matilda would know that. Matilda is already angry at me for speaking publicly about Dad’s alcoholism. The motive is definitely there.

Joke’s on her if Dad never updates his insurance paperwork again. Either Carrie will get the money and not fuck me over, or Doug and I will get the money and if for some reason it goes to probate, Matilda still will not be seeing that money because she’s not entitled to inherit from Dad. His grandchildren would see that money before she ever got a fucking dime. I guess she had better just be fucking happy with the $2k a month she’s getting from her ex-husband Michael’s death since neither of them ever remarried. Fucking wah. If I were getting $2k a month, we would not be having this conversation. I would not even fucking BE here.

Joke’s doubly on her because Dad’s already against me, has been my whole life, and doesn’t need any “turning.” All she’s done with this bullshit, if I’m right about her, is put me into danger. (Thanks again, Nanny.)

I would also like to point out for the audience that if Dad had not gone on this tear the last time I was here, I would have been here when he started having serious problems last year. Dad painted himself into his present corner — and added a second coat! — and I am NOT shouldering the blame for that one. I shouldn’t just get my half of the payout, I should get a fucking medal for all the shit he’s put me through over fifty fucking years.

I am saying that from a completely intellectual perspective because I’m not emotionally attached to the insurance outcome. Like as not, he will change it and he’ll fuck me. I can’t hope for something that will probably never come. But if we’re talking about “shoulds.” That’s what I mean.

—

And just for the record? I never wanted to be at odds with anyone in my family. Whatever bullshit they got up to before I was born, whatever bullshit they got up to during the custody battle between Mom and Dad, whatever bullshit they’ve gotten up to in the years since, I had nothing to do with any of that. FOR SOME STRANGE FUCKING REASON I CANNOT PUT MY FINGER UPON JUST NOW, they decided to forget I was an innocent party in the whole mess. I was supposed to just let everyone destroy me FOR NO FUCKING REASON and eat shit and smile.

No. Uh-uh. Fuck that. All you get is me not screaming in your fucking faces. If you want me to be even better than that, how about you lead by fucking example.

I won’t hold my breath though.

—

I think it is probably a foregone conclusion I’m still going to be unemployed (Uber Eats is a contract position… not sure if it counts) in a month and he’s going to tell me to get lost. I’ve had two trailer-park neighbors (one of them Jodi, the landlady) and two different aunts tell me they are so glad I’m here for him, so I wonder how he will spin it once I’m gone. It could be he’ll just tell them the truth and then blow it off if they fuss at him. But given how he behaves about his drinking, he clearly has no compunctions about lying and even if he tells the truth, the cultural situation down here is such that they might sympathize instead, especially if they only hear his side and never try to follow up with me, which experience tells me people in this kind of situation will do regardless of where in this benighted country they live. People, after all, are generally assholes. My curiosity about this is more of the bug-in-a-bottle variety, though. We’re talking about people for whom I am out of sight, out of mind. I suppose it works that way in the other direction too. I also suppose it’s a good thing he doesn’t want a funeral. So I don’t have to worry about awkwardness there. Though someone might yet throw some sort of remembrance party. I’m sure I won’t be invited.

—

If he actually lets me be here the whole month, a certain nursing home in the area has a job fair coming up in mid-month and I will probably go. That will likely be my Hail Mary. I will also see about the application to a certain local grocery-store chain I’ve been putting off for weeks. I’m not going to put too many more eggs into this basket, though. They’re all going to turn me down anyhow.

—

I know of another thing I can probably do instead. When I last applied with them, it was an instant hire, but I backed out because I was worried about my periods. They allow you to withdraw your application before your first shift without penalty as long as you follow a certain procedure. I did. I’m good on that count. Well, these days my periods seem to have given up on me. If that holds, a whole new vista of potential jobs opens up even if this particular one isn’t a go. The pay is decent too. If I wound up in weekly-rates again, I’d be able to afford them. Got kicked out for bed bugs again? Oh, I’ll just go stay in another weekly-rate. Though this time, I’ve learned some tricks. I may acquire a bug-baker. I probably will.

You read that right. If I fail here — WHEN I fail here — I’m going back to Ohio. And chances are very good I will stay.

I don’t have any people anymore, but if you have a place you love and can live in, that’s you half sorted.

—

And now for something completely different.

I don’t know how much longer I will try the diabetes program, even if a miracle happens and I get to stay.

(What do I mean “get to”? The only good thing about that is I won’t suddenly be struggling to survive a month from now.)

It’s a good idea in theory, but there are some gaps in how it’s administered. I could probably find a way to deal with all that — had Dad not just dropped this bombshell into my lap, I was going to ask Brandon next door (the guy who replaced my car’s starter) about paying him to use his internet service — but the meter itself is weird. I tested it with its control solution first thing, and it came out at the absolute bottom number of normal range. That might have been okay but when it tells me my sugar is in the 100s, I feel like I’m going hypo. That’s not an encouraging sign, and then when I follow up immediately with the meter I was already using, that’s good for being forty points lower more often than not. Ish. Something like that. I have no idea what’s going on and I am not amused.

I am in the process of trying to get into ketosis. I’m hoping that if I can get my fasting and pre-meal numbers into the low 100s, maybe I won’t get 200s after eating steak and broccoli and cauliflower JESUS CHRIST. I did put salad dressing on the veggies, but it was ranch, not French or fruit vinaigrette and it wasn’t like I sprinkled sugar all over everything. I don’t get it. So keto it is. If I can get my sugar even enough to not feel weird anymore, that would be great.

I will say this: I don’t have that ill feeling anymore that I used to get after Dad’s junk meals. I’ll buy that for a dollar.

And even with the ridiculous post-steak number, I don’t think my numbers ranged more than 40 points all day, contrasted with yesterday when I went up more than 100 points after supper. Ouch.

—

Speaking of money. I finally sold that fucking Samsung phone. It’s a lower-number A series so I was expecting maybe two bucks. Or nothing. I was okay with nothing because I wanted the phone recycled, but it still wasn’t a completely happy thought.

I got ten bucks.

Still small potatoes, but I believe that’s more than I’ve ever made at an EcoATM. It’s definitely more than I made the last time I sold a phone there.

Hope they’re not mad when they see the battery.

Not my problem.

—

It’s midnight and I’m now fading, and I want to get out of here early tomorrow if I can, so I need to get my ass to bed. Probably will be doing delivery. If something weird happens, the library system in Lafayette is open 9am to 5pm tomorrow and I’ll just camp out again. I am so done with the fucking drama. DONE.

I’m gonna be home Sunday though. I need to do laundry. He can fucking cope.

Wish me luck. I WILL need it.

So when I first moved back in with Dad, or more accurately when he and Doug were discussing it, one of the conditions of him allowing it was that I Do Something, even if it is work for a charity. I found that acceptable terms, because I am an idiot and keep forgetting how often I fail at this employment thing and how rarely I hear back from anyone but I thought surely there must be something.

For a while I couldn’t do anything because of the car, and then we got the car fixed. I had been wrong to be optimistic; no one was interested, and only two of the employers I tried even contacted me back to say No. Otherwise it’s been a great big zero. So I went back to food delivery.

When Dad found out what I was doing, he was very happy, and I told him from day one that I am not scheduled and I can pick my hours.

So now, if I’m not out there absolutely every day, he gets crabby. If on the other hand I go out there Saturday, he complains because Saturdays are crazy. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME, I’M DOING THE BEST I CAN HERE

It makes no fucking sense for me to burn up my car even faster by doing the six-day-a-week balls-to-the-wall thing I was doing in Columbus. NONE. I need the car, his life is easier if I have the car, and if I fuck something up it’s going to cost at least the four hundred and something for the starter replacement and probably a lot MORE. And then I will hear the bitching because Dad has to pay for it. So my goal is to limit it to three days a week, maybe four if I have a bad day, fewer if the weather is shit. And this is not up to him. This is up to me.

So that was the background for yesterday.

I didn’t go anywhere Monday and Tuesday because those tend to be slow days anyway and I wanted to do things at home. Wednesday I went out and had a decent day and pulled in about fifty, which bumped me up to seventy with the insurance due on the fifth (I had thought the second, but this was even better). Supposedly rain was on the way but it wasn’t supposed to be that bad. I am not fucking Matt and I know they aren’t accurate enough but that’s all I had to go on.

Yesterday it thunderstormed all through the lunch hour. Lunch hour is when I go so I’m not driving at night in a still-unfamiliar city. I’m learning the streets but it will take months to get proper comfortable.

I pointed out the weather to Dad, who was perfectly capable of seeing it himself, and he grumbled “well you picked the outside job.” I could see which way this was going, so I went to Carrie’s and spent a good chunk of the day. Dad has Asshole Phases he flits into and out of at random times and this was one brewing up.

Came back later, asked him did he want supper, he asked how work was and I told him the truth: it was storming, so I went to Carrie’s. He denied that it had rained all day (okay, ask Carrie yourself? We were out IN it and then complained about it at her place), grumbled something about being “sick of this shit” — meaning me not working every fucking goddamn day, I guess — and said he wasn’t hungry. Had already said he needs to lose weight, which is ridiculous, but I’ve given up the idea that he will ever see sense about food, nutrition, diet, OR diabetes, and he knows fuck-all about any of them. (Thanks, medical establishment. I place the blame squarely on YOU.) So it wasn’t wholly surprising, but that bit about being “sick of” whatever pissed me off. I bite my tongue a lot, not wanting to lose a bed to sleep in. All you fucking men who act horrid to the women and girls living with you because you know we have to take it, I hope an alligator bites your fucking dicks off. Slowly. And you bleed out. I don’t care who you are. You suck. Anyway, I decided I wasn’t going to try to cook dinner with him there being a fuckhead so I went to McDonald’s.

The calculation I did with that is I have not been happy with my sugar numbers and I need to dial the carbs WAY back, hopefully to get into ketosis, and I thought about what I would miss if I went low-carb. I know that if I get a real hankering for fast food or really want something easy then I can go to Wendy’s, leave the bun off, and get a Caesar side salad (bonus: they never come with croutons anymore, but with crunchy cheese bits). Not a problem. I can’t do that with chickie nuggies. So that was my last crap meal at a fast-food place, I hope. If I ever want fast-food chicken nuggets again, I’ll get the grilled ones at Chick-Fil-A.

I stayed out til the sun was almost set, got some things at Walmart, and went back to Dad’s place. Can’t really say “went home.” He was asleep, thank fuck. I washed the stuff in the kitchen sink, puttered around a bit in my room, and went to bed and a little while later his ass gets up and turns on half the lights and turns on the TV nice and loud and stays up half the night. Meanwhile I have to slide my bedroom door closed (it’s one of those sliding barn door sort of setups, except not a barn door) because MY light bothers HIM when he’s in bed. It’s his house and I get that, but the fucking hypocrite anyway. At least I have a loud room fan that drowns most of it out. Wish it served as a blackout curtain too.

What I got at Walmart was eight Atkins shakes in two flavors, a bag of broccoli florets, and a bag of cauliflower. Unless shit gets really strange, he’s got a bunch of boneless/skinless chicken breasts in the freezer and there are drumstick pieces I could bake which are already seasoned. I also got a bottle of sugar-free honey mustard sauce. I will probably get another couple flavors if I don’t wind up homeless again, but we’ll see. I have salad dressing already, so I could do really simple suppers of a meat and one or both veggies and toss the veggies in the salad dressing and if I want to put sauce on the meat, I can. But I didn’t want to dig for the chicken boobs last night and make noise, so I grabbed the nearest available ribeye out of the chest freezer and put it in the fridge to thaw. So that’s supper tonight.

I set up a couple caffeinated lemonades before I left and took four of the shakes. Two for breakfast, two for lunch, the lemonade to drink in between because I wasn’t going to set myself up for an argument by making coffee.

My sugars have been interesting. Still too high but haven’t spiked more than twenty points, which is hella better than they’d been doing. I feel like if I go into ketosis I can still be relatively safe and gain good sugar control that way. I’m going to find out. I’m at the very beginning stages of easing into it and am already feeling weird, but I find that I feel weird if I get too close to 100 mg/dl. Which is where I’m supposed to be. Which is weird. I think once I burn off my excess glycogen (you never burn it all off), that might sort me out a bit. I’m still a sugar-burner, is the problem. That means your body expects to have sugar for fuel all the time. If you get into ketosis you get out of that state. I really need to.

It was storming again today so I stayed in Jennings at the library. In fact, I am still here. Worked on Rory’s fan site some more, fucked off on Facebook, basically just did not give a shit all fucking day and if it’s crappy tomorrow too, I will be checking out the Lafayette public library because they are open 9a to 5p. I don’t like to be late with my insurance, but as the due date is the 5th and then I have a grace period that lasts til the 21st, I have time. I refuse to worry about it. The weather will improve and then I will drive for a few days and get the insurance money together and then job done. Whatever.

I think from here on out I will just leave the house and go wherever all day except on Sundays. If he wants a ride and keeps being a shit, he can ask Carrie or he can ask someone else. Me having to be his chauffeur or his housekeeper was not one of the conditions he set for me moving down here. If he decides to change the terms then maybe I’ll be fucked. Until he does I’m not going to worry about it. He wants me out of the house? I’ll be out of the fucking house. Fuck him.

The first thing I need to do when I get the insurance out of the way is get the phone and hosting lined up again for the end of the month and then, after that, line up some interview and work clothes. IF I CAN EVER GET A FUCKING JOB, my next step will be find an apartment. I am not going to stay in a situation where I am constantly being belittled and disrespected in the place where I have to sleep. People can hate me if they want. They have never had to live with him. It’s just like the situation with Matt. What a great guy. Uh-huh, wait til you have to clean up after him or deal with his lies and inconsistent bullshit and unreliability and two-facedness and fucking triangulations. What the fuck is wrong with men? I’m so fucking done. And human beings are fucking stupid. All a man has to do is hand them three ribeyes for free and they’re suddenly his best fucking friend even if he has a basement full of women’s skeletons. And they will praise him to the skies if the cops ever search his house. “Oh, he’s just misunderstood.” FUCK. YOU.

On the other paw, I have long had a problem with social-media addiction. If I don’t start using what little internet access I can secure to better my situation, I might as well feed myself to the local gators… what is this shit? Entire years gone and nothing to show for it. Matt wasted twenty years of my life, yes, but so did I.

Well, got things to do. Will undoubtedly whinge more tomorrow.

Updated a couple pages in the “ex-files” section. No big deal, just editing. Still says sort of the same thing.

Gotta get goin’, I’m at Carrie’s and it’s almost five.

Later.