my boring life story

I got through the day okay, even got a decent amount of sleep though it had to happen earlier than I’d hoped, because about 5am or so I just couldn’t stay awake anymore. But I got laundry done, some dishes done, etc., and got out the door with plenty of time.

I get there and at first I’m not sure what I’m seeing. It’s not the main Carrier facility — it’s a special “postal mail solutions” outfit, and it’s in a building shared with another company.

The parking lot was TINY. There was literally nowhere to park. All spaces were filled. Cars spilled out into the access road and lined the FIRE LANE. Where you are not supposed to park, ever.

I was early, but not terribly early and I thought, What the fuck? I mean, clearly people found parking because all the spaces were taken. I had gotten no instructions on where to go if there were no spaces left, however. I didn’t want towed, I didn’t want vandalized, I didn’t want my car hit by some idiot who couldn’t navigate a parking lot. Some of the cars looked quite the worse for wear as it was.

I was already having second thoughts with all the having to prepare because there was most of nothing we could take inside and my period is starting. (For those just joining us: mine gets really heavy two or three days out of the week and at this point I can’t predict when those days will be, only guesstimate when the week will happen. I have fibroids, which are the main cause of the problem. Actually diagnosed. Seen on an ultrasound two Decembers ago.) I was already not sure they would even let me in with the cargo pockets on my pants. Stuff they said to me in orientation made me wonder about that, but I had nothing else in which to stash a spare pad and a few wipes. And now no place to put my car.

After my previous experiences with this agency and the app, my overall impression is “they have no fucking idea what they’re doing and I’m sure to be a casualty when something else goes wrong.” I noped out of there. I will figure out something else.

—–

The one good thing that came out of it was there were these room-darkening curtains in one of the cabinets in the dining room, and I set those up in the bedroom. Not properly; I don’t really have good tools for putting up the curtain rod, not if I value my hands. (They like to swell up if I have to use a lot of torque with them. I have no idea why, but this has been a problem for literal decades.) But there was also duct tape or some similar kind of tape in the cabinet, so I used that. Will I have to clean the curtains later? Probably. Do I care? No. This was the darkest I’d been able to get a sleeping place in almost two years. It’s really nice.

Did I mention there are also glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling? That’s always kind of cheery when I go to bed.

When Thea was little I used to fantasize about taking some glow-in-the-dark paint and painting stars on her ceiling as little dots and doing the actual constellations. She had a ceiling fan and I had a feeling I’d get started, do about a quarter of the job, get tired and quit, so it never happened.

It’s just as well because that’d be one more thing I was bitter about now. “I wore out my fucking shoulders for you and you just throw me away?” I mean, I was the reason she had anything resembling her own bedroom too but NEVER MIND.

—–

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to just love again. I don’t even mean a romance, though that too. Like, at all. Ever.

Okay. I have taken care of the issue with my rent. Or I am in the process of taking care of it. After much anxiety and stalling, I texted Elizabeth and asked if I could come over (she lives literally right across the driveway), and she was cool with that, so we had a nice long chat. The upshot of it is I’ve given her the $500, she’s fine with me catching up the other half plus late fee, and I showed her my informational flyer for the temp job starting late tomorrow night. And she has something of a therapist or therapist-like background and we got into a little nitty-gritty which, she’s been wanting to chat more with me about my situation for months, but Pat’s final downward turn obviously took precedence.

And she teared up a couple times about that, but she was remarkably calm overall, considering.

I wasn’t so much. I’ve had trouble crying for most of the past two years but for some reason, it wouldn’t leave me alone in that living room. I suspect a lot of it is being tired. I’ve been trying to push my sleep forward and failing miserably at it. I have a blackout curtain in one of the cabinets in the dining room and I’m thinking about taking it out and duct-taping it to my bedroom window. (I have tools, but nothing that would make installing a curtain rod easier, and my hands don’t respond well to that particular type of manual effort, which is weird since I use my hands so much. They swell up. It’s a whole thing.) The light is the likely culprit. That’s a very nice west-facing window and if the walls weren’t painted very dark teal and very dark purple, that room would be very fucking bright during the day. Probably a big reason Elizabeth’s daughter painted the room those colors, is my guess.

Anyway. I seem to be becoming some sort of special project. Elizabeth and Pat have/had both been homeless before so I suppose that’s some experience I can draw from. I don’t know where all that will end up but for now I’m supposed to come up with three goals and also watch some Brené Brown stuff.

If it keeps a roof over my head and doesn’t ask me to give up my dignity, I’m somewhat willing to give it a shot.

The goals, if I understood correctly, are supposed to be about Me Stuff. Not mere survival but steps I want to take for myself to do more than survive. I will ask her again when I’m reasonably sure she’s awake just to make sure we’re on the same page.

I also need to remember to ask my temp-agency onsite reps about that payment card they gave me and how to make it into an instant pay situation. If I can do that, it’ll make everything a lot easier. I think all employers should use an instant pay system. Let the employee choose whether to get same-day payouts, but let it be an option. It was a huge help to me when I first started at Quantum and the Salvation Army was playing games and I would have wound up sleeping in my car again for a week before I finally signed the lease. No danger of that yet here — at worst, I’ve bought myself two weeks’ shelter with that half a grand I paid Elizabeth today — but let’s not even get to that point. Also I’ll want more food-shopping Very Soon Now.

—–

Did I mention here a while back that I would hear funny noises outside at night, or was that on Facebook?

Finally figured it out. It’s the frigging American flag outside my main living-room window. It’s made of substantial fabric and so when the wind kicks up, it really whips around.

I will say this for the folks here: they replace flags when they get ratty. Some local businesses could take a page.

—–

I did some driving today, but started much later in the day than I’d hoped to, and then got tired sooner than I’d have preferred, and on top of everything else lost my motherfucking mind and went to Delaware. So then I had to drive back from that. Tired. I will have to try to stay up until noon if I can. That will give me eight hours if I get up at 8pm. I have one source telling me to show up by 11:15 (shift starts at 11:30pm) and another saying show up at 10:45 and I do believe I will go with the latter because it seems a safer bet. But I need to do laundry anyway, so that is an excellent excuse to not go to bed for a while. I got some more Splenda and I have a decent supply of coffee, cinnamon, and half-and-half so if I need caffeinated in the next few hours, I’m solid.

—–

Car notes: I need an oil change soon and I also need to get some power-steering fluid and this other stuff that goes in the same reservoir which helps condition seals and things in the power-steering system. The steering has gotten pretty loose. You can drive a car that has a power-steering system if the PS goes out, it’s just more of a pain in the ass. I also don’t want to actually damage the system, so there’s that. If all it needs is a fluid top-up, sorted. If it’s still fucked up after I top it up, we know it’s something else, so still sorted. Sort of. Halfway.

I could also seriously use new wiper blades. “Oh sure, give me the cheap ones,” I told Take 5. The cheap ones are never actually cheap from a mechanic anyway, and I’m getting better ones next time and putting them on myself. Sorted. Just like the cabin air and engine air filters a few months ago. You want HOW much to do that for me? Around $150 for the both together? Nah bruh. Fuck off. My delicate little ladybrain handles both just fine, thanks. So, more importantly, does my budget. Thus it will be with wiper blades. Alleluia, amen.

—–

I hate being tired. Oh well. Laundry!

I have middlin’ news and I have good news.

The meh, so-so news is that I only have half my rent sorted. Remember that it’s $1000 a month. Which is really good for where I’m located but terrible for my situation, but it was accept the apartment or possibly not get housed. Considering my “rehousing program” dropped me without warning afterwards, that’s probably best. But! I’ve had a bad month. So. Half. Almost there, anyway. I have to go into the red first thing tomorrow to get the money order up. Then I have to have a conversation with my landlady. When I was still on the lease you were allowed to run late and then pay a late fee, but I’m not on the lease, I’m month to month. I FEEL like she will be cool, but it would have helped had I kept her updated. But I didn’t want to keep her updated until I knew for sure how things would go, because I don’t know her and if she had decided to fly into a panic I’d have been fucked.

(I can slightly sympathize with Matt’s apparent attitude of how one feels obliged to lie when one feels like the outcome of telling the truth will be worse. I think he’s a weak piece of shit for believing anything I would have done had he told me the truth from the off would have been worse than the gigantic tantrum I threw when I found out he was sneaking around and lying AGAIN… but I can’t help him. He’s stuck with himself. Too bad. This woman has the literal power of housed vs homeless over me. I had no equivalent power over Matt. If he ever tells you otherwise, make him spell out what he means. Then laugh rudely at him, because he won’t have a good answer.)

ANYWAY. I have to do a bit more running around tomorrow but I’m only $20 short on that $500. Won’t take long.

The good news, which I intend to inform my landlady about as well, is that I got all that mess with the flex shift app (see previous post) sorted out and I start Monday night. I have some misgivings, but I need to work on my own brain for that one. I don’t know how well I will do, but I think the key will be to keep reminding myself that this is temporary. I mean it says it right on the tin. I’m not a permanent employee. This will just keep me sorted til I can find something else. Or at least get into a cheaper apartment and possibly get work done on the car.

It is a thing I can show her right in the app and go “Hey look! This is when I start,” and then we can talk about when I pay her the rest. And I will pay her the late fee unless she says otherwise. It’s fifty bucks. I’m already in the hole, so fifty more bucks won’t really matter.

—–

I’m generally just angry at everything and the main foci seem to be asshole drivers, the situation with Matt, and the situation with Dad. I’m fed up with all you fuckers and I really wish you would back the fuck off. I’m about to start putting rude bumper stickers on my car for Problem One, but the rest of it can’t be solved with stickers.

—–

I will come right out and say it. Matt isn’t safe coming back here. He wouldn’t have had to worry about worse than me being bitchy at him had he stayed in town and I’d run into him with the missus somewhere, but even that isn’t terribly likely; the last time we interacted in person was this past January or early February (I don’t even fucking know now), and we had a conversation like regular folks. Even before that, I could have stopped by the house and harassed him any time I wanted. I knew where he was. I didn’t do it. I didn’t bother Thea either, and I had a strong feeling that just trying to make a peace offering in person would have bothered her. So I stayed out of things except when something stupid happened and I’d email or text one of them. It wasn’t because I wanted to be two-faced. It was because I’m not a fucking monster. But in that last in-person meeting, all he did was just pretend nothing was wrong and if I said anything that even touched on the situation between us he’d just go silent and stonewall. He doesn’t want a rational conversation about this. He doesn’t want any conversation about this. He wants to just shit on me and walk away. Same as everyone ever does. Only he thinks it’s okay because he spent money on me. I told him once in one of my not-so-nice moments — and in email or DM, not in person — that I feel like he’s discovered this novel form of prostitution where he thinks he can treat a woman like shit if he’s paid her. Only it’s not novel; I just had never seen it for what it was before. And unfortunately his fucking friends and most of society agree with him; society thinks all women, and especially “inferior” women, are whores. There are days I think the Christians have a point about essential evil. Unlike them, I don’t think there’s a cure for it.

But the sneaky move to Colorado after the complete radio silence about my daughter’s life, even things he knows I’d want to know about, even though she and I were in touch in the first few months after I left, was the absolute last fucking straw. I carry pepper spray anyway, and he’s asthmatic. I can even get creative. Stay the fuck out west, m’man. Don’t even bother with CodeMash anymore. Forever.

Oh, and as to your first impulse to respond to me? You know what I hear when someone utters the words you’re going to prison? Four different words: “Free room and board.” Worst case scenario I lose everything I own in this world. That will include all my kids’ old photographs, my grandparents’ wedding photo, and similar things. I know that won’t bother you. It might bother our daughter. What do you think?

Yeah. Stay there. I never want to see you again.

—–

Now to the situation with Dad. Carrie tried to contact me through a different account not long ago. I said I was done with that life-insurance shit and I meant it. Literally, I have nothing else to say or do about the situation. I can’t go see him because I would have to haul every fucking thing I own into that fucking car or else risk not being able to come back for it, and the car would not survive the trip. I wouldn’t have anywhere to stay when I got down there even if the car did survive. Mom’s latest husband gives me the creeps even if she were an option. She’s fucking not. I will not be sharing a household with my father ever again, either. That shit back two Januaries ago was the last fucking time he gets to disrespect me. I tried to be there for him, I tried to help him, but because I wasn’t making the choices he would have made which were actually far more fucking available to him because he’s a fucking man then I’m not even worth speaking to like I’m a fucking adult. I danced around this for close to two years and I’m not fucking dancing anymore. That’s what it is. Fuck that shit. All you people ever want to do is treat me like a criminal before I’ve even fucking done anything wrong. Fuck you. Go work out your fucking anger issues on one another. I’m fucking done. So he’s just going to have to keep thinking I’m shit, and the rest of you can think it too. I can’t be fucked to care. You would have thought I was shit for showing up and staying for three nights instead of four, or four nights instead of three, or for parking my car not quite right. Piss on your stupid head games.

(YEAH. The rest of you wonder where I fucking get this shit! And I actually got a dose of compassion capacity from Mom. Even with that, this is me. THANKS, DAD.)

Anyway… Why do people think all I need is one windfall and I’m sorted as long as I get a part-time minimum-wage job and live in a $600 a month shit shack in the Iota woods? Because those are my options. You like ’em? I fucking don’t. How many fucking years have I been trying to make a go of something so I could earn on my own and not be enslaved by my car or by crazy bitches on power trips anymore? Every time I came out with a “hey look at this cool shit I did, wanna buy it?” and people just ignored it? I wasn’t even expecting friends and family to all spend money on my shit. I did hope for them to help get the word out. Crickets. Even these days when it takes maybe three clicks with one thumb at most. Zero effort. Zero. Then I’m the lazy asshole who doesn’t work. Then I need a windfall. HOW ABOUT FUCKING CHRISTING HELPING ME GET SOMETHING OFF THE GROUND SO I DON’T HAVE ALL MY ECONOMIC EGGS IN ONE FUCKING BASKET AND SO I MIGHT HAVE A PRAYER OF BEING A WORKING ARTIST SOMEDAY. FUCK YOUR FUCKING LIFE INSURANCE PAYOUTS AND ***HELP. ME.***

Is that fucking clear enough yet? For all of you? Did I use any big words you don’t understand? No? FUCKING GOOD.

But you won’t help me, either, and we alllll fucking know it, so STOP FUCKING BOTHERING ME.

Good talk.

—–

I was dancing around something else that for once wasn’t about family or the fucking wastes of skin and oxygen I call my exes (okay, not all of you… Matt’s definitely on that list though), and it’s something I never really wanted to look at because it was this huge source of anxiety for me. Anxiety hides in plain sight for me. I more trip over it and fall on my face than work out that it’s happening at the time.

A lot of my choices about employment over the years are a result of my early bad experiences at work.

I can’t get into it now because I’m tired and I don’t organize my thoughts well when in that state but briefly, I just have this face that says “please overreact to everything I do and abuse me for not being perfect” and believe me, I notice that thought process going on in other people, and it freaks me the fuck out. One big reason I go around criticizing all of you is because you get away with shit that I can’t even think about doing. Like, either become better people or let me be a fuckup. Those are your options. You do not get a third option. If you want to know how to stop the war, that is where you begin.

We’re not even talking major fuckup. We’re talking just being an awkward human being. Jesus Christ.

But anyway. Early mishaps at work led to disproportionate consequences which then freaked me the fuck out which then led to me fucking up again and things would just get worse and worse. And so later on, in subsequent employment, I’d think I saw signs of things going south and… I’d just bail. And that made things even worse. And lather, rinse, repeat.

It really came to a head back two Octobers ago after I recovered from COVID and was temping in Grandview and was still suffering aftereffects of the virus on my ability to physically process stress, and then was expected to pick up a fast enough production pace before I’d even been there a week. I would have been anxious anyway, but my body beat me to it; I almost fucking fainted a few times, and y’all who have known me a long time know I don’t fucking do that. Hide, yes. Faint, no. Are you kidding???

I can’t cope with people constantly judging me. (NAW, REALLY?) I know intellectually that they will do it anyway. Human beings are shit. But it’s hard to deal with, and particularly from people who know me and ought to know better. I am not here to make anyone’s life hell. I am just here to live life. Meanwhile people who really do behave like garbage get all the friends, popularity, and money. Y’all some fuckups. I’m tired of it.

I was going to sum up and go to bed and I started babbling instead. Well, let’s just leave it there. I have to pee anyway. ‘Night.

Had a much better day today delivering. Really wondering why I couldn’t have had days like this all week. I’d be almost there. As it is, unless a miracle happens, I’m definitely giving myself until the third to get sorted. And it’ll probably be squeaky-bum time. God bless the UK and all their wonderful metaphors.

…

I’ve been gradually adding on apps to my new phone here and there. Yesterday it was one of my old gig apps. I’ve burnt some bridges with some of the others but had been trying to sort this one out because somebody fucked up. (Again. They have been fucking up almost since day one. I have made net pay of six dollars and some change in the more than a year, closer to two, since I signed on with this fucking thing.) They had it asking for my I-9 (citizenship/immigration status form) when you normally only need that once per employer (and I’m technically a temp so I’m the employee of whatever agency is running this thing). Kept going back and forth and getting piss-poor communication about getting it fixed so had written it off. But yesterday I got curious, and saw there were jobs listed. And tonight I looked into my profile details and holy shit, they fixed it. All my documentation’s there. Thank fuck.

The other cool thing is that used to be you got paid every week like with normal temp jobs, but now they let you withdraw up to 50% of your pay after you complete a shift.

Sooooo let me see how this week goes. If it’s looking really bleak I’ll give Elizabeth a status update and then start pulling shifts at Job Site. (Never mind the name of the job site. I don’t need you bastards hunting me down.) She’ll be happy to hear I have a job and possibly be willing to work with me. I’ll be happy to not have to cope with an extended-stay motel during the holidays. Job Site will be happy for the extra help. EVERYBODY WINS

I will also be one sore motherfucker. But this time I need to push through. Enough with the fucking whining.

I’ll very likely work there regardless. It’s 11 miles away from where I live, but I drive 100 miles on a good day with Uber. A 22-mile round trip is nothing. If I’d stayed with Dad it’d have been the same there. [checks] Fuck. It’s worse there. Between 37 and 38 miles in one direction between Iota and Lafayette. And Lafayette’s likely where I would have ended up working. Dear god. No. This is better. It’s actually comparable to the distance Matt drove in one direction when I lived with him and he worked at Northwoods. Assuming you don’t take the Henderson Road route. But that’s only three miles shorter distance.

…

Got the store set up finally. As you look at the prices I want you to keep in mind that typically, Etsy shops selling seed-bead stretch bracelets charge anywhere from $3 to $6 per individual bracelet. Also factor in the shipping because between the actual postage and then the tracking for first class, it’s gonna wind up around five dollars for the whole shebang. And that assumes one shipment per listing and that someone doesn’t combine a few together. I actually think I’m being more than fair. You can think whatever the fuck you want. Not relevant.

I mainly set it up because I wanted to stop worrying about whether I would have been able to sell anything. At least now if no one bites, I’ll know. But if they do, I would have felt awful never finding that out. Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey.

…

Missed the 60th anniversary. Gender bullshit has ruined most of what my girl and I loved together. This is just the latest thing. I’ve actually met David Tennant and I wish I’d punched him in his gendergoon face. I’d have broken my hand as I can’t hit for shit and likely been knocked flat for my trouble ’cause he’s a Paisley boy, but. Worth it. The absolute fucking betrayal. And that reminds me, speaking of selling shit: I need to ditch the last of my Doctor Who stuff. Someone will go for it if I price it cheaply enough. I just want it gone. Enjoy, ya lunatics.

…

If you’ve ever seen the newer Doctor Who you know why I went off on that tangent. Anyway. Store’s open, stuff’s there, now I have every excuse in the world to add more. So I need to keep doing that. This shit with Job Site is a stopgap and only contemplated because I need to pay rent. It’s not what I want to do with my life. Art and words, y’all. Art and words. That’s where my head is. That’s where I want to go. We’ll see.

…

People are still trying to get a hold of me about Dead Guy Money (someday… possibly he is still alive now). You know, he could have saved himself this bother by not driving me off. Bit late now. Send it to Doug.

Don’t think that it doesn’t bother me that I isolated myself like this. But honestly. How many more times do I have to want to bang my head against the wall because someone’s being fucking thick about basically nothing? No matter what I do, some shithead’s got a problem with it. Does not matter what it is. Could be entirely harmless/good, someone’s going to talk shit. I’m so fucking done. Take the shit-talking elsewhere. I mean, keep it up if that’s your fucking identity or something but it’s not like you ever pay attention to anything I’ve got to say, so… I would say “explain to me why I should listen to you” but, unfortunately for you, I’m done listening to you. Moving on now.

…

It’s late at night and someone is making noise in the parking area outside. This has happened before or I might worry more. I’m glad she extended me to January but I’ll be glad to let this place see my back end exiting when I move out. A little sad, too. I like the location and I like the place. There are a few things I would change if I could. Nothing catastrophic. I am just tired of people being fucking weirdoes and then expecting better from me. And tired of people being fucking weirdoes in general. I know it’ll never end. I don’t have to constantly put myself in its path, though.

…

Knees are feeling better. Not done hurting but like I said before, just surface pain. And what I thought was a cold coming on several days ago, I have no idea what that was. My guess is late allergies. Possibly fungal. The weather was certainly conducive. Fine by me.

Well, I didn’t go out yesterday because I had a strange sense that things might not be as busy as Uber was claiming they’d be, plus everything that was even open for Thanksgiving would have closed early and so it was likely to be a lot of drivers competing for very little payout. No thank you.

So today I resolved to start earlyish and get in a good day, thinking there would be people who’d want to stay the fuck home out of the Black Friday madness. Plus there was a quest.

Nah. It was still stupid. I didn’t even make half what I did Tuesday.

To be fair, I quit early. But my car’s also making me nervous. It needs an oil change, for starters; I’m likely going to put that other quart into it tomorrow just to be on the safe side. I figure if I could go two changes with the same filter because someone fucked up an oil change last year, I can go a little longer than 5000 miles adding in — this car’s an oil burner, apparently. But that’s not the worst thing. I’m hearing a squealing sometimes when I turn corners in parking lots. It’s not all the time, so I’m suspecting it needs topped up on power-steering fluid or perhaps even a flush and refill of same. I feel like if it were the belt or something else solid and mechanical I’d be hearing it all the time. But of course I can’t know for sure til a mechanic looks at it. I probably have the money for that but I still have to pay rent.

(Elizabeth has told me she knows a good mechanic who works for cheaper. I’ve heard nothing more about it and hadn’t wanted to pester — this was back when Pat was still alive, but he was taking his turn for the worse.)

I still have to drive it but I can’t see the point when things aren’t being very productive. If things had been bangin’, I’d have kept going and taken the risk. And they wanted me to do stupid shit like run to Marysville for ten dollars. I can’t wholly blame Uber either. This is assholes not wanting to tip. Again. Probably taking a fucking coupon discount too — Uber offers those, yes, but customers have to choose to use them.

Forgot to mention. The other thing that happens is I see active restaurants all around me on the fucking map but get trash calls and not nearly often enough for the amount of activity. It’s got to be heated competition with other drivers. I cannot fathom what else it could be unless Uber itself is throttling me. What the fuck?

And this was all following my fun little adventure this morning when I was getting myself sorted to leave and took out the trash. I then stepped over toward my car to get a bottle to fill for drinks on the go — and somehow I stepped wrong and fell again. At least this time I caught myself. No more nose mishaps and frankly, I can’t afford to have any more. I could have afforded the urgent care too, but (1) I have to pay my rent and (2) there would have been more of a bill because I’d have insisted on an x-ray. Bad juju, B’wana. But meanwhile, nose is fine but knees are very unhappy, particularly the left one which got the brunt of it. I got around okay, including a second-floor apartment, but I’m gonna be a little ouchy for a few days. Surface pain, thank fuck, not structural.

I wonder how many more times I can fall on these knees without breaking something important. I used to trip on sidewalks while running quite frequently when I was little. I’ve had a few falls on concrete floors and the like between then and now. I’m sure they’re not made of titanium naturally. I’m just thinking at some point I may need some titanium ones.

Sigh.

Every time something like this happens I’m reminded that if something really bad happens no one’s going to give a shit, that the only reason I ever hear from anyone is because they want something from me, that I need to be very very careful because I am all on my own. But I can’t predict or prevent everything.

It reminds me of Sandy, too, and how she had a massive heart attack and they found her in her mother’s house. No one said how long she’d been there but I can’t imagine it was pleasant. She had ended up split from her husband and their son had stayed with him. I think she and the kiddo were on better terms than Thea and I are (or Sean and I for that matter) but maybe that’s not saying much.

These men, they knock us up and then parade themselves around like fifteen seconds and squirt is landing on the fucking moon and then when they don’t want to look at us anymore they take the kid and run, or in this case hold on to the kid and watch us go. We’re nothing. They even convince the kids we’re nothing.

I wish I had an easy answer. I’m tapped, I’m afraid. As long as young women do the same fucking thing I did and think to themselves, Oh, MY man’s not LIKE that! He’s special! He gets me, and don’t listen to older women warning them what’s ahead, we’re gonna keep on going with this fucking fail spiral. And keep falling behind.

…

I’m fighting myself so hard and I don’t know which way to go. Every possibility is terrifying, I can’t trust myself to maintain even if I do improve my fortunes, and I don’t even know what I’m doing it all for. I go with an option, I fuck it up, and then I wind up worse off.

…

People pretending I don’t exist except when they want me to entertain them in some way isn’t exactly helping.

Nothing I can do about it though. Not and keep what’s left of my integrity. It’s all I’ve got ’cause God only knows the rest of you bail at the bat of an eyelash. Fuckers.

I went out today, even started kind of early, but then things tapered off. To be fair, people were getting ready for Thanksgiving tomorrow. The problem is that I needed at least another $40 and it just wasn’t coming. I can’t justify going to Upper Arlington from here for $4; I can’t justify going to Groveport for $10 or even $15. I would not go to Groveport at this point anyway. This is insane. And Uber keeps offering coupons. I want to go find their headquarters and burn it down. If I’m in a good mood I may let them all escape first.

[KIDDING I AM KIDDING FUCK OFF]

Seriously, though, at what point do we decide we’ve had enough of corporate douchetards who think it’s funny to discount our income right at the start of the holidays?

I’m flailing. I’ve made all these bracelets to list in my Etsy shop. They’re really quite lovely, but I’m hitting a mental block. I am terrified they won’t sell. Why on earth I haven’t been trying anyway because at least I’d know for sure they weren’t going to sell as opposed to having to wonder forever, I have no idea; the end result would be the same except I could tell myself that at least I tried. I need to get up early enough tomorrow to actually do it. The light will be good because I tried photographing these things already but they just didn’t look good under artificial light and I don’t have a photography setup. Natural light and I get along great anyway. Needs to be done. Enough.

I did get food sufficient to get me through the day tomorrow. I kind of want to try a bit more driving because allegedly Uber gets a lot of order & pay requests, and if I did four I’d get a $15 bonus, but it’s Thanksgiving. It’ll be huge orders, probably heavy shit to lug up to third-floor apartments because people are fucking assholes, and plowing through crowds of people, and then everything closes at 5pm or earlier. I really don’t know.

I guess this is where I admit I don’t even have $400 right now and we’re past the 20th of the month. And I only have as much as I do because I got that $250 from Columbus State. If I tack on that three-day grace period I still have ten days, but it isn’t ideal. I’ve taken too many days off this month, or had too many short days. Probably both.

“Bet you regret quitting Quantum NOW, huh?”

Even with this all hanging over my head? No. I only mourn the loss of the money and perhaps the medical coverage. None of the rest of that shit made it worth it.

Which is insane! But I’ve just never made a good domesticated beastie, I’m afraid. And there’s always something about some work sector or some specific employer that makes me want to run screaming for the hills. I should sit down soon and write out my thoughts on the matter. You think I’m exasperating now? Just you wait.

There are so many different things people can do to make money and/or contribute to society. I don’t understand why all the good stuff disappeared and we are left with only the shit. Whose bright idea was this? Lemme go burn down his headquarters. It’s guaranteed to be a him. Men ruin fucking everything.

Meanwhile, I have steak and some cream of mushroom soup for those green beans in the pantry and also a PUMPKIN FUCKING PIE BECAUSE FUCK YOU. There was ONE can of Reddi-Whip left in the dairy case, and it was a sugar-free variation. Did not care. I hate fake whipped cream. I have some breakfast fixings too. I’m kind of set.

Okay. Bed, soonish. Because I don’t need to make things worse for myself tomorrow.

[TTTO: “If You’re Happy And You Know It”]

If you’ve never had a penis, you’re not gay
If you’ve never had a penis, you’re not gay
Ladybeard is here to stay
You can’t trans your straight away
If you’ve never had a penis, you’re not gay

If she says she’s into girldick, she is bi
If she says she’s into girldick, she is bi
If you’re her first-ever guy
You may protest and deny
If she says she’s into girldick, she is bi

If she’s lesbian, she does not want your dick
If she’s lesbian, she does not want your dick
You may think this is a trick
It may even make you sick*
If she’s lesbian, she does not want your dick

—-
*You may substitute “And I hope it makes you sick,” depending on how vindictive you feel as you sing this.

Absolute solidarity with the women of Women’s Declaration International USA, who were brutally assaulted in Portland, Oregon today.

In case my brother peeks in, which I’m not sure he does as I don’t think I’ve seen him trigger the visitor counter, one of the women they attacked is Facebook friends with me, so there’s your odd little family connection. I support her 100% unreservedly in this matter. She speaks for me.

Everything the trans goons say about us is what they’re guilty of.

“They’re trying to erase us” When you add men to the definition of woman, “woman” doesn’t mean anything anymore. Every time women try to come up with an alternative word for ourselves, these fucks take that word too. We’ve been erased out of the educational literature published by major medical regulating bodies and advocacy organizations in favor of the too-vague word people. Please do note these assholes never believed we were people until they didn’t want to call us women anymore.

“They want us dead” Please do take note of their signs that say KILL ALL TERFS. That’s us. They want to kill us.

“They got Roe overturned” If you look at the text of the Supreme Court decision overturning Roe vs. Wade you find a curious little gem about how there is legal precedent that a state’s regulation of abortion “is not a sex-based classification” (go to that link, hit ctrl and F at the same time, type in “sex” and hit Enter and you’ll see it), essentially claiming that somehow a state can ban abortion without discriminating against a specific sex. The only way you can decide that regulation of abortion is not a sex-based classification is if you think that people of either sex can get pregnant. Now I wonder who signs on to THAT idea. Could it be… the morons who claim that men can get pregnant?

“They subscribe to conservative gender norms” Who’s going around saying that people who love spinny skirts, pink, and sparkles are women? Not us.

“They’re homophobic” Who’s going around calling gay men and lesbian women “genital fetishists“? Can someone please ask these assholes why they don’t plaster straight people with that label? I keep getting blocked.

I’m so fed up with this shit. I don’t care what happens to them anymore. I just want something done about them. They destroyed my daughter and they destroyed my life and they’ve fucked up everything I’ve ever valued or loved. Be as nice as you like, just fucking stop them. I can’t by myself. Grow a goddamn spine. Show some fucking principle. You all know perfectly fucking well what a woman is. We’re the ones you keep shitting on so you can simp for the men you call women because you know they’re fucking men and you ALWAYS simp for fucking men. We see you. You know we see you. It’s why you want to shut us up.

“That’s what you get for hating men.” No, darlin’, that’s WHY we hate men.

…I dunno. Even now, even with all this shit going on? I can’t say I hate all men. I WILL say those of you I don’t hate are on extreme probation: one wrong move and you go on the permanent shit list. The stakes are too high. I’m done with your fucking clowning. Shape the fuck up or fuck the fuck off. You will NOT be missed.

…

I want to start some shit here to fight this insanity. I don’t even know where to begin. One of the ways this movement has ruined my life is that I’ve been talking about this issue for many, many years (since 2009 or earlier!) and, over the same intervening years, have watched nearly all my so-called “friends” fall away, quietly for the most part, and pretty much to a person they’ve pulled off their disappearances after I’ve gone on at length about gender identity again. One memorable and recent exception not only took me to task but made it crystal fucking clear that she hadn’t understood a word I’d said on the subject. Every argument she had I’d already addressed, every logical failure of the gender identity movement I’d already skewered and disproven. WHOOSH right over her head. She didn’t understand or she didn’t want to. It should be noted she is also a highly stereotypically-feminine woman, so my theory is that her identity is all tangled up in this stupidity and if she had to concede it was all made-up bullshit, she’d have to reconstruct her identity. Got that? The fact we’re poisoning kids and mutilating young girls is less important than Vicki’s possibly having to think of herself differently. Holy shit. They’re all like this. It’s insane. What fucking planet did I wake up on? This is not my home world. This is some fruit-loops alternative dimension straight out of The Twilight Zone. Thanks, I hate it. Can I go home now, please?

I digressed a bit. Point is, now that I’ve been abandoned, where do I find like minds here? I know of a couple women, but they are constantly out of town and we’ve never met in person, anyway. It may be I’ll have to start off sneaky. I can make stickers. I might just do that for a while, see what happens. I won’t need a printing service and my printer can’t be traced to me (I didn’t buy it, I never registered it, and it’s an older model), so that’s one obstacle down.

We’ll see. If you start hearing about me on the news, change the channel, you fucking cowards. Don’t you fucking dare claim you were with us all along when we win, either. Nothing short of “we’re sorry, you were right all along,” paying for our children’s detransition and therapy, paying our legal fees, and kissing our asses for the rest of your miserable lives will do.

You put yourselves into this shit by being chickenshit. Don’t cry to me. I don’t fucking care anymore. I see what you are, and have nothing but contempt for you.

…

I got another day in. Didn’t start as early, but I suppose I did all right. I need to get into the habit, when I accept calls, of checking whether the dollars and miles match. If the entire trip is more miles than I’m earning in dollars then I need to reject the offer. I would have some wiggle room if I’ve had some good runs and then get a stinker because it will all average out, but I have to be careful with that. It’s not worth going 100 miles a day — which I do, routinely, more often than not — if I’m not also earning $100 or more a day.

You people barely tipping for big shopping trips or whatever need to get off your fat asses and go get it yourself. I am fat and I’m running circles around you. But they have motorized scooters in those places and disabled seating. So you don’t even have that obstacle.

I was saying a while back on Facebook that while there are definitely issues with the wealthy and how they treat the poor and the working class, at the end of the day it’s the wealthy being willing to shell out more money, while the middle class think they’re entitled to luxuries at Walmart prices. Worse than nouveaux riches. Totally without class in every way that counts. I’m not going to cry when the middle class disappears any more than I’ll cry when the gender-identity simpers are finally discredited and publicly shamed. You’re fucking asking for this, so sit the fuck down and take your medicine. You cannot have a middle class when the poor have no hope of climbing out of poverty. Where the fuck do you think the middle class comes from?

…

I need to double-check but I’m pretty sure I can get on the VSP vision plan, and I should. I haven’t said anything all along but I think my eyesight is going to shit, and not just my close vision, either. I’m hoping it’s just blue-light damage or something. I would not be ashamed to wear bifocals; in fact, I’d rather have those than have to do this constant song and dance of taking my glasses off to drive and so on. But if it’s something worse than that, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m extremely visually oriented. It’d be as bad as losing my right hand. But will I get on the plan anytime soon? Dunno. I am not my own best friend, I suppose.

Which reminds me. I meant to ask on Facebook about this and whether anyone’s noticed it, but I’ve begun wondering if the reason everything looks duller is just my eyes getting older. And what do you know. Goddamn it. I suppose I’ll be getting cateracts removed when I’m a bit older, too — Dad did.

But the thing I originally was talking about here wasn’t colors looking duller. I’ve been 20/20 my whole life, but now stuff farther off is starting to blur. Meh.

…

Have not heard back from that cleaning outfit. Not at all surprised. I have to say this is probably another way the gender identity movement is ruining my life because while I’m being much more of an asshole about it lately, you can’t even NICELY object to being politically misdefined and erased without employers looking at you going “nope…” They can tell themselves they’re still hiring women even though it’s cocks in frocks, and the feds back them up. You people who think this is all our fault for Not Being Nice actually thought society was mostly over with men oppressing women. Holy shit. I TOLD you. Even before this became an issue. When you cannot even object to your own erasure and to others’ sexual harassment and oppression of you, you are NOT liberated.

I should have started figuring out an alternative path back in August. I just feel so stuck. Like I have all along.

Yesterday was headache day apparently, and I should have gone out later when I felt a bit better but I also hadn’t gotten enough sleep due to being awakened by the headache. I don’t like driving when I’ve not had enough sleep; I like driving in the dark when I’ve not had enough sleep even less, and sunset comes early now. So I got out there earlier today to try to get ahead a bit. I’m not ahead nearly enough for my comfort. It went pretty well today, considering nearly all my runs were midrange or stinkers. If I get about $1 per mile gross, that’s pretty good. I surpassed that goal.

…

I didn’t mention but I applied, or sent in sort of a pre-application actually, on a local employer’s website Friday night. So obviously, I’m not going to hear back until tomorrow at the earliest. It is possible I may not hear back at all. If I do hear back and they actually hire me full-time, it’ll be decent wages, at least. They’re based in Dublin, so if I got the full-time hours I could either find a way to stay in Dublin or I could move southeast to Clintonville, or at least to north Clintonville/ south Worthington. Hard to believe with prices doing what they’re doing but there are still some affordable units out there. Mind you, they’re normally in older buildings. As long as the neighborhood isn’t a war zone and someone’s staying on top of the bugs and repairs, I’m good.

But that’s me getting ahead of myself, which I am wont to do. I don’t know what I get so excited about. I will undoubtedly fuck it up again.

…

Doug called while I was on a run. Picture it: Sicily, 1922. I’m in this neighborhood I’ve got little experience with (some, not a lot). Uber’s GPS has fucked up and sent me turning down a side street when I should have gone straight. I’m trying to pull up Google Maps, because it’s usually more accurate. Customer has started texting me to explain how to get to her place. At the same time, Doug’s trying to call. All on the same screen at the same time. Doug rang twice in less than a minute, mind you (or so it seemed: new phone quirks?). Being noped once wasn’t enough, apparently. Fortunately my course correction was very short and Doug finally gave up, or I might have veered straight into a meltdown.

The timing of his call versus my post yesterday is a bit too convenient to ignore. Well, in one sense. Was quite happy to ignore it in the other sense.

I have had plenty of time to go over all sorts of past shit in my mind over the past two years. A lot of it’s been about Matt and Thea but face it, a lot’s been about my general family situation too. I want to talk about it here but I can’t get up the arsed-enough-to-bother right now. If I had to sum it up in as few words as possible — and for me you know that’s a monumental task — it would be “when it comes to dealing with me, nearly everyone I know insists on snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.” I’m so fucking easy. (Hell, I used to be easy in that way, but of course that’s not applicable in this context.) I really am. Sit the fuck back and chill, don’t talk like an asshole, don’t lie to me, don’t make promises you won’t (not can’t) keep, don’t assume stupid things about me that aren’t true, don’t tell me I’m bad for the most minimal shit. I’m so tired of this. Why do I ever have to explain this? I’m NOT a princess. I’m NOT high-maintenance. You fuckers are all just high-damage. Could you stop it? Fucking finally? Just go away? You won’t stop being human bulldozers, so go bulldoze somewhere else. I’m fucking tired. Enough already.

I don’t get how I’m the one looking for drama where there isn’t any. I would not even be in this mess had anyone ever, at any point in my life, been fucking capable of accepting me as I am. Even Doug. He wanted this perfect big sister who always entertained him and kicked larger boys’ asses for picking fights with him. Someone he could kick around in turn when his life was shitty, with zero consequences to him. How dare I have any issues with that whatsoever. I should have just shut up and done what I was told. You know what? Pay me back the money you fucking owe me and apologize, SINCERELY, for all that shit. It was still going on when you were old enough to be tried as an adult for murder. Don’t “we were just kids” me, fucker. And my parents? My being so quiet at three years old that their friends didn’t know they had a kid was a PROBLEM for some reason. I was basically Dream Kid, with a few weird habits and aversions thrown in. I remember Reba beating me once for waving goodbye to her as she left for work (after lunch?) when I was supposed to be taking a nap. No way of knowing I wouldn’t have laid right back down — I remember that day. I was still actually in my bed. They always assume the worst. They have from day one. Or they’d lash out and I’d be the punching bag. Dad once left a bruise on my arm about the diameter of a baseball. My memory may be exaggerating but I don’t think so. I remember it turning green as it healed. I’m still scared of him now. I could probably knock him flat now without half thinking about it, and his anger still sets me on edge. That is so fucked up. Oh sure. Cry about what a terrible daughter I am. Fuck off.

I said I didn’t want to talk about it. This isn’t really talking about it. This is grousing. But I’m gonna leave the rest aside for now or I’m really gonna get ugly. I already look ugly. I don’t need to help it any farther along. In a nutshell: Fuck all y’all.

Maybe not Mom. She’s trying. More like I’m curious to see if she really will send the guitar. I lost the blanket Chaise’s grandmother made me. I’d like something else of his. But I don’t have much faith it will happen. I wouldn’t ghost her over it, but I’m also not assuming nothing else will happen that I would ghost her over. Like I said. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Nobody knows how to just be normal with me. I don’t get it. It’s always got to be the bullshit sooner or later.

…

I don’t know what I did the other day but I was trying to update the homepage and I lost like one-third of it. I need to go back and fix that, which I will do when I get done here.

[edit] Never mind — I’ll get to it when I get to it. [/edit]

I have these weird moments. Like brain glitches. I’m pretty sure I had one the night I fell on my face in July. There was no reason I should have tripped that hard, but I did. Not long before that I was having major issues trying to park in front of my place. It was like the lights were not all on in my head. This isn’t a regular thing, but it’s got me skittish anticipating it getting worse. I’m not sure if my brain glitched with the website or just fat-fingered something. That’s a technical term, by the way. I am not sure if it’s actually possible to do it with a physical keyboard, or even if that’s how it happened. Could be I mishandled the trackpad. But the maddening thing is not knowing.

It makes it so much worse when people are being shit with me and then notice me glitching and take advantage of that. Went through something like that when I left Mike and lost Sean. Which is one reason I’m not panicking about it happening now. It is just my brain refusing to cope with the reality, I guess, or just me not having enough spoons to keep all cylinders firing because I’m using up too many by freaking out. But I hate my brain being like that. I don’t want the glitches. I want things to work right. It’s one more reason I get so angry when bullshit starts.

…

I think I’m coming down with a cold. Grumble. I hope it’s a cold. Flu’s going around and COVID never completely went away.

I’m still going to deliver, incidentally, because I have no other choice. And as I wouldn’t have caught this thing if you sick fuckers would stay the fuck home, I don’t give a single shit if that bothers you. Don’t want to deal with plague rats? Don’t be a fucking plague rat. Good talk.

Heard from both Carrie and Doug today, so that was weird. Nothing going on with Dad, at least not in a bad way.

Doug sent me a random reel on Instagram. We chatted very briefly — like, two messages each. That was it. After weeks of nothing.

Carrie wanted me to give her my social security number and address because she is filling out an updated form for Dad’s life insurance. Dad’s been saying for years he wants me to have half and Doug to have half. Previously Carrie was supposed to distribute it but now, for some reason, they’re going for a direct payment.

The problem is that I am not stable. Oh sure, I got housed this year. That ends in January and I may or may not have another apartment by then. Whatever happens, I don’t know how often my address will change in the future. It seems less efficient to have a person oversee the disbursement of funds, but in my case it actually makes more sense because I don’t have to worry about losing the info I need to notify the life insurance carrier of change of address and, hey, someone from home might fucking look in every now and again. I mean what if I fucking died tomorrow and there wasn’t anyone left to pay my half to.

But here we are, and I’ve gotten this vibe off Carrie that she’d rather not have anything more to do with us brats anyway, and it’s really hard to explain because she’s been nothing but nice, but it’s just these little things in and around the edges of conversations and so on. One of those things Southern women do rather than confront the elephant in the room: go politely distant. It’s not like we keep up with one another regularly, anyway. I hate to say it, but… I can understand her having issues with Doug. He’s been borderline to actually horrid for literal decades. Me? I was the good kid of us two. Not an objectively good kid, maybe, but definitely the less-trainwrecky. No one wants to admit it for some reason, but it’s true. No one stopped to ponder whether I might have good reasons for going distant and dropping contact. No one gives a sweet shit. I’m just bad. The end.

So I think at this point I am just going to wash my hands of the whole thing. Doug can have all the money, or they can send my half to Thea and Sean, if they can even fucking find them. I won’t hold my breath. I doubt they’ll even try. My kids have mattered to that family even less than I have — and of course, they’ll blame me. They always do.

I’m not fucking forgetting none of them had a word to say the entire time I was homeless, including shelter time, either. I heard from Reba. A complete non-relative. Who I might add was also rejected by Dad’s family and always resented by Mom’s — the latter sort of understandable, I guess, but one can become so engrossed in despising the adults that one forgets to look after the kids. She showed them up. Probably another reason they hate her. I’m not idealizing her — there are reasons I’ve been distant from her too — but there it is. Face it.

Anyway, I don’t like even thinking about that shit. I was thinking about it pretty hard when he got into medical trouble in the past few months. Pondering what the hell I would do if I wound up with a life-insurance payout. And then I would stop myself short. What the fuck is wrong with you? I’d ask myself. He’s your father, not a fucking lottery ticket. But this is where things have wound up. You have these thoughts you’d rather not have. I’m going to stop giving myself reasons for having them. Nobody needs that shit when they’re already down low. Or any other time, but when you’re bottomed out there are already far too many other opportunities for losing your dignity.

Besides, if Doug gets it all, he still has a kid to raise and she isn’t even double-digits age yet. I’ve got nobody. I’ll never have anybody again. Put it where it’s needed, I say.

I’m not speaking to either of them directly about my decision. I see the pattern: we’re only going to bother with Dana when Dana’s daddy’s in distress. Nah. They’ll figure it out. The only other time I hear from them being when I say something they don’t like, I see how much I’m worth. They’ll be along eventually and figure it out. I couldn’t possibly care less.

This doesn’t mean I’ll never talk about the past, or share photos, or whatever. I’m weak in a lot of ways, but I’m not weak in that way. The past happened. It doesn’t help anything to pretend it didn’t. There were good times too. I’m glad they happened. I wish there’d been more of them. The end. Moving on now.

…

I’m not on LinkedIn anymore. Supposedly my profile will continue popping up in searches until it’s purged from the system. That site is full of pretentious fucking gits and I’m tired of holding space there. I’m thinking about dropping off of Classmates, too. Probably will. If people can’t figure out how to find me, they don’t want to. That’s their problem. What I’ll do with the other social-media things, I don’t know yet. I’m rapidly getting bored with the whole fucking mess. I’d rather work on my own shit, even on the internet. If people want to look at it, they will. If they’re fucking gits, they can “git” themselves someplace else. What a fucking waste of time.

There were a couple people I heard from on LinkedIn from my pre-internet days: one from high school, one from the Army. After that first flush of “oh hey, you’re here!” they both ghosted. Christine had good reason. See, she had really shitty timing in contacting me: I had just had my final falling-out with Craig, who fucked her when we were still together and I was in basic training. She made the mistake of being condescending to me when I made one final attempt at sorting shit out, I told her off, and that was it. John, well, John was always a flake. I’m surprised he even reached out. I expect I’ll never hear from him again. But I had a brief moment of “eh? Should I save that stuff somehow?” Nah. Doesn’t matter. Moving on now.

I’m doing a lot of that. It needed done.

…

I’m honestly not sure at this point how this month will go for rent even with the additional $250. But I had a good day today. Also a very well-traveled day; I crossed Alum Creek Lake.

Twice.

Admittedly, the second time was going back the way I had come. But still. Got a good look at that holiday light display they have on the South Section Line Road side of the lake (the west side), too. I kinda want to go. It’s a drive-through sort of thing.

Okay. Need sleep. zzzzz

(I’m pretending I wrote this before midnight. It’s actually 4am on Saturday now.)