Tenth Blogiversary: Plague Year Edition

So yeah, I’ve been here 10 years on the 25th. Who knew when I hit ‘publish’ that day that 10 years later I’d be writing this. My biggest fears were realized, I began living alone, and now I’m living through a plague. Good times.

There are things I intend to do this year if I’m not taken by pestilence or misadventure. I want to finally type out my journal from 2012 written in that nursing home. Maybe I’ll see if my journal from my early 20s has anything I should share too. I want to write more blogs and maybe see if some publications will publish something I write for fun. I want to do more Youtube, maybe eventually even stream on Twitch just to pass time and make a few friends. I really wanted to edit writing for someone to give me some purpose, but the one time I did it, I didn’t do it right. It’s doubtful I will ever get to do that, but maybe. I want to do something meaningful for someone. Good luck.

Someone actually likes me romantically. Now I’m sure the world is ending! I expect if he was ever in the same room as me, he would be repulsed, but who knows? I’m enjoying being liked. I’m afraid everyone will dislike or become annoyed at me and hate me.

i’m going to be writing something about going out during the plague. Stay tuned. God willing, we will see 2021 together.

It’s 3 am. I am perfectly, painfully sober now. I don’t have a headache mercifully, but now my mind has jumped from deserving to die from Plague to the fear that everyone I care about probably dislikes me secretly or at least finds me annoying. This fear is always low key there, but it’s becoming magnified.

As you may know, I try to keep away from my neighbors as much as possible. I fear they hate me for being a cat lady, or a freak , or something to that effect. It can’t be logical. Otherwise, they would be launching complaints about me. But I still stay away. I worry stores think I’m going to shoplift. I worry people passing on the street are thinking terrible things about me. It’s nothing new. But I keep thinking everyone now dislikes me.

The last time my friend got mad at me , she said “You’re going to have no friends now, and you’ll be completely alone.” She sent me into an utter panic. She also let “retard ” slip for good measure. Everyone does think I’m mentally challenged, that’s true. She forgave me, though. It was when the strays didn’t show one day.

I feel like I should stay away from people in general, lest I anger everyone. I need to go back to sleep before I completely drive myself insane. I wonder if my dad felt this way and that’s why he annihilated himself with booze. My kind of mental is heritable for sure.

I remember being 9 or 10 and having to be reassured by my grandmother that I wasn’t a bad person. This happens a lot, the urge to be reassured that I’m not a bad person. Do bad people worry about being bad? Probably not.

I Deserve It

I thought I was over my mother, p everything is bringing it back. To die by Coronavirus isn’t so different from dying by sepsis caused by pneumonia. I feel unbearable guilt that I’m still alive. If I could take on someone’s else’s virus so that they might be OK, I would.

I survived the illness that killed my mother. My mother was such a nice person, worth 20 of me. Most people loved her, and she had been a productive human being unlike me.

.

I am in part responsible for my mother’s death. If I had not insisted on going to be with my friend at the emergency room when she had a panic attack, my mom would not have been in the waiting room where she no doubt picked up the pneumonia that killed her. If I had taken her temperature and begged her even more than I did, maybe she’d be alive today.

I may have finally met the man who will avenge my mom today. I was at the bus stop by the hospital and he came up to me, smelling vaguely like hand sanitizer or alcohol. He wanted change for 5.00 and would take anything to get home. I could only find 2.50 and I was just going to let him have it, but he handed me the 5.00… I should have told him the bus takes 5.00 bills, but I didn’t because I’m a piece of shit. He seemed crazy and had a hospital band on. And then he started coughing.

I sat long enough so he wouldn’t think I was fleeing from him due to plague, but got away as soon as I could. He said the cops kept circling and he hadn’t done anything illegal yet.

I left the house because I wanted to turn in my disability review, but Social Security was closed for Corona Madness. I put it in mail.

I’m going to get drunk.

Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts the Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange

Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange

I kept thinking of him as I lay in bed that sultry afternoon. Donald. Donnie. Don. How he called me by his name and I lovingly called him “Mini Mikey,” his pet name for me.  How he had penetrated me with his miniature manhood and stretched me to my limits.

I reached for the orange I brought with me. I held it in both hands contemplating the somewhat misshapen orb, for it was  a navel orange. The pocked skin of the fruit reminded me of him, orange and rough. The nubbin at the end reminded me of his petite meat.

I began to peal the skin, opening the inside segments. It all began to remind me of his ass. The white of the inner peal clinging to the flesh of the orange reminded me of the thicket of hair hiding his  orifice. Having to part it to find my way in.

I was seized by a desperate yearning.  I yanked my erection out of my shorts, rubbing it against the flesh of the orange. The citric acid smarted a bit , but I was too rapt in ecstasy to care. I came hard, drenching the violated fruit with my Bloomberg juice.

Spent, I was about to toss the fruit on the floor for the help to find later, when Don opened the door.

“Whatcha doing there, Mikey…er…Donnie?”

“Uh well, Mikey, I was just…”

“Whatcha got there, pal?” Don asked, thick tiny fingers trying to seize the oozing orange from my hand. ” I am yugely hungry right now.”

“Don’t. I can’t bear it,” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes.

Don bit into the orange, juices running down his face. A secret service agent handed him his handkerchief.