Ocdbloggergirl's Blog: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings

More Mental Malaise, Less Donald Trump

Certain Truths Regarding New Years — January 22, 2015

Certain Truths Regarding New Years

The world packages the  new year as hope personified. It’s a lie. One month into 2015 and I laugh bitterly at the idiot I was thinking this year would be any different.  In fact it’s worse.

Today I walked out to the lake just to make sure I was still among other humans. Apparently God is still in His Heaven and all is right with the world because the closeted gays were still around the gazebo.

I’ve been off my meds almost two weeks  and my dreams are filled with nonsensical mixes of my mother, the unmaterialized landlady, and suicide.

In reality I’m too much attached to my cats to kill myself, but I like the idea of people complaining about a smell which turns out to be my fat rotting carcus. One final fuck you to everyone who never gave a damn.

I remember hearing about a guy who lived in the apartment across the hall from us before we lived at our old apartment. Apparently he overdosed on whatever his drug of choice was and was  only found two weeks later because of the stench. Ugh.

This was the year I was supposed to make new friends, expand my horizons, take a class. Fuck it.

There are two types of people in this world, the useful and the the useless. Some will die mourned. Others, like me, will one day keel over with a coronary and be diiscovered when their stench permeates the walls .

I think I better get my meds tomoorow even though there are other pressing needs

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A Love Letter Sent to Me and Someone Else — January 21, 2015

A Love Letter Sent to Me and Someone Else

Hi Pretty, How are you today beautiful one, hope you are doing well?. Sorry for bugging you up with my message; It's a beautiful day here and I do believe it's the same for you. Oh dear, forgive my eyes for admiring your beauty, I saw your profile photo with your gorgeous look and thought I should say HI to this pretty Angel (YOU). Your look is good and I do hope that your heart speaks the same as your beautiful Look (smiles). Beauty, I believe should radiate from the inside and not just limited to the face. You seem truly a nice person and that drew my attention to you. Could you give me a chance to talk with you and maybe we can also share good ideas about ourselves and get to know each others. I most tell you less i forget, you are indeed a very beautiful looking woman with a sweet charming face, what a wonderful warming smile on it as you captured my attention my first sight to your profile photo. (smile) *wink* Hope to hear from you soon. best regards, Johan

Someday my Nigerian Prince will come and send me and and a few others a declaration of love.

Panic Rant #3 — January 14, 2015

Panic Rant #3

It’s official. My neighbors are gunning for me. I’m on the radar of my landlady, and I feel like  I want to take a long walk off a short pier. Lord’ why can’t my asshole neighbors mind their own business or drop dead or something.  From one fat fuck to  another, FAT FUCKS! I bet it was Douchebag Dan and Tubby Terry. Douchebag Dan lives upstairs, is on disability for his back, and I keep thinking one day he will come through the ceiling.  If he moves I hear him. If he coughs, I hear him.  No lie, I know when he takes a piss and it’s like someone is running a hose.
Tubby Terry lives across from me, doesn’t work, and seemingly takes every meal via Dominos pizza or Chinese. He has heart problems.
I sometimes have odor emanating from my cat boxes and they complained, plus the landlady, Marge the Minge, knows I’m a hoarder and a slob. My cats are well cared for, but sometimes their boxes get pissy before  I can get new litter.
She told my friend if I don’t  clean up she’ll hire someone at my expense. Look, I know it’s me with the problem but what about my fucking right to privacy?
I don’t fuck with them, they shouldn’t fuck with me.  I just want to be left alone. Go in your apartments and shut the fucking door, you worthless fucks.  Fuck off and die.
An acquaintance of mine has agreed to help me and hopefully she’ll get  Marge the Minge off me. She’s going to call Mingey and be all professional. Hopefully APS, The Health Department, Animal Control, DSS and the NSA won’t be called. Gosh, I really wish I could just go to sleep and not wake up anymore.  I am not going into a home and I’m not parting with my pets. I just want to live out my miserable life here with my three cats.
In my lineage there are hoarders . A branch on my maternal grandpa’s side. The A’s were the hoarders of their mountain homeland. Dirty, filthy, cluttery, people would go to their house just to gawk at the spectacle. They were the black sheep. Probably one of the reasons the remainder of my relatives don’t want anything to do with me is the clutter Cousin Diane saw when she visited, not to mention how my mom never contacted them again afterward.
Clusterfuck.

Panic Rant #1 — January 6, 2015

Panic Rant #1

I feel so alone. My special assistance check is late and I’m worried it won’t come in time or at all. If I don’t get that check, my complex starts evictions on the 14th. I can’t get anyone at social services to call me back. When I went to someone seeking comfort, the person fusses me out for what I did the night before. I accepted a ride from someone that person hates with a good reason. It was 37 degrees outside, it was dark and I’d have had to take 2 buses to get home. So went dumpster diving with her for a couple of hours, she brought me home. I didn’t exchange numbers to keep in contact with her, figuring that was loyalty enough to the person mad at me. WRONG! So this person is yelling at me while I’m trying hard not to lose control. I feel myself tearing up and I hate crying in front of people, so I leave for the person’s sake and mine. I think of all the times I listen and help this person out and I cry some more. This evening this person texts me that this person will not go to social services with me, though  this person knows how upset I am. This person does have a fever, but I believe this person’s main reason for not going anyway was a jab at me for getting into a warm car with someone this person hates. (because stupid fucking me  would have gone somewhere even if I was sick if this person needed me). I’m almost at the end of my proverbial rope. What if they decided to take me off the program without notifying me of the change? What if they simply lost it (this happened once) and can’t get me a new one before eviction starts? What if I end up losing my cats and being thrown into a home? What if no one else will rent to me? I’m not going anywhere without my cats. I’m hoping this will all be resolved soon.  I hope someone throws me a lifeline soon. I don’t know how much more I can take.

Belated Birthday Post December 8, 2014 — January 2, 2015

Belated Birthday Post December 8, 2014

If it’s snowing at WordPress and winter is nigh, Jesus and I are having birthdays.  I share my birthday with Ann Coulter, December 8th, and my birthday is also the day that guy shot John Lennon. While Ann Coulter is biting the head off of a chicken at her fete, my birthday is more subdued. I wait at a bus terminal attempting to go to my favorite place to dumpster dive. I like hitting the craft store and Dollar Tree, because everyone knows Dollar Tree is so damn expensive these days. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll even meet up with my would-be lover again. One day I headed for the Beyond part of Bed, Bath, and Beyond to scavenge through their brightly spray painted trash when a chunky transient  made   his suite by asking if he could touch my boob. I  declined  his romantic gesture and hurried away, but  at least at about 37  I still attracted  homeless Don Juans.

It is dusk by the time I make it to the craft store  and I fumble through the garbage using my tablet for light.  In the end I find a few ornaments, one a clay snowman. My mother would have loved this, I think, with a slight pain that vaguely reaches above my subconscious  before it’s gone. The memories of that other Lisa.

When inside Dollar Tree, some stocking woman asks if I paid for the stuff peeking out of my book bag. I sigh, hating her, opening my bag and telling her I got  the stuff from the craft store. I added, “In their dumpster, actually” in an icy tone. Did she apologize? Hell no.

Later that evening, I’m in a bar drinking Sundrop and listening to trivia. It’s too cold outside to wait a half hour for the bus. The bar has “hell” in the title, so of  course it’s warm. On the muted TV,  John Lennon is being canonized on ESPN, the sports channel. 

The bartender must have thought ,  ” poor cat lady,” my dollar bag of cat litter sitting by my seat like a the badge of my permanent  virgin state. One of my cards is declined, and before I can pull another, she gives me my soda on the house. Happy birthday, indeed.

The ornaments I found in the craft store dumpster.
The ornaments I found in the craft store dumpster.
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