You really are worthless. You could’ve texted me maybe and asked me it I was OK. Noooooo, you had to call the cops.
To whoever called the cops, fuck you. You have no reading comprehension and no understanding. Please stay away from me and fuck off. You have a lot more fucking problems than I do.
I recorded this video about 5 days ago, but didn’t get it uploaded until yesterday.. I had to edit out part of my face, because I realized to my horror I had some chocolate on my face!
In epilogue to the video, I was on the phone with a friend last night and she told me about someone who passed away recently. My friend told her about something I had done and the dying woman laughed hysterically. Less than 24 hours later, she left this world. So, at least I know that somewhere I sort of eased someone’s suffering for a minute. That actually makes me happy.
I didn’t even know they did this anymore, Poetry Rallies. I haven’t wrote a poem in years. Maybe 2011? Be afraid. Be very afraid. In fact, if you think this is really bad, tell me, please!
Back before everyone died;
Mama made turkey breast, boiled then baked.
Stuffing made of sausage and cornbread.
Cranberry sauce fresh from the can.
Discord from Grandma; Grandpa can’t see his plate.
New gifts and wrapping paper on the floor.
A feeling of home I don’t have anymore.
Now I go out to eat.
I did my first YouTube video in a century.
Signed a new lease on the 2nd, which marks six years of living alone. When that time of the year rolls around I’m always terrified that they’ll say they don’t want ‘Cat Lady’ anymore. The thing I worry about the worst is being homeless or losing agency over myself.
I have a teacher from back when I was 6 who wants me to come live with her two states away because she’s still obsessed with me. She hasn’t seen me since age 8 and has tons of “Lisa memorabilia.” She must still see me as 8 or less. She means well, but I can discern her Evangelical need to save me from being a liberal, a social justice warrior, and only a mainline Christian. The thought of having to suppress myself is horrifying. I think the first time I drop something and say the F bomb or GD it, she’d realize her mistake in thinking I’m still my pure 7 years-old self. I always say, “No, thank you. I’m happy with my life here, but I really appreciate it.” My mom, were she still alive, would be concerned about her like she was when I was young.
In other news, my best friend and I thought we heard gunshots while we were feeding strays. It must not have been shots though, because Deputy Doughnut n’ crew took their time to bother responding, circled around my neighborhood disaffected, and left. I was moderately scared. By the end of it all, I felt it was like being in Vanilla Ice’s video:
Vanilla Ice: Gunshots rang out like a bell.
So yeah, I was moderately afraid and shielded my friend by putting my massive frame in front of where the gun sound came from. We laid on the ground and she called the cops. I personally just wanted to get the hell out of there, my flight mechanism in full on ‘haul ass’ mode. Then we hurried over to the handicapped ramp and hid for awhile. So, it must have been a car backfiring. I’d have given the experience a 8 out of 10 stars in the anxiety department, because as my mind works, ” Being shot isn’t as bad as the fear of being homeless.” I felt pretty stupid, and was grateful that the cops didn’t feel obliged to stop and talk to us. There’s some drugs in my complex, but as far as I know, no one’s ever been shot here. You have to go about a mile or so to get to a neighborhood where people get shot, really. I could imagine the cops laughing at the cat ladies as they went by. “Hysterical biddies,” I imagine them saying to each other. So yeah, unless someone’s bleeding out, I won’t be calling.
My brain feels a bit foggy. Hopefully this is a temporary thing. While I’m trying to pass it off as merely sepsis, early onset dementia, and/or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, I am concerned my brain is just gourded. I am doing better, so that’s a problem. Maybe I’m just nervous. Even with three psychotropic drugs in my system, I still imagine disaster around the corner. A spark in the back of my brain always feels unease. Sometimes it’s just an ember barely glowing, sometimes it’s five alarm….but the point is, it never really leaves. A friend says she wouldn’t want anything in her system that messes with her personality. “But I’m doing better. Can’t you see?” is my response. People just can’t get it. I’m sick, but I can’t get rid of it with just a case of the runs. There’s things I find difficult to discuss verbally. My compulsions are hidden from view, but I’m always doing them. And they’re an iota better! One less step in something plotted out in tens of steps. You might ask me what I’m doing, as I appear to be non-productive, but I can’t explain how I get stuck in my rituals. I honestly don’t know how to conduct myself without them, but a little relief to me is a big thing.
At least I can still write semi-coherent sentences.
Recently, I got a new nurse practitioner for my psych meds. She seems nice enough: mid-fifties, doesn’t seem burned out, doesn’t feel it necessary to speak to me as though I were a dim-witted 10 year-old, so I like her just fine. Julie has some experience with OCD sufferers according to her blurb on Google, and she seized on the fact that I was still sub par. Always anxious and paranoid of everyone in my neighborhood, I’m just a regular Ms. Congeniality. She wanted to try me on Risperdal or Zyprexa, and decided on the former.
when I finally had the courage (and my $3.00 Medicaid co-pay) to try it, I looked upon the tiny brick-red pills with a mixture of trepidation and psycho hope. This could be my missing link to making life worth living! Maybe I can be normal now or fake it. Maybe I can stop hating myself and having ideation pop into my head.
The risperdal has helped some. I feel less terrified around my neighbors. I think a medication would have to put me in a coma, however, to stop me from checking the front door for an angry missive or an eviction notice twice a day. I still feel like I could lose everyone and everything I love in an instant. Everyone I love dead in a pile like Hamlet.
Sometimes my depression just slaps me when I least expect it. Sometimes I regurgitate everything in my head. I hate being a sub-standard person. I sometimes feel like festering trash of the
, and se
As eBay has yet to publish my review on Ectopamine topical flea treatment, I’ll share my thoughts on it here.
While no one died, Ectopamine dyed one of my cats’ fur orange in places she wasn’t orange before.
I’m not talking a mild tint either. Orange like the drink mix, Tang. Orange, the neon color of a highlighter. Orange like the way they mark livestock for slaughter.
Beyond not being aesthetically pleasing, another of my cats is scratching the area behind her neck, perhaps from a mild reaction to Ectopamine. All of them have a cinnamon scent great for potpurri, but not so fitting for a cat’s sensitive nose.
I’m writing this, because there are no Ectopamine horror stories, so I thought maybe the next person who Google’s Ectopamine might find this and think maybe I shouldn’t buy this. Besides it has essential oils in it, and many of them are toxic to cats in large enough doses.