Valentine’s Day

For Valentine’s Day, my despair was kept at bay by pepper steak with onions, hot and sour soup, and wonton/ egg drop combo soup. K bought it for me through Uber Eats after my present for her came. I think she might have anyway, but either way, I was happy.

Later in the evening, I made a call to Mr. Semi-Attached, but we were having difficulties on Whatsapp. I told him to call on Discord if he wanted, but he was busy. He asked me what I wanted. “Just to say Happy Valentine’s,” I texted. No reply. OK. Let it be said, he’s got the social graces of Attila the Hun. If he ever does come down here, he’ll find someone to fuck if not me. The joys of polyamory, I guess. Me, I just want to see what I’ve been missing out on these 45 years. What I missed out on when I freaked out on my would be ‘fuck buddy’ when I was 33. Though the idea of being basically someone’s cumsock sent me into despair back then.

I can imagine how it would be. My old school chum/ fuck buddy would’ve got me undressed, I’d have been too ashamed of my bulbous body and shy to let myself feel much excitement, he’d bust his nut, and I’d avert my eyes until it was over. I remember feeling nothing but surprise when I suddenly found his tongue trying to get in my mouth and feeling distress when he said he’d like to add me to his fuck buddies, of which he had a few. But I knew then at 33 that it might be my only chance to cross The Thing off my bucket list. Maybe me freaking out was a divine intervention. My old school chum swooped down a couple months after my mom’s death, vulnerability being such a turn on I guess. I wonder had I had him in my bush, would he have looked out for me? Would I have felt such desperation 3 months later when I had enough, comically in February and made my half ass attempt? Considering he’s never so much as said hello in the last 11 years, I guess I got my answer.

My friend who might be coming in the summer is much nicer. I love him, but I don’t love him. This is the best way unless some magical meeting of the minds occurs and my extremely guarded, avoidant heart opens up. But I think he actually loves me a little.

I keep thinking what I’m missing out on, and it’s much more than my sex drive which I’ve felt more of late. Cock would be nice, but I yearn for so much more. I want someone who could see through my hideous exterior and love me for being me. I would love someone who got my shitty sense of humor, but also wanted to have lengthy serious discussions with me and who wouldn’t see me as an idiot. Someone well-read and patient and who’d see me as ‘special’ in the good way.

The older I get, the more convinced that I’m such an anomaly that there isn’t anyone, and if there was someone, I wouldn’t be able to walk up to him. One thing I often felt with my memer friend was what if we had a serious conversation once, a lengthy one, in which he didn’t lie? While it wouldn’t have changed our relationship as friends much and he’d certainly see me as intellectually deficient , seeing as he has at least 50 IQ points over me, it would’ve been interesting. I think one of the reasons I can talk to him somewhat less shyly than others, is that I already know exactly what he thinks about me. I know he thinks I’m an idiot, a welfare leech, and not worthy of life. Somehow, knowing this makes it easier to talk to him. I can’t fall much lower in his estimation and it’s somewhat freeing. As much as it pains me to hear about my faults and how that ‘everyone is laughing at you’ and about my lack of likeability, it is refreshing. I think everyone at least finds me annoying and dumb, but the uncertainty is the killer, isn’t it?

Shit, my ear is ringing louder than usual. Maybe it’s how I’m angled. I always worry one day my tinnitus will get worse.

That’s it, that’s all I wanted to say as I feel my mood plummeting and damp in my eyes.

One Hell of a Christmas

A memory of Christmas Eve 2019: She had raged at both of us, but I think more at Oscar, especially when he defended me. Now Oscar and I are watching her tenderly feeding a stray cat while we stay in the car. We can’t believe the difference between that person and the miserable monster yelling at us at her house. Oscar tells me that I’m a nice person and that I don’t deserve this. He tells me he’s been through awful things, even killed people in the Mexican army, and he’d never treat people the way she does.

Christmas Eve 2020: Oscar’s been dead several months, and even though he told her to be nice to me as the stretcher took him away to the ambulance, she has decided I’m too much trouble to spend Christmas with.

Christmas Eve 2021: She doesn’t remember, but I made dinner and she came over. Nothing bad happened.

Christmas Eve 2022 wasn’t the worst Christmas I ever had. That honor goes to the one where she threatened to leave me in the middle of nowhere at night. But this one is a very close second. It was a massive failure in every way possible.

I missed the bus in 27 degree weather. This started it. She was enraged, so I was able to get an Uber. I didn’t see the driver in the car, the windows were tinted and he was very dark complected, so I approached a different Black guy. Very embarrassing.

When we got to her house, the driver said, “Oh, she’s got cats.”

“Yeah, she’s a cat lady,” I said, knowing I was in for it when I got in.

The big door was open and just the glass screen door was closed. There was a time years ago I got fussed at for ringing the bell while a cat was sick, so I knocked lightly and opened the screen door.

“YOU SCARED THE FUCK OUT OF ME!” she screamed brandishing a box cutter. “How’d you like it if I had cut you with this? What if I did that to you?” (She has – just knocked and came in, not cut me, heh).

Maybe it would’ve been for the best had she slit my throat and my festive red blood splattered everywhere. No more lonely. No more fucking up everything I touch. No more being a leech and a burden. But no, my suffering had only just begun.

She made me change my clothes in the garage in the 20s because…

“If I had to do it after getting bit, you have to .”

“Everything just has to be your way, ” she said repeatedly.

And then she found out I hadn’t defrosted the prime rib. That really was the end of things.

“The prime rib you bragged about getting all month on EBT? There’s something wrong with you,” she spat. A little monologue began with herself regarding my mental competence. ” I know you aren’t that debilitated. Well, maybe you are. Maybe your therapist can help you. There’s definitely something wrong with you. You act like you’re fucking Einstein, but.”

Please kill me, I kept thinking. Better to be dead. There’s nothing. Nothing here for me. Nothing. Over and over in my my mind. I kept wondering if Oscar was watching. A part of me thinks he knows she didn’t stop.

She got me a lot of nice gifts, but I’d have rather her just not be a cunt for one holiday. It was so much worse than I ever imagined.

I hoped my expensive gift ( bought on payments) would keep her from giving me any more hell. Who doesn’t want a waterproof Kindle Paperwhite right?

Her apparently, but I’ll get into that later.

We had Eggplant Parmesan she got with a couple other dishes from an Italian eatery.

“This should be enough for us,” I said hopefully.

“Yes, but I was HOPING for a feast with the prime rib.”

Somehow, the prime rib defrosted except for the very middle and we put it in the oven.

I didn’t volunteer to wash the dishes fast enough and she said the thing that almost made me walk out. I asked if she wanted to save the ziti on her plate. She accused me of wanting to eat her leftovers and I put the stopper on the counter without washing it after soaking the prime rib and I almost put the dish in her dishwasher without fully rinsing off the sauce.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t do anything for yourself. Your poor mother…”

I couldn’t see straight, my anger was so intense.

“Don’t talk about my mother!” And less loud, “You fucking bitch.”

“I wasn’t talking about your mother,” she claimed. I think it speaks volumes about her parents at what a bitter old cunt she’s become.

We began to get drunk. Miraculously, vodka and schnapps shots loosened her up. I’ve been present before when she was a mean drunk. This time she altered between happy and sad for Oscar. I’ll maintain to my dying day she was partially at fault for the suicidal binge of drugs and alcohol he went on that killed his liver, but it’s probably a little unfair of me. His liver was on the precipice of failure for years from crack, alcohol, and God only knows what else for years and he knew it. When he lost his job when the COVID mandates closed the restaurant’s indoor dining that was the last straw, but I think he was terrified of losing her to this guy from her past that was messaging her on Facebook. With no job, a secret drug habit, and an intense fear of being dumped,plus their constant arguing sometimes started by his antics, he no doubt felt like he had nothing to lose anymore.

When the prime rib was done, we had some and it was actually very delicious. I gave a tiny piece to one of the cats (who on the 26th had to go to the vet for an intestinal issue, though the piece was tiny and I licked off the spices) . I guess it is possible.

The Kindle, though the latest and brand new, lagged and had scrambled words. I got them to send her a new one, but she’s certain she’ll be charged for it and is mad she’ll have to take the other one to a UPS store.

So there you have it. If I have to lie and say I’m dying on New Years Eve I’m going to. I need time to recover.

Well, shit…

I privated a bunch of posts, but found this in my comments waiting for approval. I googled her name, and if she really is a therapist, she might not wish to come on as strongly as this. I’ve only had 3 critical comments in 12 years, no doubt because my blog is not widely read, but when they come, they hit. This isn’t the worst one. The worst was when someone said “I pity the people around you.” But this one, oh my… Maybe I am selfish and so off I don’t realize what a bitch I actually am. I really need to double down on trying to be selfless and try not to let my emotions get the better. If it is any consolation to anyone, I do dwell on my mistakes, and they repeat multiple times in my head. My mind could be far from my foibles, and suddenly, bam. I think this person was trying to be helpful, and yes, the person who said I might be a covert narcissist, is also herself mentally unstable, but… She’s not a narcissist, though, so she has that going for her!


I’m starting to wonder if the bites, rash, whatever is covid, kidney failure, fungal infection, cancer, MRSA, or staph. I doubt it’s cancer, MRSA or staph, but who knows. Isn’t MRSA more of a hospital disease? I think it might be fungal or an allergic reaction. Benadryl helps, but so does lotramin.

Everything is going straight to hell anyway. I feel like I’m about to be taken in front of a firing squad, shot, and no one will bury my carrion eaten body. I can’t stop the feeling of impending doom and being completely abandoned. Everything and everyone will die or go away. It’s inevitable. One moment everything is OK and then some Saudis knock your tower down, or a disease creeps up on you, or you say or do something unforgivable. But that’s just me. How are you?


When the Delta variant takes me in her warm embrace, phlegm filling my lungs;

Don’t pretend any of you really cared. Don’t let them put me on life support.

Let me feel myself drowning. Let me slip into sepsis, so that I know how my mother felt all those years ago.

I’ve wandered this world alone, my friends are transactions. I was not meant for normalcy. Life is meaningless.

The Man in the Woods

My friend was feeling charitable last night, especially since the woman she’s trying to befriend keeps standing her up. She actually came down to get me.

I felt familiar dread. If things go badly she’ll take it out on me. The first Waffle House we tried to get in, they were only doing take out due to their lack of staffing. We tried another: 30 minute wait. Cook Out: Too many people waiting in the drive thru. The McDonald’s by her house: closed. She launched into how nothing is ever open late in the south speech. She decided we probably shouldn’t go to the beach since there’s a lot of drunks at this time of night: midnight.

We went to her house and had watered down tequila. O. used to raid the liquor cabinet and refill with water what he drank. She went on about when I drank I was a drunk and about the times I took too much Ativan.

“I had my shrink reduce my pills by half the last time I did it,” I said, but she wouldn’t give me credit for that. Why even invite me for a drink if you’re going to moan at me, right?

I paced myself, taking about an hour to drink the glass of tequila and didn’t ask for seconds even though she had 2. After a bit, she decided she was OK and we went back to my apartment. She was pretty much sober, but was nervous, and told me not to let her do this again.

She decided we should feed the strays again. She asked me where I fed them earlier and I admitted to feeding them on this elevated meter. I’m supposed to feed on the porch at night to keep the ants off the food, especially since the crazy homeless guy who sleeps in the woods made it certain that he didn’t want the feeding station near his sleeping place. He had moved it a couple times before he destroyed it. He finallysmashed to pieces the plastic feeding station and bashed in the metal bowls. While we’ve never seen him, we see where he sleeps due to all the trash, blanket, etc.

“If I had a sharpie, I’d have written ‘I hope you die,’ on a piece of plastic. Probably a good thing I didn’t.”

“Yes, he might not realize it wasn’t me who wrote it,” I replied.

“Typical. Always putting yourself first. I was worried about him hurting the cats.”

By now it was 4am. She had put some food on the meter and I didn’t realize she was going to the porch. I should’ve gotten out and followed. She berated me for getting back in the car, that she could’ve used the support of me following her, that she had killed a 5 inch water bug. I had kept looking in the woods, knowing that a disturbed person wouldn’t be happy if someone woke him up.

She berated me until we got to my apartment. And that was my Saturday night.

And I’m sure people don’t like me, but that’s all for now.


I had to call maintenance to come fix my air conditioner. Per usual, I’m terrified. What if my apartment isn’t up to par or it smells bad? What if my bedroom door opens?

My worst fear is losing my home, but summer can be extremely brutal without air conditioning. They just put new HVACs in a couple years ago. What if they blame me for it going bad?

Everyday, sometimes twice a day, I look on my door for a note from management or worse. It’s an obsession of mine. I forgot to check the hallway for the odor of marijuana, so what if my tolerant neighbors get evicted and someone who will tell on me for every little thing replaces them?

In the Evenings, I Really Start to Despair

I’ve noticed the last few nights, my anxiety and depression worsen at night…and don’t forget the paranoia. I think every overheard conversation is about me, that everyone around me dislikes me and are out to get me some way. I haven’t quite hit the delusional train yet, because I’m aware it’s at least partially untrue. All my fears are exacerbated by the knowledge I have no one to turn to now.

I’m afraid every phone call is going to be the death knell, that someone is going to tell me something awful that I won’t be able to bounce back from.

And I desperately want someone to love me, but it’s never going to happen.


I haven’t spoke with my BFF since the 27th. That is, I haven’t spoken to her where she deigned to reply. One day, I felt particularly desperate to not be alone, so I made small talk in messenger: “Hey, they shot an 18 year-old here the other day by the mailboxes.”

Nothing. Not even her regular, “The people living there are animals.” I guess I really messed up if I don’t get to hear her denigrate my apartment complex, the entire southeastern United States, or virtually everyone she ever knew.

I’m actually worried about her. I check Messenger every day to make sure she’s OK. If she needed something/someone, I’m confident she’d let me know.

I worry I will wind up an unattended death, or evicted, or with a life-threatening disease, and no one will be there for me. It’s an overwhelming fear.

I worry about my impulsiveness when I’m really upset, that I get manipulative the more upset I get. I don’t mean to, but it is an extreme character flaw of mine, and I really need to work on that.

I wish she didn’t think I tried to turn her boyfriend against her. I did no such thing. The one time he threatened to leave, he was fucked up, and she had been nasty to both of us on Christmas 2019. The other times, he cried that he thought she didn’t love him, etc, and I would try to convince him otherwise.

Still Convinced I’m Dying

Yay! I’m sure now that kidney infection, or whatever it is, wasn’t killed by 5 days on Macrobid. I found blood the other day, but since then, the color has gone back to normal. I know I still have something going on though. I can no longer deny that the ache in my abdomen is my kidneys. If I see blood again this weekend, I’m going back to the urgent care. If not, I will try to force myself to go to my doctor next week. I’m supposed to go to get a yearly form signed anyway, so two for one if I can hold out for the form to get here. I’ll ask for a blood and urine panel.

If I am dying, I’d really just prefer to drop dead suddenly, thanks. I shouldn’t care as much as I do, because my cats will be cared for, and there’s no one left that can’t live without me. Apparently, however, the idea of having death knocking terrifies me. Even though my life is only marginally fulfilling, I’m not ready to give it up yet. It’s funny what little things make me happy: I found a Discord chat that actually finds me funny ( or maybe they’re too nice to tell me I’m annoying). I think I’m the only one there with an IQ less than 130, but every community needs a village idiot. I feel if I made someone somewhere laugh, I did a small service to humanity, and maybe I shouldn’t have been aborted after all.

My best friend has ESP. She hasn’t told me yet that she thinks I’ m dying. I just keep thinking back to the guy who saw my mom’s death 2 weeks before it happened, and who told me if I didn’t change my ways, I’d be dead by 48. I’ve dropped about 50 lbs since then, but I’m still fat, and my major joy in life is overeating. If I changed, he said I’d make it to 78. Maybe at 42 this is the beginning of my end.