Alone

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.

My Neighbor is Dead

We probably said about 100 words to each other the whole 8 years I lived here, but I am sad about it. He died Sunday at the hospital. One of his daughters told me. She said he kept to himself.

The fact that it’s September, that he died in the same hospital as my mother, and that they’re mourning his loss while trying to remove things from his apartment, all reminds me. Things in general feel pretty hopeless these days.

I saw him as I saw all my neighbors: as someone who could get me in trouble or talk about me. When someone new moves in, I will be convinced  that this new neighbor will be the one out for me.  You’d think I was psychotic as paranoid as I am. 

His life followed a trajectory I hope for. Only be removed from home when I’m dying. No nursing home. No muss, no fuss.

He did me a solid when I first moved in. I locked myself and my Dondee out of our apartment.  I was scared, too shy to knock anywhere, so I sat in the hallway with my cat debating what to do. Fortunately, my neighbor came home then, and had a maintenance guy on speed dial. I think he always made friends with maintenance, all 500 of them who passed through.

I knew he had been in the air force and a retired cop from his Facebook, that he liked soul. Most of what I knew about him, though, I knew from overhearing over the year. He was probably Domino’s’ most loyal customer, ordering every other day sometimes. I. Knew he wasn’t very mobile and had a lot of pain, was due for another stint in his heart. He didn’t like sounds in the hallway and hated solicitors. He kept up with friends a lot on the phone.

I’m going to miss him in a strange way.

I Made It Through

I didn’t cry for my mom, but it hit me hard about Oscar suddenly.

My friend, his girlfriend, talks about him almost every day. Sometimes she even shows me pictures, but yesterday’s photo did me in. He’s in front of his family’s Christmas tree, proudly holding up a Guns ‘n Roses t-shirt he just opened. My brain then seemed to just then fully understand how dead he actually is.

I’m ruminating about a dear online friend who I offended and he never got over. If only I could take it back.

I’m worried that there are bedbugs. It may be fleas. I’m itchy everywhere. I honestly couldn’t take it if that ever happens again.

Water Leaking Light Bulb

About to have a psychotic break. I had to call maintenance just now because there is a steady stream of water coming down from the light bulb in my bed room closet. This will be the second time in a month I’ve had to call them for a water related issue,the first was air conditioner related. I called about 15 minutes ago. My anxiety is rising to a crescendo. Dammit, why won’t they come? This is kind of an emergency. I’m scared. What if it’s my neighbor’s water heater about to blow? What if my neighbors get upset I didn’t warn them first? My apartment looks OK right now by my standards, but what if they throw me out? There’s a lot of stains on my carpet, walls, everything. Maybe maintenance is on lunch break and fuck everyone. I suppose I should wait until 4 to call back unless my water bucket starts overflowing. My neighbors are talking loudly. Maybe they found the leak. Maybe they’re mad at me. It’s still steady flowing. I think it’s their water heater. Would bath water leak that long?

I guess I’ll keep writing until someone comes or I have a heart attack and die.

Someone’s coming I think. Maybe not.

Keep talking.

I’d text my friend, but I’m trying to only have conversations with her if she texts first. Bad things have been happening between us. Both my therapist and shrink know about it, my therapist knows all about it. My friend, as you may know if you read many a post before I private it, has a problem with verbal abuse. Sometimes after particularly bad blow ups, I overtake my medication a bit. Not trying to die, but trying to sleep a long time. My friend found me like this, allegedly took pics of me passed out, allegedly called the cops (I can find no record of it), and allegedly stayed with me for hours. I think she’s lying about some of it. She wants nothing to do with me except when she has to over the cats. She called my shrink, but so did I. The story gets worse from there, but I feel I best not say more. But be assured, people know what’s going on.

I heard my neighbor on the phone, but I was too scared to listen. I will plug my ears for fear of hearing them say something bad about me. I have an irrational fear of people talking about me or telling on me or anything. I hope to god they know what is going on and don’t get caught smoking pot. I’m listening to Cardi B. to try to drown shit out. It’s still leaking. It’s been an hour. I’ll keep talking.

The PH was too high in the Family Pool at the Y. The lifeguard warned me. Maybe they had some kid do something unfortunate in there. So I skipped that and I only had a few minutes anyway, because I thought it was an hour earlier when I left the house. I sat in the hot tub for a hot minute, then took a shower. When I got out, my bus sailed away before I could cross four lanes of traffic. I had to call an Uber. This is the second Tesla I’ve rode in. I much prefer riding in a Hooptie, because I feel like an Untouchable chilling with a Brahman. Nice guy, wanted to hear about all the amenities at the Y as he spends most of his free time swimming and working out. Of course he does. When he isn’t flexing his pretentious car.

Now an hour and a half has gone by. Getting annoyed. Maybe I should see if the bucket is full. No, half full. The water is still flowing pretty well and a nice stain is beginning near the light bulb. At least that’s proof it’s not my fault maybe. Listening to Lana del Rey.

I’ve had the first part of a psychiatric evaluation, IQ included. I got tired of people thinking, or in case of my friend – saying, that I’m mentally challenged. I want to know if it’s true. Pretty sure I have brain damage, but full blown idiot, I think not.

My friend doesn’t understand why I would want this done. Am I trying to compare to her high intelligence, or do I want to have it ‘both ways?’ I just want to prove that I’m not as stupid as she thinks I am and to figure out why I am such a weirdo. I’ll be happy to come in at average.

The psychologist wears a Lurch suit and Converse shoes. I liked him right away. Most PHD’s are stuck up I think. This guy treated me like a normal person, spoke to me like a normal person, and I had a good rapport with him. This comes in handy if he’s giving you an IQ test. I asked him towards the end of the session what he thought so far. So far, I’m AT LEAST average. I got a couple of easy questions wrong in patterns, but then I seemed to right myself and get the harder questions right.

It’s been over two hours now. I think I’ve written well over what I should and I could keep going. Will update if I don’t float away.

Because John Lennon Wants to Know (Part I)

Enquiring Minds Want  to  know, you know -John Lennon (Photo credit: Pedro Netto)

So this is Christmas, and what have you done?

Well, Mr. Lennon, funny you should ask, because I’ll tell you if you have the time.  The world didn’t end and you’re still dead, so I reckon you got all the time in the world, right?  It really depends on what you mean by “done.”  “Done” like What I did for Christmas, or done in general?

Another year over and a new one’s just begun.

I know, right? Ho hum, seems like it should still be 2011 or something. It’s like I paused myself, yet the world went on without me.  How the hell did I turn 35? I’m the same age my mom was when she had me.  I suppose there’s still hope that somewhere out  there, there’s a neurotic alcoholic husband  for me too. I think I’d not be a good mom, so it’s probably a good thing my biological clock  isn’t a Timex. I can just take care of myself and my cats. Why would I want a pissing, crapping, crying kid who’d open my Barbie dolls’ boxes?  But I digress, what have I done? Nothing and everything! I have my own apartment, a first for me. I’m a late bloomer, you know. Well, more like I was weeded out of the garden, cast into a mulch pile, and re-rooted myself. But hey, I bloomed.

If my mom hadn’t died and my gay guy crush hadn’t gone rabid and threw me out, I’d still be living with someone now. I’d still depend on  that man’s approval just to get by.  I saw my gay guy crush as a gay guy god even as he grew mean. But oh, Mr. Lennon, if you ever saw him smile or heard him laugh, you’d see what I mean.  I thought he was my Soul Bro, but sadly, he became my Faux Bro.  I wanted to be with him until the day I died. Sigh, I guess I drank the grape kool-aid. Too bad I didn’t do much of his housework though or paid the back rent I owed.

Mr. Lennon, I know you’re all ‘money ain’t shit,’Kumbaya, and what not, but I’m still torn. I really didn’t pay about $200.00 in rent. I pawned my computer and gave them $80.00 and then I gave them $10.00, so if I really do owe them that money, it would be $110.00. But here’s where it all gets trickier than a truck stop hooker. I gave them money whenever asked. I took them out to dinner at about $70.00 for the three of us, gave them $65.00 to go out with when The Prick The Partner was upset about having skin cancer on his face (but they did give a lot back I think) and gave them $100.00 to fix the air conditioner in their van. The air conditioner wasn’t fixable though. But I got a lot of free meals and rides before I began having to pay for all my stuff, and cat food. And then it gets even more messed up. They wanted $100.00 a month after I moved out to pay for what they paid for: pot, food, etc.  And Faux Bro said if he factored in expenses going back to when I first moved in it would be double the amount, somewhere in the $2000.00 region. That part casts suspicion on the whole thing.  I must have been had somewhere in the equation, but they seemed so adamant that I owed them and that I was the advantage taker in the mix. Plus it seems that I broke everything I touched. It makes my brain hurt, and everyone says I don’t owe them jack.

I messed up:

A wine glass of sentimental value.

They say I broke a remote control (but I don’t recall it)

I made a couple of his keys on his laptop stick.

I lost and/or damaged a couple of books, one was damaged, plus I think a cat vomited on a couple others.

I tripped several times on the PlayStation 3 cords, causing the  part where the player connects the controller to short out. I replaced his PlayStation 2 when it stopped working.

I think he wanted to say I messed up the controllers on the Sega Genesis, but I think it was how they stored it.

I played a game on his IPod and it erased everything

An app I asked to  be installed on the PS3 erased all the game data.

I lost a set of keys.

Wow, no wonder they hate me. Good thing all I have to break is my own now. Jinxed people should be mandated to have their own apartments, where they can lock  themselves in and not be a nuisance, you know? I guess I’m still haunted by Gays of Christmas Past (Too bad Logo no longer airs gay-themed shows, because that would be a kick-ass name for a Christmas special). I wasn’t intending to talk this much on this, but…

My life is different now in a good way. I have a one bedroom apartment, a lot bigger than the rooms at the old complex. I’ve literally stuffed both closets in the living room and bedroom with all the random crap from my storage unit.  I’m about to get a hide-a-bed couch for the living room and that will be a vast improvement than the deflated airbed I’ve been chillaxin’ on since late September.A nice woman on Freecycle gave me a TV and random odds and ends that I truly appreciate. I could have more by now, but I can’t stand my social worker, so I avoid her at all costs. My decor is a mix of minimalist and très clutter. BUT WHO GIVES A FLYING F, because IT’S MINE! There’s nothing like living exactly as one wants, without fear of being verbally annihilated or thrown out. When I was with Soul Bro, I forgot how much I liked being alone. I wanted to be with him all the time until he just popped. There’s always going to be a part of me that wants to be with him, and a part of me who thinks it’s all my fault.

 

Destroy Everything You Touch

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Mediocre Poetry: The Apartment Complex

Good Times! Image via Wikipedia

OK…So this was meant for http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com, but too late. So y’all can laud or pan it or whatever, dear readers.  Buildings was this weeks theme.

 

Once upon a time, before ever I was born,

you were erected a little after 1971.

Brick and morter, cement and wood,

until one day there you stood,

13 buildings are lucky if an architect is in a good mood.

 

200 apartments that were state of the art back in the days when Nixon was not a crook,

splash in a pool built in the days before diving boards were took.

Snack bar, volley ball, n’ tennis,

Sit on your terrace without  fearing a menace.

 

But that was in 1972,

now the owners don’t know what to do.

Buildings age, wood rots,

but the staff cares not a lot.

One lives here because the rent is cheap,

lucky you if you don’t meet up with one of your creeps.

 

A Mexican man who spills his beer can down from his balcony,

A drag queen who owes me money,

Wife beaters and folks who can’t read,

a friendly ‘ex-rapist,’

drug dealers who meet the people’s need.

Some people have killed themselves here instead,

Guess it’s cheaper than moving,

but you don’t fill me with that kind of dread.

Apartment  complex of mine, I love you and hate you at the same time.

 

When I first saw you I knew you were just right  for me.

Unlike the house we had owned, no rats in the attic roamed.

The terrace was enough outdoor space without a lawn to mow.

Finally a pool within 50 feet of me not made of plastic, you know?

and a  few nice neighbors to balance  the plethora of trash,

no one’s  too nosy, they let us do what we wish without being rash,

my hoarding* or Mom’s gardening,

letting our cats roam ,

this is the perfect place for eccentrics  to  have friends but be left sometimes alone.

Apartment Complex, intellectual purgatory, I call you home.

—————-
Now playing: Too Short – Ghetto ’cause you know, this be the ‘hood.
via FoxyTunes

 

Catz in da Hood

* No I’m not as bad as Hoarders, or that short story I wrote, or those two guys in Harlem in the 1940s.