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22 July 2009, 01:00

I haven’t wrote as often or as much lately. Well. It’s pretty much because I was busy and almost happy. But life is starting to suck again. So, insomnia is back. Stress is back. And the muse is back.

I’m up early – more early than I have been in the last 8 days. And remember my leg – my LEFT leg? The one that feels like I’ve ripped or torn something inside? The one that was getting better and I could actually put some strain on it? The one I could start to run on it again? Well. It’s better. Now, the calf muscle in back of my right leg HOITSSSSSS. OWIE. Like I strained it or torn it or something. When I stand or walk (or run it might be today) it really doesn’t bother me. It’s if I put weight on it standing up or at an angle that something mighty bad happens and the pain is a shooting, sharp bolt going through that whole bulb of muscle back there. But FUCKING A, I was looking at both calves the other day, and I have some delicious looking definition. It really looks like other, real athletes’ legs. The thighs are also getting pretty nice. So, all this is working, and will work if I don’t run myself into a wheelchair.

Next on the agenda, the new red car. The new car acquisition is being held up by some boyfriend/girlfriend Riki Lake type situation – you don’t want to know – hell, I don’t want to know. I’m assured that it will happen. Eh, hope springs eternal. It’s just I’m waiting a bit on that, at least until the end of the week, and if it DOESN’T happen, I need to go on with the next bunch of steps in the Save-Duh-From-Doom plan.

The social life I guess is all right. Besides, breaking down from the enormous pressure and subsequent threats of violence upon my person, I am giving Darryl a chance. And it’s nice. I find him very kind, sweet and giving. And very INTO me. Very fast. God-fucking-damn, he needs to put some airbreaks on that bus a bit. There’s no way, even if I felt six times deeper feelings for him that I do now, that I’m even going to open up more at this point. I really am not in the mood to get fucked over again for a while. Let me build up some strength and I promise whatever life has in store for me – an abusive womanizer, a fucker with mommy issues, someone with a disease that makes his penis look like a Mr. Potato Head, a slob who needs me to feed him – I could deal, but right now, give me a little break from the pain. This plea falls on the deaf ears of fate, who had decided it would be fucking hilarious to have Shawn the ex call me. God, how could I get so lucky. Lying, bat shit crazy, homicidal AND armed by the US military. I must be blessed.

And someone send me a giant common-sense stick so I can beat my fucking roommate to death with it. Really, god in heaven, I think I’ve had enough. I’ve been forgiving of her and her cadre of day-pass losers that pass through my door to sexually satisfy Morticia. I’ve had to convince the landlord that I won’t be killed in my sleep by some deviant, drug-addled, villain she has snared in her web. I’ve given it a pass that she shorted me on the rent, pays in increments that borders on winning at the slot machines in Vegas, and that I’ve had to see her walk around half naked – nobody should see two oranges slung in panty-hose that stretch to the ground long enough to breast feed midgets on tiptoe. She has hurt herself bowling. Torn her butt or leg or whatever – bowling. Let me repeat that. Bowling. So she, who doesn’t eat and when she does eats CRAP, who hadn’t done ANY sort of strenuous exercise up to this point, who looks like she could drop over dead at anytime from Bubonic Plague started to bowl EVERYDAY, probably for hours. She came home with a leg/butt injury she was almost proud of – how do I know? She rubbed her aching ass at all my mortified friends who came running up to me to express the horror they had just witness in agony wrenched pantomime. And now she can’t work. Moreover, I don’t think she has any money for the rent or the utilities which DOUBLED since she moved in. She’s almost reached the get-the-fuck-out line I have drawn for her. We’ll see.

I did some court ordered assessment of … well me…. and the consensus was…. surprise, that I need therapy. But the other good results were that I didn’t have a problem with addiction and I got the minimum mandatory treatment option for this sort of thing. The psychologist voodoo doctor I went to also said that I was highly intelligent and I seem to hold a great loathing for this place. Ain’t he an Einstein? I wonder what clued him off I wasn’t acclimating to this pissy, mean, knuckle-dragger breeding, ho-bag infested, southern fried fucking hell that I call home. I wonder what tipped him off that I don’t like Forest Shitty?

My friend Michelle is back from her weekend in Charleston. I missed her and our Jerry-time at the Tavern. Good god, when she got back yesterday, it was like a couple hours of heaven on a stick. She is funny, and I regaled folks with tales of Duh, which involved sex, romance, ex’s, betrayal, and grilled chicken. That is ONE GOOD WOMAN.

I am awaiting for the six ibuprofen to kick in so I can go to the track. Wish there was a pill to take for being in the south. I’ll take a six pack of bottles of that shit.

  • minutes later ***

Dammit, the elastic in my undies is shot. Kill me now.