500 feet? Not anymore.

So, I’m detoxing off of Norco.  They gave it to me to combat my Chronic Pain.  It lasts for three hours, made my tummy upset and itch.  Great drug!  No, really.  Keep people who are miserable in even more misery!  So, it’s 3:30 AM EST.  I slept for seven hours/maybe 8.  My stomach is upset.  I feel like my bowels are going to unleash holy hell at any moment, and I had a horrible realization…

Dave is now reporting in Lansing.  That means the 500 feet stay away from me, as mandated by his parole supervisions is null and void, unless I stop him, before shit goes south.  Great.  I never took a restraining order out on him- yes, thank you.  I know I’m a moron.  But, I never knew if it would make it worse or better.  The day he was released from prison, he showed up at my house, whistling Darryl Hannah from Kill Bill Vol. I, and high as a kite.  This is my past, present and future.  So, Monday, I’m calling his old parole officer and say, cough it up where he stays at, cuz I’m terrified of him.

Yeah, you all know what was told on the news and the police documents, but did you live with him?  Did you plan to get married together? Were you there through the all the ups and downs- mostly downs-and the only highs being when he was?  You don’t know finding his works in the closet, or the priest costume in the closet.  Never knowing this person you lived with, who loved little girls? 20 ish was pushing it for him.  I was old for him, he even told me that.

It’s fucked up.  “So, What was/how did your last relationship end?”  “Publicly and it involved the prison system.  What was yours?  She kept half?  He took my life- and my sex life and any chance of a relationship ever happening.  Are we done, here?”

My knee is worse.  Still fluid on it, but because I walked around the casino yesterday for ZZ Top yesterday, I can’t fucking walk.  I need help.  I don’t know how to ask for help still.

Had a great time at ZZ.  I’m infatuated with my friend’s son.  I could be his mother.  He’s funny and a good guy.  My age?  There aren’t any.  They’re like me- all jaded and bitter or just want sex.  You know what I get?  Emails from guys who can’t remember what psych hospital he met me at and all he wants to do is fuck.  Great.  Super.  Wasn’t even subtle about it, not smooth. I know I have no game.  I know this.  I just don’t have time for it anymore.  But you need it, I guess.  No one wants to be like this dude- Superman shirt wearing motherfucker.

So, my friend, the one whose son makes me giddy, DUMB ASS!  Anyways, she says:  When’s your manuscript going to be ready?  I don’t know. I don’t know how to write, I dangle participles and end with prepositions. I’m chill in my writing.  I’m not a good detail oriented, paint a picture motherfucker. I’ll give you details, but if you have no imagination, you have no business reading my shit.  So, BOOM!

Ed Sheeran.  One.  Always think of my true love.  It happened early.  Never happen again.  So, I get goofy over my friend’s 25 year old son.  What kind of a piece of shit am I?

Don’t answer that.  I just did.  I want to do laundry and shit.  I gotta go to my consignment shop.  Time for winter time!

Well, my stomach is lurching again.  Better eat cracker jack and drink my diet Pepsi.  Detox cure all.  I got off Oxi with benzos and booze- the 70’s rehab, old fashioned way!

Have a great day!

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