Yesterday, both Tom and I went through a horrid ordeal. I’ll get to it as soon as I cover some household news.

We got the ice maker working, and it sounds pretty weird. A little loud, too. Kind of sounds like someone’s bowling in a nearby room.

I’ve used our high-tech dishwasher and it’s great! I missed having a dishwasher. It has a lot of options. It even has a delay timer on it.

No house is perfect, though, as wonderful as this one is. I don’t like the dual faucets very much, or the linoleum in the entryway by the front door. Perhaps it looks nicer, but it gets so damn dirty! It would’ve been easier if it were carpet, cuz it’s a lot easier to vacuum dirt off of the carpet than it is to sweep it off of a floor. Even the utility area would be nice to have carpeted.

Also, the stupid fucks put the bedroom light switch by the project room door and not just inside the bedroom door where it should be. That’s where it belonged, but no, the stupid, brainless shits had to put it on the other side of the room.

Tom began setting up his office today and judging by the familiar patterns I see here, I was right about him not changing sexually and his not wanting sex more often. I’m glad, though, that he is who he is and that he’s still going to want it only once a week (on the weekend) because of how I’ve become. I’m not only less horny than I used to be in my 20s, but it’s just easier for me to do my own getting off when the mood strikes, which may sometimes be when he’s at work or asleep, anyway. Maybe I’m lazy or maybe I just don’t have the patience to direct him when he goes down on me so I can get off. He knows me well enough not to need much direction, but it’s easier to slow down or speed up on your own, rather than to tell someone else to slow down or speed up. Talking isn’t something someone usually wants to do when they’re trying to get off.

Tom also set up his rock tumbler which is on his dresser in the guest room right now. It’s not that loud. It’s a soothing sound, actually, but right now I can’t hear it two rooms away from where I am.

The second bathroom’s toilet is clogged up, cuz according to Tom, he took quite a dump. I knew it. I just knew it. I told him things would start breaking or being a problem way sooner and way more often than they should. We’re totally hexed with cars and toilets, as I said, and we were cursed with both of them yesterday. Not only did the toilet clog up, but he got a flat tire.

Today was the third morning I woke up in my new home without being rudely woken up by a bunch of lying cops with nothing better to do. I slept for ten hours I was so exhausted.

At 8:30 yesterday, there was a knock on the door. I dragged myself out of bed and saw that cop again and was like, Shit! Fuck! I thought he was alone till I opened the door and saw the black detective with him and all the others. There were at least 5-6 cop cars and maybe 8 cops. Some were from here, the Pinal County sheriff’s office and some were from Phoenix. So as soon as I saw they were from Phoenix, and that the detective’s shirt said Biased Crimes, I knew it was about that black bitch. Especially since it was right after my call to her.

He came in showing me a picture of Tom and asked if that was my husband. He had a picture of me, too. He said I had to come with him, refused to tell me what the matter was about, and refused to let me call Tom or even leave him a note. The little cock did let me get dressed and take my inhalers with me, though.

Then the cop from here admitted that the Robin story was bullshit. Never before have I resented cops as I do now. They’re supposed to be trustworthy, not blatant liars yet they are! I’ve learned that parents can’t be trusted, teachers can’t be trusted, cops can’t be trusted, contractors can’t be trusted…no one can be trusted!

So the detective gets in his unmarked car while I’m thrown in the backseat of a Phoenix cop car with a couple of uniformed shitheads. Don’t get me wrong. No one mistreated me in any way, they just lied their asses off. I began to wonder if there wasn’t more to this than just a simple case of a nasty phone call and letter cuz they were just going to total extremes. Then again, cops like to hype things up and put on grand shows for people all the time. Nonetheless, I asked why all the cars to go get one person and what was the story, and the stupid fuck had the nerve to say, “I don’t know.”

Yeah, right! And I don’t know my middle name, either.

“I don’t know,” the little shit said, “You’ll have to talk to Detective Jerry O” (the black Biased Crimes guy).

The people next door were out watching the whole charade, and I remember thinking that if I were one of those shy, private types who worried about what others thought, I’d be really fucking embarrassed.

We were pretty much silent during the ride to Phoenix, but I couldn’t believe it! I was in such shock. All that just to get one person? It took all those people just to get one unarmed person? And all cuz of a letter and a phone call? OK, perhaps the phone call was stepping over the line, but I should have a right to write anything I want and send it to whomever I want. It’s called “freedom of speech” and this is America. Aren’t you supposed to be able to speak or write your mind here? Doesn’t mean what you say/write is right or wrong. Doesn’t mean people have to agree with you, but it’s supposed to be people’s right, nonetheless.

The guy driving said there were so many cars cuz the Phoenix people needed to be led in cuz they couldn’t find their way. That’s fine, but you mean it took two or three Pinal County cars to lead two or three Phoenix cars? Wouldn’t one of each have been enough? Maybe, thanks to all the lies the blacks and Mexicans had to have told about me, they thought I was some armed psycho out to kill anyone who crossed me. What if we had moved to California or Florida, though? Would they have flown out to get me?

I was never as nervous as maybe I should’ve been, but I guess that’s just cuz I’ve dealt with these idiots before and made up my mind a long time ago not to let any kind of authority figures intimidate me. If anything, I was pissed. They totally reminded me of being interrogated by my parents and the staff members I had to deal with. I’m not a kid anymore. I haven’t been in years and I never will be again. I’m an adult now and I don’t owe anyone any explanations for how I live my life, so I didn’t say anything that I didn’t feel was necessary to be said. I didn’t want to risk my anger surfacing, although I made it clear how annoyed I was. I didn’t feel great physically, though. I had a headache, cramps, and a full bladder I couldn’t release for a while cuz my muscles were tied in knots.

So we get to the main police station in Phoenix, and meanwhile, I’m still not sure whether or not I was ever arrested. They didn’t tell me I was under arrest, they didn’t show me an arrest warrant or a search warrant, they never put me in a cell, never made me pay anything to get out of there, and never gave me a court date of any kind. In the end, Jerry O said that the issue would be wrapped up that day and that that was what he was shooting for. Naturally, I agreed and even volunteered to sign a paper promising never to contact these old neighbors in any way ever again. However, I don’t buy it. I don’t think his word meant shit and neither did mine. Meaning that me taking the time to make that promise meant nothing to them, cuz they knew they were gonna eventually have me served. I hate liars! Especially when they’re cops! I mean, that is sick! Sick! If you can’t trust cops, who can you trust? They’re such con artists. Again, we’re talking about a letter and a phone call. Not a murder. And why they couldn’t just level with me and tell me to expect a subpoena, makes no sense to me, although Tom says they’ll drop it and move on. Especially since they already have my word about ignoring these people. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do for years, but they wouldn’t let me ignore them and they still won’t, even though we don’t live with them anymore. Believe me, I don’t want to know these people exist other than in my memories!

I wonder what they would’ve done if I had refused to go with them. Tom said they’d have shown me a warrant at that point and arrested me if I hadn’t gone with them willingly. But just why did I have to go with them? Why would they take all the time out to do all that driving just to talk to me? Why couldn’t they talk to me here or call me? And how did they get this address? Tom says they could’ve tracked it down on our homeowner’s insurance, but I think they got it either from the Hs or they went through the Hs to get to Steven to get it that way.

O had journals I sent to both Joebitch and Debra V (now I know her last name and that Joebitch moved to an apartment complex. Ugh! What a demotion, huh?). He also had a tape of the messages I left Joebitch from the Fairfield. It’s obvious that they gave the cops these things as they received them and that they didn’t just suddenly give them all these things. I think they slowly built their case and that it was the call that finally got them after me. Dumb mistake, I know. What he didn’t present me with, though, was my last letter to Joebitch which was a few weeks ago.

When we got there, I met in a small room with O and a very friendly white female detective who was 40-something. Her name was Linda. While a cassette was recording the “interview,” he presented me with evidence and questions. Some of the letters were the original pages and some were photocopies. He had scattered lines highlighted. I was surprised he didn’t ask me about a lot more things than he did. He never asked me about 80% of the things I said in my letters to these people. I certainly wasn’t going to come out and say I sent this shit to these people even though it’s my right, right or wrong, mean or not, to say what I want to those people (there was no restraining order against me) and to use the postal service, as long as I don’t harm anyone, so I had to think fast. I’m very pleased with the way I handled the matter, unlike how I handled past problems with cops. It doesn’t necessarily mean it did me any good since cops like to lie and say something’s over when they know it’s not. Cops just don’t seem to be able to let go very easily and move on. It’s like, just drop it, will you? I gave you my word about these people and I fully intend to keep my word.

As figured, he asked me if the issue had anything to do with the fact that these people are black and Mexican and I told him no, it was about being harassed with noise. I didn’t tell them that they were the ones who tried to make it about race, though, cuz what good would that have done me? Tom brought up a good point, and it’s too bad that we both didn’t think about this after the fact, but I should’ve asked these cops if they saw my dolls. Why would I have black, Spanish, and Indian dolls if I were so prejudiced? Using racial slurs is just an expression for me. It may not be right, but they’re just words I use to vent and I don’t do it directly to their faces. It doesn’t mean I hate all blacks or Mexicans. These assholes’ race had nothing to do with the issue. The issue was that they deliberately harassed me for a long period of time, and they got what they deserved from me. They instigated shit with me and I spoke my mind about it and I had every right to.

Tom mentioned that living here is a point against me cuz this is where whites go that hate blacks and Mexicans. Could’ve fooled me. A couple of people next door may have some Mexican in them. The renters may be Mexican. I’ve seen Mexicans galore around here who aren’t just farmers, but Tom insists that 90% of the residents out here are white. Yeah, but either way, if cops go judging people by where they live, then they become the prejudiced ones.

Tom also said that they were trying to bait me into saying something against Mexicans/blacks, which I didn’t, cuz I don’t have anything against them in general, although at this point, after all, that’s happened, I do prefer white neighbors (when God will allow me to have them?). Just most of them. Maybe not even that, though. Just the ones who treat me like shit for no reason at all like these people did. What if I did say some kind of racial slur, though? Would I have been thrown in a cell and brought to trial simply because they didn’t agree with my vocabulary and because they didn’t like my opinions? But it would’ve been my right to say that. It may have been a lousy way to express myself, but people have a right to their opinions and a right to say who they do and don’t like. I can see if someone were standing in the middle of a parking lot swearing or calling out racial slurs, but this was different. I don’t like some blacks and some Mexicans and I have every right to my beliefs and feelings. I don’t agree with their lifestyle, and I don’t like the way they use race as a crutch, while they carry on like wild animals, ripping off our tax dollars so they can sit back and be lazy. I also happen to not like some whites either, and again, it’s my right.

I don’t know why he asked this, but he asked if I met Debra’s “boyfriend.” I knew it. I knew those two weren’t married. It’s the single people that rake in the welfare dough.

I lied my ass off, though, just like everyone else did. Just like the cops did and the blacks and Mexicans did. And yes, I will use racial slurs here cuz it’s my journal, and my right to use whatever words I want to in it. Doesn’t mean my choice of words would necessarily be most people’s choice of words, and it may not be very nice of me, but it’s my right to express my opinion. If people would only stop being so sensitive! If Tom called me a fat ugly bitch, I wouldn’t like it, but it’s his right and I wouldn’t go off the deep end over it like some people apparently would. People can’t help but feel what they feel. This doesn’t mean I haven’t met any nice black or Mexican people, and it doesn’t mean all whites are wonderful, but I just don’t care for people in general no matter what their color or race, and when you deliberately and continually harass me, I won’t like you no matter what you are. You can be purple with green polka dots and orange stripes for all I care. Just don’t wrong me.

So our little Bias fighter asked me about certain statements I made in my letters. My bogus story was that they were just thoughts and ideas I typed and printed out that I no longer wanted and threw in the recycle bin. Also, that’s where I threw some old water-stained manila envelopes, too. I then said Miss N obviously took them, forged my handwriting, then sent them to her and Debra, assuming they knew each other and were out to retaliate against me for the city complaints I made. That was my explanation for my fingerprints being on the stuff. I only admitted to the phone call and said I was sorry and ashamed of my handling the situation as I did, and explained that some of the things I said in my journal were just my way of venting. That last statement is entirely true, too. I did vent a lot in the journals, and sometimes I did say a lot of extreme things. Also, to explain the mumbo-jumbo, I told them my computer crashed a lot, fouling things up, and that I didn’t always bother to fix broken sentences. I couldn’t say I was just trying to be weird and confusing, cuz that’d say I did mail these things to them. The cops aren’t stupid, I’m sure, any more than I’m stupid enough to buy their lies, but hey, if they’re gonna bullshit me, and if old neighbors are gonna bullshit them, why should I be Miss Honest? I cooperated just enough to appear decent enough, so to speak. To appear willing to face, admit, clear up, and move on in life. I may not have fessed up to the degree they would’ve liked, but I wasn’t an all-out uncooperative, rude, blatant liar, either.

I used a lot of bogus names in their letters just to be confusing, and he asked me if I knew those people. I denied most of them, then said a friend of the family was named Al, for example. He asked me about some of the old pictures I had enclosed, and I explained that I liked to decorate the paper I’d write on. When he pulled out the page I sent Deb with my finger, I said I had just been playing around with the digital camera (he actually found that one amusing), and again, I insisted these were things I disposed of that they dug up. I also insisted that they trashed our yard (that much is true), spray-painted our wall, egged our windows, prank-called us, sent us threatening letters, and that I was afraid to call the cops or go to court for fear of retaliation against me and Tom (the blacks really did drop us a few notes and a few calls).

I forgot to say that they wouldn’t let me call Tom, who had to have been terrified and wondering if I’d been kidnapped, for about an hour after I got there, but he got in later than he expected and by then, Mr. Biased had left him a few messages. Tom said Mr. Biased said something about how it hadn’t yet been decided if I’d be booked. You mean to tell me they were considering booking me over words? Words on a phone and words on paper? I thought actions were what mattered. I didn’t do anyone any bodily harm, so why would they even consider throwing me in jail? Just out of pure spite?

Anyway, he kept insisting that because I was an adult, I couldn’t make a phone call, but I corrected him on that and let him know that I knew that everyone brought into a police station has a right to one phone call. When he knew that I knew that, he gave in.

At one point he was asking me about Tom and questioned if he was involved, but I assured him that he wasn’t in any way involved.

After our so-called interview, Linda took me downstairs for fingerprinting. I asked why they were needed when they should have those on file and those are supposed to be good for life, and she said it was so they could have an updated set on their new system. A woman tried to scan them in on their computer, but she had problems with that so she did them the old-fashioned way with ink (the computer was saying mismatch or reject on some of my fingers). All that over me writing my opinion! Because I expressed my thoughts, feelings, and beliefs, I had to go through all this shit. I didn’t write a sexually explicit letter to a ten-year-old, for crying out loud! I didn’t threaten to kill them. At least not directly. But I did say things like how nice it’d be if they’d all drop dead, but who wouldn’t if they were treated like I was? Everyone’s forgetting the big picture here. Either that, or they just don’t want to see it, but the big picture is that I’m the victim here. Not them. They abused me, and it really burns me up to have to be dragged through all this shit while they get off Scot-free from any kind of punishment for what they did to me. If they hadn’t harassed me, there’d never have been a problem. They brought this on themselves and they are their own worst enemy.

Linda was the nicest to me. She was so friendly and so encouraging. She suggested I use my writing in a productive way, and I told her that I’ve been thinking of doing that. It’s just that I haven’t had time or opportunity to with the move, and we discussed that, too.

There were a lot of women cops there. Maybe more than guys. Some were feminine and some were butchy. Especially this one that was talking with Linda and the fingerprinting lady. She had to be the most masculine lesbian I ever did see. Everything but her voice was totally male. So male I’ll bet she doesn’t even get periods. Gayness is because of hormone levels, and I’ll bet the reason I can’t conceive has to do with a hormone imbalance. Not that I’m butchy, but there is some masculinity to me what with my aggressiveness, and this could cause a slight alteration in hormone levels which needs to be very precise, from what I’ve heard, in order for conception to occur.

Linda was the only one who cared enough to help me find a ride home. All the others were typical pigs - they’ll give you a ride when they want you for something, but then they’ll leave you stranded when they’re finished with you. Because no one could reach Tom, the only other number I could think of to call was Mary’s. I explained to her that Mary and Dave would be out, and let her know about Ma and Evelyn. She called and Evelyn said she’d pay for a cab to take me there (Evelyn doesn’t have a car). I asked if she told Evelyn the story, and she said she only told them that I was OK, but that it wasn’t any of their business unless I wanted to tell them.

Evelyn came out as soon as my cab pulled up and she paid the $15 fare. She said to go inside so Ma wouldn’t worry anymore. They had thought at first that I was in an accident or something. By this time, they reached Tom, and Tom, who was very supportive, sweet, and loving, was on his way to get me. I was afraid he’d be rather upset, distant, and go lecturing me for hours. Not that he was any more thrilled than I was, he was great and it was wonderful to have him and to be able to run into Ma’s outstretched arms like I did when I entered the house. I certainly didn’t have that in the past when I had to deal with the cops back east. Either no one cared, or they just couldn’t deal with it well because they had too many of their own problems to deal with.

I see what Tom means about Evelyn, though, who says we did meet at Mary’s wedding. I just don’t remember her. She’s definitely not someone I’d want to live with and I can see the Doe in her, but for short, infrequent interactions like this, she’s tolerable. She hates the dog for biting her and is afraid of him, so he was outside. That way I didn’t have to be afraid of him, too (Tom’s not afraid of him or dogs in general). She was insistent upon feeding me since she gets so bored sitting around there every day. At first, I was too tense to eat, but then I appreciated the bagel she made me cuz I hadn’t eaten at all.

The story I gave them was that I was wanted as a witness for questioning in regards to the old neighbors, then went on to tell them about how they harassed us. To say this wasn’t straying far from the truth if even at all from the truth.

It was so good to finally be home again. With the corrupt, power-hungry ways cops have, I didn’t know when I’d be home, although deep down I think I knew they’d go by the book as far as that went, which said they had no reason to hold me and let me go.

Tom said he came in and assumed I was still asleep. But I usually close the bedroom door when I’m asleep, I told him, and he said he figured I got up, then fell back asleep without closing the door. Then, after a few minutes of bopping around (I had told him to wake me up when he got in with coffee from Circle K), he thought it odd that the noise hadn’t stirred me. When he approached the bed, he said he thought I was under the covers, but when he pulled back the covers, all he found was that long pillow I nestle into. He was concerned at that point, and that’s when he checked for messages and got the black pig’s messages. I guess it’s a good thing he didn’t get in on time, cuz then he’d have had an hour or more to wait till he could find out where the hell I was and he’d have been frantic with worry.

If there’s anything I’ve learned about the people of Arizona, it’s that they’re bold. Real fucking bold! They’re determined, persistent, desperate, gutsy people. The stuff I wrote, designed to deter them from contacting the cops, obviously didn’t work, but that took guts! Think about it. To be willing to go to the cops about someone’s letter to you, despite all the things they accused you of in the letter, is really desperate. Some of the things I accused them of, of course, were true and some weren’t, but I’d be afraid that the cops would be too confused to know who to believe. Well, these people out here certainly don’t fear a thing and are so hateful and vindictive! It’s scary what people will risk just to get at you.

Anyway, enough black and Mexican talk. If the cops will allow it, they’re out of my life for good. From here on out my only connection to them will be a smile on my face when every weekend rolls around that I don’t have to listen to their shit and deal with their antics, hour after hour of the day and night.