Took a cute picture of Houdini lapping my plate after having a fish garlic butter fish fillet. Those rats will eat anything!

Although this Saturday is like any other Saturday, it’s not. I mean, Tom’s going back and forth between the TV and computer, as usual. He burned and now he’s reading in bed. I’m doing laundry and my usual hobbies. Neither of us is in the mood for sex. Yet it isn’t a typical weekend. It’s a weekend filled with anxiety and fear. It’s really playing on my stomach, giving me gas and diarrhea, and I’m lucky I haven’t puked yet. I feel the emotions in my chest as well as in my stomach. My heart isn’t booming, but it’s racy. The Theo helps with the tightness, but I do get tight towards the end of the day.

Later...

My stomach’s still fucked up, thanks to all that’s going on. I get stuck for a couple of days, then I have the runs 3 times during the day, and back and forth.

Tom was telling me how jail is a form of punishment for those who show no remorse for their crimes, but if I can convince the courts I’m sorry for what I did, I could probably escape jail. I don’t know about that. I’ll tell you one thing for sure, if I’m asked if they did anything wrong, I’m just going to say no. Besides, what good would it do me to discuss their wrongdoings when I can’t prove it and they’ll never pay for it, anyway? God would never let anyone who wronged me in the slightest way pay for it, and hey, I’m not a nark. I just don’t run to the cops/courts with all the problems I have with people, or else I’d live in the damn police station and courthouse. I didn’t go to the cops/courts about the guy who nearly raped me in Agawam when I lived on Oswego St., nor about Fran and his shit, nor roommates I’d had that ripped me off, nor apartment neighbors, nor neighbors at the Phoenix house. Any time I’ve ever tried to fight back, be it legally or not, I’ve only ended up in worse shape and wishing I never even bothered to try.

Tom said that what they’ve done or are made to pay for doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that I did wrong and I have to own up to it and that it was never OK for me to do wrong or think it was OK for me to do wrong just because they did wrong. He says he hopes I can convince the courts, and him too, that I won’t do it again. I’ll try, but I can’t just say I won’t do something and expect people to be convinced. Do you think I’d be convinced if he told me he’d keep his office neat and uncluttered? No, I wouldn’t be. Not without seeing it done for a while. Talk ain’t shit. It’s actions that count.

My shit sex life is on my mind, too. Since I can’t bring lust and passion and orgasms into it, and since I can’t change anything for the better, the only things I can do is either accept my dull, predictable, boring, passionless, non-orgasmic sex life or try to get out of it. I can get two Sundays off if I make an excuse tomorrow, cuz you know how it is – if I make an excuse one weekend, he’ll make an excuse the next weekend. And of course, when I come up on being mid-cycle, God will step in and act as if I can conceive, and magically do it from a cumless dick too, and act as if it’s just not time yet for me to magically conceive against all the odds that are against me, and have something come up to prevent us from getting together in the first place. Usually, that has to do with either the well or the car, if it’s not about his not being hard enough and in the mood to go in there, and willing to say so too, so we don’t have to bother going through the bullshit motions.

Later...

Haven’t heard any Maricopa boom car stereos in close to a week now. I’m surprised. There have been a few times, though, where I thought I heard music but wasn’t sure. It could’ve been anything.

Had the runs for the fourth time. I ain’t gonna be shitting for 3 days if I keep this “shit” up, pardon the pun.

I love Tom and love being with him, but at the same time, I don’t like being with him. He makes me feel – well – bad, I guess. Bad, crazy, ashamed of myself, not that I’m not ashamed of myself for what I’ve put him through. I’m not the only one going through this shit. He is, too. He’s not intentionally doing anything to make me feel the way I feel, and I know he loves/accepts me, but I don’t feel he’s as on my side as he’s said he is. People have always had a hard time siding with me, for some reason. He says he doesn’t think I’m crazy, he just doesn’t like it when I do bad things, and I seem to have a problem with right and wrong. Meaning that just because I know something’s wrong, I still do it anyway with no remorse (just remorse for the consequences). But I feel that he forgets that the blacks and Mexicans were in the wrong way more so than I ever was, and I feel he forgets that he has faults, too.

Do I really feel sorry only for the consequences of getting caught? OK, perhaps I am crazy. An asshole that ought to be shot, but I just don’t see how I can feel sorry for what I wrote/said to the freeloaders. Not after all they did to me. Correct, two wrongs don’t make a right, but even so, how can I feel sorry for these people? How can I feel a shred of sympathy or pity for them? They made my life a living hell for 4 years and they’ll be continuing to do so for the next 4 years and maybe even longer. Maybe for the rest of my life. So to ask me to feel sorry for what I’ve done to them is stretching it. It’s just a wee bit too much to ask of me. I believe in “an eye for an eye” and that sort of thing, right or wrong.

And do I feel sorry for the prank phone calls Tom says I proudly brag about? If I found out I scared some sweet, dear innocent old lady into having a heart attack, then yes. I most certainly would feel sorry/guilty, but do I feel sorry for just having a little fun and simply annoying people? No, I do not, and if this makes me a sicko who has a brain disorder, then so be it, but without causing someone harm that wasn’t trying to harm me, I just don’t see how I can sit and mope about it. I didn’t even “harm” the blacks. Or the Mexicans. And they didn’t harm me in the sense of breaking any bones or bruising me, but they didn’t just annoy me, either. They practically drove me out of my mind with stress, anger and frustration.

So, I guess you could say I think it’s wrong for a woman to kill a man who never did a damn thing to her. And it’s wrong for a woman to kill a man who raped her, yet I see it as right too, and something she certainly shouldn’t feel sorry for. Why should she have handled it the “legal” way? Why? Just so she could be raped all over again in court, possibly get the guy behind bars for a year or so, then know he’ll get out so he can do it again? So, what society says is wrong, isn’t always wrong to me. It’s like with how some people think being gay is wrong. Well, that’s a matter of opinion.

Although I wish Paula would write more and give me some feedback about the things I’ve been telling her in my letters, it’s so good to know she’s out there. She may not write/call as much as I’d like, but like Tom, she’s always accepted me as I am. It’d sure cheer me up to hear from her, though. It’s different talking to Tom about this (and we usually end up arguing) cuz Paula’s been there. She’s been through the courts, the jails, and the whole screwy system, so she can relate to what I’m going through.

Later...

Right after I last wrote, and I mean right after, the renters finally made the musical debut I knew was destined to come, but not quite in the way I expected. I expected Mexican or other music. You know, rap, mariachi, but not country. It’s actually quite pleasant, save for the bass beat you hear in the house with the windows shut, although the fan drowns that out. It’s nice to hear country music for a change. It goes with being in the desert. How I knew it was coming from the renters, although I couldn’t see any lights or hear any voices, was because I could hear the vocals as soon as I opened the retreat window and could tell it was a male singer. I would think other houses are too far for me to be able to hear the vocals, except for from Dan’s place, and there’s nobody there. Dan always has lights on when he blasts off, anyway, and his place is dark. Also, I could never hear the vocals even from his music, but this music is a little louder than his has ever been. I mean, I can’t make out what’s being said, but I can tell the gender of the singer. I actually sat with the window open and listened to a few songs. I’m sure that pleased God, not that I care about pleasing him, but anyway, it was so nice having the warm desert wind on my face (not the dust-whipping kind) and the country music really suited the mood, fit with the desert. Well, even if they decided to start heavy metaling it 24/7, ain’t nobody gonna get any complaints from me. No Siree. It’s their lives, their stereo, and no, I don’t think it’s a car stereo. You know I’m the only weirdo who listens to her music inside the house with the doors and windows shut, whereas others out here believe in sharing their music. Well, I think it’s a stereo right by an open door or window, or maybe the speakers were even taken outside. Is it new renters? The same ones that have been here almost as long as we have? And if so, did they just get this stereo? Or do they only blast it very occasionally?