Yesterday I was too depressed to write, today I’m too tired and too depressed, but I better try to write a little anyway, so I don’t get too behind. The only good to this stress is that it’s doing a fine job of keeping my weight down. I’m currently 113 pounds. If I pose certain ways in the mirror, I don’t think I look too bad, but at the same time, it’s easy to see (at least for me it is) that I could still afford to lose a bit more weight. Especially in the areas between my belly button and mid-thighs.

This week hasn’t been too pleasant so far.

The trip to the dentist was a bit rough. It’s a good thing I mentioned the Theo, which I almost didn’t mention, cuz it clashes with Novocain. I guess he gave me something different, or less of the usual. He numbed me enough, although I could feel a little of what he was doing, but for some reason, it made me so dizzy. I could barely walk out of there, but fortunately, my head cleared up 5-10 minutes after leaving the office. I also had to have more shots of Novocain than usual because the cavities were spread out, and that was no fun. That shit stings even with the numbing gel they first rub on. I had 3 fillings done and I’ve got 4 more to go. Although they’ll be doing 4 of them next time, it should be easier cuz they’re close together so that’s fewer shots of Novocain I should need. I have 3 little ones in the front bottom incisors and a big one they recommend a crown for in the bottom back molar. No way, though, cuz it’s $650. I told them to just fill it. I guess they recommended a crown cuz the cavity is so big and I guess a crown is more stable.

Melanie dyed her hair a light sandy brown and it just does not go with her. Just like with Gloria, she should leave her hair naturally dark to go with her dark eyes and darker complexion. It’s like when a black dyes their hair blond – so unnatural. Even so, she’s still good-looking enough to get an immediate yes out of me if we were suddenly single and she hit on me. Not that anyone looking like she does could be gay. The lookers are almost always straight.

After leaving the dentist, we went to the bank where I signed a paper that needed to be notarized. We’re taking out a loan for just over 2 G’s to pay off bills and get caught up. We’re borrowing against his pension plan and we’ll have to pay it back in payments. It’s a one-time thing, too.

Our last stop was at Circle K. I got coffee, a candy bar, a muffin, and we each got a bingo ticket. His won $2.

We ran over a p-dog twice that darted out in front of us on the dirt roads, but when I looked back to see if I could see it, I couldn’t due to the plume of dust. If we hit it, and I know we hit one of them for sure, it wouldn’t be there long before one of those vultures swooped down and grabbed it.

Tom told me he heard they were closing the bombing range in southern Arizona, which may explain why I’ve only heard them boom 2 or 3 days since March. If we don’t get boomed again, or if we rarely get boomed, that’s all the more compensation I can expect from God in stereos, although I haven’t heard any in the last few days.

We had a big storm last night. The power was off for 4 hours. It’s a good thing these storms come at night.

Anyway, one of the two things that have me depressed has been an issue for me since 1996 and the other has been an issue pretty much all my life. I’m sure you can guess that the 4-year thing is a freeloader thing. The other – well – it’s just so damn depressing to know my life is over and that it’s been over. OK, so we moved, so I had an ear canal made, so I quit smoking and wrote a few stupid books along the way, but just what have I done since coming to Arizona? It’s so damn depressing to have the rest of your life mapped out for you and to know just about everything that’s going to happen to you till the day you die. It’s like having a script in hand that you’re fated to act out. Nothing can change it short of dropping dead and when you’re psychic, you know that’s all the more reason to count on being right about something you feel in your gut, or even your common sense. I’m the wrong person having the wrong vibes and when the wrong person has the wrong vibes, it really sucks. It’s so damn depressing to know that I’ll be able to do nothing but clean the damn house for the rest of my life. Yes, my life was once much much worse, and yes, my life could still be much much worse, but do you have any idea how damn depressing it is to know you could never have a job, a career or a family if you decided you wanted that? I have no options in life, no freedom of choice, and even if I could have a career and a family – how long would it be before I fucked it up and what kind of mother would I make? Ha! I’m what God and society say I should be, and just what does God keep me on this earth for? I don’t understand my part. Everyone says we all have a purpose in life, that we’re here for a reason, but I have yet to figure out what my role in this world is all about and why it’s so important. Tom doesn’t need me. He can fend for himself. So what am I doing here when no one depends on me and when I can’t offer anyone anything of significant value? Is the rest of my life really gonna be all about cleaning and caring for rodents? I’m sure it is and that’s all well and good. It really is. But, I would’ve liked a little more than that. It’s just that, as I know all too damn good and well, I’m not allowed to do what I choose to do. My destiny from here on out is to clean the house, bitch about life in my journals, clash with society, watch TV, read, listen to music, sing, care for rodents, and put up with my shitty sex life that bores me to tears. What a life! Again, I know it could be worse, but this is bad enough. Especially when I know there’s no more room left in my life for surprises or changes. This is it. I’ve lived my life even though I’ve probably got at least 30 years left to live and do the same old, same old.

Tom says he supports me with everything. Bull fucking shit. That is just not true. He’s supportive of most things, but again, did he ever go to a doctor when I asked him to? Just how did he support me when I cried year after year, begging him to go to a doctor with me when all he’d do is make one lame excuse after another while swearing he really did want a kid? Yes, some of the excuses were legit, and yes, I’m glad we never had a kid, but he still watched me hurt day after day while he did nothing about it but bullshit me with false promises. And to say he’d support me even if we were financially stable for a good length of time, without this court shit going on, is a joke. He’s a very bad liar if he says he wants a kid and would support me with doctors, invitro, whatever. He’d be as manipulative as ever and con his way out of it, even though I know it’s not meant to be per orders of God. He’d critique everything I said to the doctors and make me feel as if things were all my fault and that I was going about it all wrong. He just makes me feel like an incompetent fool at times! He’s always defending, critiquing and challenging me, and I’ve tried to tell him how I feel, he says he’ll try harder, but he doesn’t. He says in one breath that he agrees the ex-neighbors were in the wrong, but then he says I bring a lot of trouble on myself. Perhaps I didn’t handle it too well, because if I had been smart enough to know better, I’d never have said a word to these people and wasted my time, and perhaps I shouldn’t have sent the mail and made the calls, but I’m not the one in the wrong here.

But maybe I am. Just maybe I am. Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut and told myself: hey, it’s only music. Just let them live their lives the way they see fit, mind your own business, and live your life the way you see fit. But they made their lives my business and they wouldn’t let me live my life as I saw fit, I tell myself next. I keep going back and forth between thinking no, they victimized me, and, if I had just kept my mouth shut and kept to myself I wouldn’t be in this predicament. Maybe it really isn’t best to “fight back,” so to speak. Maybe it really is better if we just let ourselves be wronged and move on and away from it as soon as we can and just forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything to them, nicely or not. I shouldn’t have sent the city letters, I shouldn’t have mailed the mail, I shouldn’t have made the calls, etc. I should’ve just put up with the music, the barking, the screaming, the ball games. After all, what do you expect from a household that’s just a few feet away? Peace and quiet? Right! I swore to Tom, to Sharon, to myself that I would never plea bargain. To me, that’d be like a rape victim pleading guilty, but maybe I should plea bargain. Maybe I’m just as wrong, no much much more wrong, than the blacks and Mexicans ever were. Maybe I deserved anything they gave me and maybe I’ll deserve anything I get in court. I say this because It’s so obvious, of all the neighbors I could’ve had, that God did want the noisiest of the bunch next to me. It’s also obvious that he did want me to pay, and pay dearly, all along on account of these sick fucks. He wanted me caught on the default warrant I didn’t even know existed really, really bad to have allowed the cops to come out here on account of Tammy, or on account of anything, cuz think about it – how often do I deal with cops and talk to them? When I got arrested, that was like the second time in a decade I chatted with them. So see? Something wanted me to get caught. Something wants me to go through the mud on account of these people. Something does not want them to be a part of my past where they belong. The odds of me getting picked up on the warrant before the statute of limitations was up were one in a million and I beat those odds. I always do when it’s in the wrong kind of way. That’s why it worries me when Paul said something about how if they separate the cases (blacks and Mexicans) and convicted me, I’d have to go to jail for a few years, even though that’s very rare, cuz rare is me. Tom says it’s ridiculous to fear going to jail or prison, but again, ridiculous has a way of sticking to me like a tick. Ridiculous loves me. It follows me wherever I go. What are the odds of being born without one ear? What are the odds of landing a guy who has no problem getting hard, but doesn’t cum? Shall I go on with all the odds I’ve beaten? For now, I’ll skip it.

Later...

Tom came home saying he screwed up; he hit a bump too hard and poked a hole in the oil pan, so for now he’s putting epoxy on it till he can get a new pan from a junkyard.

I still feel pretty lousy – racy heart, gassy stomach, and tiredness from nerves. I didn’t go to bed till after 4 AM and I thought I’d sleep till after noon, but nope. Got up at 9:30.

My anxiety, frustration, anger, stress and conflicting emotions that bounce back and forth between self-blame and blaming the sick fucks we lived with, are at a high right now. I don’t feel much different than I did when we lived with them. Instead of stressing over whether or not they’re gonna wake me up or bounce balls just a few feet away from where I’m trying to live my life in peace, I’m stressing out over my court case with them, even though it’s not technically “with them” anymore. Meaning, it’s the state that’s against me because of them. Not them that’s against me. People can no longer file charges against others. All they can do is report a crime. After that’s done, the law takes it or leaves it at that point. In the past, a wife-beater wouldn’t get thrown in jail without the wife’s consent, but now, it’s automatic jail no matter what the wife says. Or girlfriend, for that matter. Thank God people can’t charge other people what with all the Fran’s in this world. There’s nothing like having a crime done to you, and then having the person who did it turn around and take you to court for the exact same thing they did, although that’s similar to what’s happening to me now, whether it’s the state or not. And that’s precisely what the Vista butch and the freeloaders did – harassed me, then one tried to get a conjunction against me, and the other tried to have me served so she could try to get one against me.

So let me now cover my discussion with Paul, which fueled my emotions even more, although he pretty much didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. He’s doing just what Sharon said he’d do, too; trying to get me to plea bargain to get me out of his hair and lessen his caseload. Remember, he may be called a public defender, but he is not on my side. He works for the state, which is against me. Of all the times I’ve bitched about people’s incompetence and fuck-ups, well, I wish this one would be incompetent and fuck up because it’d benefit me, but I don’t know. Even if he did, would it really benefit me? I’m afraid he wouldn’t fuck up quite enough, or someone would make excuses for him, cuz they all protect their own. Of course OJ got off; he had an all-black jury!

Paul says he doesn’t think he can win my case, the evidence against me is too damaging, etc., although he swears he’ll try to win the case. He said even if I were convicted, he highly doubts I’d do jail or prison time. Just probation, counseling, or something like that. Yeah? And who counsels them? Who counsels these freeloaders for their part in this? It’s just so unfair. So fucking unfair!

Then Tom says not to worry because they can’t prove I mailed the mail and reminded me that people really do get away with murder. Yeah, I know they do, but this isn’t murder, and I’m no cock. The more you can get away with depends on whether or not you’ve got a dick between your legs, money, and whether or not you’re a minority. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was a bad time to be a majority in this world, and if you think they’re not going to turn this into a racial issue, even though I’m not charged with that and being a racist isn’t a crime – think again. That’s what this is all going to come down to, and as Paul said, if the jury doesn’t like what’s in the journals, they’re not going to like me. This is understandable too, without knowing me and without having been in my shoes and having gone through the shit I went through with these fuckaroos. It’s like this: if a fat person cuts me off on the road, I’ll probably call them a fat bitch or a fat cock, which sounds really horrible, but which does not mean I hate fat people. Just that fat person, but not because they’re fat but because they cut me off. I only use certain terms as a way of venting.