Today was Tom’s last day at the proving grounds. He’s going to sign up once again for unemployment, though he hopes to be paid by his next job, whatever that may be before he has a chance to receive unemployment. He’s going to take anything he can get, he said, and I was like, but you just had anything you could get, so why go from one shit job to another? Because he needs to be on nights, he told me, so he can have the days open for interviews. He has a point there. I always did tell him that first shift sucks for a reason. When you work during business hours, that leaves hardly any time for appointments, shopping, etc.

We were talking about the pros and cons of moving. We both agree we don’t want to be forced to sell, but we don’t want to stay either. I hate it when fate or others go and make our decisions for us, yet if moving means moving on to something better, then why not? On the other hand, if the price of moving again is going to be another half a year in jail, then I’d rather stay put. It’s one of those things we won’t know until and if it happens or until I get any vibes, but one thing that’s comforting to know is that we know more now than we did the last time around. A lot more.

I have no vibes either way at this time, but I keep seeing a brown building with an elevator in it, whatever that means. There is one thing I do know and that’s that no, we won’t always be in Arizona for the rest of our lives. Where we’ll end up, beats me.

Since a journal is a place for honesty, then I’ll say that I’m wishing once again that his mom would go belly up. We could really use our inheritance right about now, and of course it’d really put a stop to whatever she may be sending Doe and Art, though they’d just get Mary to pick up where Marge left off to play spy and report with. Well, while I may not be able to put a clamp on Marge and Miss Prefect’s big mouths, I can at least make sure they never get another picture of me, just in case they are exchanging a bit more than Merry Christmases and Happy Chanukahs, and every ounce of my gut instinct says they are too, just like it said that they were paying Kim to keep tabs on me. I doubt they’re paying Marge, though.

What I don’t understand is why my life is so important to Doe and Art. Okay, so I’m their daughter, but at the same time, I’m not their daughter and I haven’t been their daughter for years now and I never will be again, so what’s the point? Just what do they get out of it?

Since there’s never going to be a “judgment day,” which I’ll explain in a minute, I can now write all the therapeutic stories of revenge on the blacks and Mexies I so desire. I always knew deep down there’d never be a judgment day anyway and that Tom was probably just saying there would be to make me feel better, even if he might’ve truly meant it at the time, and I also knew that God would forever protect my perps.

Anyway, judgment day was going to be just what it says; we were going to hunt down as many of my perps down as we could and punish them for trashing my life be it by laser guns or whatever. We wouldn’t have done the same thing for all of them so that a common denominator wouldn’t have stood out like a sore thumb. We would’ve also made sure to leave no evidence and make their tragedies look like accidents. A laser gun burns itself up and would’ve appeared like their house caught fire for no apparent reason. In the end and in reality, revenge, punishment, torture, pain, suffering and ultimately death, will never be mine for these people except for in my fantasies. So much so that a state like Arizona would surely arrest me if they could read and display an eighth of the deadly fantasies I have in regard to these subhuman parasites that God so dearly blesses!

I’m still enjoying my incense. I don’t care about it staining furniture, walls or ceilings, but I worry about it staining the dolls and their clothes in time. I hope it won’t, though. I did online research about it and couldn’t find anything that says it will, but if I see any discolorations appearing around here, I’ll stop using the stuff.

As my writing continues to improve with time, I may one day rewrite the story of my life. I can’t make it any less sad, but I can make it better written.