Although they were rather comatose next door as opposed to what we had in Phoenix, it’s looking more and more like we are going to get out of here in 50 days. Tom’s pretty sure that this management company will have no problem with transferring our deposit. Even if we can only get two more feet of breathing space, at least we won’t have anyone attached to us and I can blast my music and not worry about running around and doing tasks that may make a racket, unless he’s sleeping, of course.

Surprisingly, I haven’t heard much from next door today, though it’s not exactly their prime time yet.

My cavity is doing ok now, but it acts up on and off. I’ve decided not to bother with the queen, which I would’ve had to do by regular mail or else Dave would’ve played blind to any email I may’ve sent and made like he didn’t get the message. Unless it’s to tell her just what I think of her, just because I can and just because it’d make me feel good to do so and to piss her off like she’s pissed me off for years now, the thought of begging her makes me sick. The thought of being pen pals, visiting or doing anything with that selfish bitch, makes me utterly want to puke. I have come to loathe all three of them. For a while, Dave seemed like the only cool one left until he tried to ignore our pleas for help when we first got here. That showed me he was just as bad as the rest of them. Anyway, Tom’s going to look into some sort of dental plan that’ll allow us to make payments.

This weekend we’re going to work more on my story. We want to intensify some parts of it and hopefully stretch it to around 75,000 words to leave a cushion for if they accept it and edit it, figuring they’re going to take stuff out and not add stuff in.

What appeared to be Bev’s son and a few kids were next door briefly, but other than hearing the front door and a bit of squealing, there was no banging of any kind. The son seemed pretty pissed at one point, but I couldn’t tell at whom. Hopefully at his mom so he won’t be by for our remaining time here.

Tom had a “radical” idea last night, as he put it. That would be to pack the truck of everything but the plants and a few other things and to go to a motel in Sacramento, which would have more jobs available, using what would’ve been May’s rent money, our deposit, and whatever he could get from unemployment. Then he’d scramble to find a job and a house to rent.

While it may sound good and simple, I don’t like the idea at all. We’ve done radical before, and radical only gets us in trouble. For one, I think it would take several truckloads just to transport the bare essentials, even though we have significantly less than we did when we came here. I’d also be paranoid about running out of money before we got established, and of the one-month stay in a motel turning out to be a few months. I do not want to return to playing motel! We also don’t want to have to cram things in such a tiny space again like we had to when we left Arizona.

So, we both agreed in the end that we’d rather Klam it than cram it. This means we’ll rent a house here, and that’s ok because I know it won’t be for too long and that we’ll eventually get to California. It was meant to be. I’m thinking it’ll only be for a year or two. We may buy a few pieces of cheap furniture from the local Goodwill, then donate it back to them when we move.

I’m just glad God didn’t hate us enough to cause Tom to lose his job when we first started playing motel here. If that had happened, we’d have lost everything, and we’d have had to stay in a shelter. I think I’d have killed myself for damn sure if that had happened!

At the same time it’s easy for me to bitch about all the moving we’ve done and the changes we’ve been through, would I really have been any happier if things had stayed the same year after year? Like Miss Perfect who’s lived in the same state all her life, had the same number, the same email address, the same job, the same house, etc., for well over a decade.