Worked out for an hour this morning. Spent 15 minutes doing my arms and abs, then another 45 walking and running. I then showered and ate. Once I replenish my energy with a little relaxation time I’m going to do some dusting and vacuuming. No fun at all. But it’s got to be done.

As expected this week, Jesse spent a few hours yesterday bulldozing the drive. He didn’t come down here, though he’s going to have to come down sometime over the next few days. He’ll probably want to vacuum leaves and shit like that out of the cooler. It also needs a new belt.

Andy reminded me that revenge on Jesse isn’t worth it and how karma comes back to get us and all that, but as I assured him, I have no desire for any “revenge.” I just want to move, that’s all. I’m smart enough to know that pesky worms are better stepped over than stepped on, but a noisy landlord isn’t the only reason we’re moving. We’ve just totally outgrown this place and I’m sick to death of the lack of space and just one bathroom. I hate waking up having to pee to find him in the shower or something. I can’t wait to have more space, closets, counter space, and outlets!

I called Mom but she seemed in a hurry to rush me off, saying these calls were costing me money. I reminded her that I have free long distance but would be happy to let her go if she were busy. I just wanted to see how she was feeling and if she was curious to hear what I learned from the census thing. She said she was doing ok, trying to get some paperwork done, thanked me for calling, and that was it. She’s probably sick of everyone calling so often to check up on her so I won’t call her again till Mother’s Day next month.

If things are going as well as they have been with seemingly no end in sight anytime too soon, then why do I continue to have so many dreams of doom and gloom? Can’t I have fun dreams more often? Strange dreams? Wet dreams? Interesting dreams? Instead, I’m either held captive somewhere against my will (usually in jails or funny farms), stuck in hotels, or having dreams that seem to deal with loss and poverty.

In last night’s dream, we were so poor that we “lost” everything but the bed. People came and took everything else we owned like the people that go out and repossess cars. I know it makes no sense and is a silly dream, but the only good to having such dismal dreams like this is waking up to know it was just a dream. As in most dreams, the place we lived in didn’t look like this place. I tried to hide some things but they found and took them anyway. All that was left was the bed, plus these two twin beds that supposedly came with the place.

I told Tom about it when I got up and he said, “Everything’s fine. In fact, the only thing that’s not good right now is that I’m making so much money that I can’t be around for you.”

LOL, it’s true that he sure is out a lot since he’ll be working 6 days a week for a while. Some lady is out having surgery so that’s part of why. We love the money but it sucks that he has so little free time. As for me, I’m fine on my own. I’ve always preferred to spend most of my time alone anyway. That’s why I dread the idea of when he retires as much as I look forward to it, LOL.

A couple of nights ago I dreamt I was in some sort of strange jail or funny farm. Rows of maybe 3-5 beds that were these skinny little cots stretched down a long, wide corridor. I was at the end of one row by the open part of the corridor. I got up in the middle of the night because I had to pee. The corridor was dimly lit but I could see my way down to where it formed a T just fine. I stumbled toward the top of the T and took a right. As I approached the bathroom that had about half a dozen toilets in it I reached for the light switch. Though the light never came on, I could see 3 or 4 women cleaning the bathroom. Why they were cleaning in the dark, I don’t know. One of them said, “We should be done in about 6 minutes.”

My bladder wasn’t going to wait that long so I headed for the staff’s bathroom at the other end of the top of the T, hoping no one would see me as I slipped into the tiny room with the single toilet.

Later…

I was sitting here doing some self-reflecting and I realized that only a small part of me is the same person I was 25 years ago. I think a lot more of me has changed, though I’d like to think it’s for the better. I have become more open and tolerant to certain things, but there’s also an awful lot of shit I wouldn’t put up with these days like the old me would, particularly when it comes to what types of people I’d hang out with. On or offline, there’s no way I’d associate with losers like Fran and “Nervous” these days. Or bigots. Especially the kind that have the nerve to tell you you’re wrong for being who you are. I don’t care if someone disagrees with anything I say, think or do. Everybody has a right to hate, like and love whatever and whoever. But I have to wonder why I ever put up with so much shit from certain people in the past. Why did I bother with the types of people I wouldn’t even stop to so much as glance at in this day and age?

I was in my early 20s when I was living on Oswego Street in Springfield, MA. I was too nice, too forgiving, and too tolerant in a way that I was severely lacking in self-respect. There are things to tolerate and then there are times to put your foot down and wash your hands clean of certain individuals in the name of self-respect. Take a woman who tolerates abuse, for example. Is she just tolerant? Or does she have no self-respect for herself whatsoever? A lack of respect for one’s self is a trait I typically look down upon. I don’t like to see it in others and I don’t like to see it in myself. Other people have a right to be that way or to change it if they see fit, and no one can make them change but themselves. But I could change that in myself and I did, mostly through getting fed up with certain assholes after dealing with them one too many times. As I said before, we all have our limits.

I’d reached my limits with the likes of Cecelia when I was around 30. A little late, but hey, better later than never. It was back in those early 20s in the projects of Springfield that I met Cecelia. She was deaf. I fancied the idea of having a deaf friend so I could keep up with my sign language. I saw her a few times and we hung out together either at my place or going out for lunch or something like that. She seemed like an ok person. Pretty average, actually. Average looking, average personality… just average.

Then one day Cecelia and I were sitting at my kitchen table sipping coffee and chatting. The conversation eventually shifted to my sexual preference.

“But it’s wrong,” she signed.

I just looked at her dumbly, unsure of what to say and stunned by her sudden rudeness. Then she said she’d be out of my life if I ever touched her or anything.

Although it may be pointless, I could kick myself for smiling politely and assuring her I was not the least bit attracted to her but also that I would never force my way onto someone who wasn’t interested. These days I would have stood up, opened the door, and told her to get the fuck out. No defending myself, no trying to reason with her, just getting her the fuck out of my life would be all I would do.

Who the hell was she to tell me I was wrong anyway? I hate people like that! As soon as someone tells me my way of living, thinking and believing is “wrong,” I’m gone. Just gone! I don’t tell others how to live and I expect the same respect in return. I need to surround myself with people who accept me as I am and that’s what I’ve been doing for many years now whenever possible. As one of my favorite quotes goes: Those that matter, love you as you are. Those that don’t, don’t matter.

It’s so beautiful here this time of year. Everything’s so green. There are no palms, cacti, wisterias, cypress, cherry and other trees I like within view of this place, but it’s the prettiest time of year until the dry heat kicks in and bakes the underbrush wheat brown.

Maliheh checked in again by giving my blog a hit after I sent her the last round of posts. Too bad she won’t be able to do that in a couple of months. I just wish I knew why she hardly wants to talk to me.