I developed a new system for posting old journal entries. I proofread an entire month at a time and then I can just throw the whole thing online. I’m going through December of 1993 now and in one of the entries for that month, I mention my mother getting a job in an office and her saying she’d prefer not to have to work, and then I remember Tom saying just the other day that no one goes back to work after retirement because they want to. She wasn’t quite 65 yet, but still. The more I think about things and the more I learn, the more I realize that yes, they were upper class for the most part, and yes, they were comfortable as hell most of their lives, but clearly they were never “rich.” I don’t know why some people ever thought they were. Maybe they misunderstood, were falsely informed, or just “felt” they were rich in comparison to themselves.

A year ago today – yeah, it was exactly one year ago today that disaster struck – I’d have looked at the me of today and thought they were rich as hell, too.

Speaking of one year ago today, it’s a rather emotional anniversary of sorts filled with mixed emotions – anger, sadness, thankfulness… I couldn’t stand to read back on much of my journal entries from that time, but oh how I remember those feelings! The anger, the fear, the sadness…

Why us? I kept asking myself this. I’m grateful to have survived, but I still wonder how many more times we’ll be teased about our survival like that. I still believe something up there wanted to kill us while something else saved us in the end. But who/what, and why?

Again, I’m thankful to have not only survived but to have gotten so far ahead so fast despite the horrible memories I’ll have to live with of the stress and the intense emotions that I felt during that time on “death row” as we were for those 10 days or so. Never before had any situation looked so utterly hopeless. I know we can’t live forever, but it seems that no matter what’s going on and no matter what age we are, we always try to fight death whenever it comes too close to us. Instinct simply kicks in and takes over whether we like it or not.

Later…

1993 is all posted now, so here goes 1994. I’ll try to get January on tonight so long as the net doesn’t go out for 5 hours like it did last night.

Someone (Molly? Kim?) said on Ask: you deserve all the bad things you get.i feel really sorry for you.

I told them: You contradicted yourself. You obviously meant to insert the word “don’t” either after the word “you” in the first sentence or after the “i” in the second. Which was it?

I also received quite a compliment from a 22-year-old with a broken heart in Pennsylvania who spent an hour on my blog. She said she found it intriguing, asked how I got started, and said she was going to read it all.

Had a chilling thought earlier. I’m sure I’m just being paranoid, and I still don’t even know that was a real pig that contacted me last January, though I don’t doubt it was connected to the black bitch. But what if they’re waiting for us to get settled in our own place where the Internet is in our own name? That’s what they did last time. Just one week after we finally left the hotels and got settled in Maricopa they were on me. What if the idea is to wait till we get moved, spend most of our savings getting into the new place, and then legally kidnap me when they think I’ll be left with no money for a defense?

I know it sounds paranoid as hell. As soon as they could’ve picked me up, they would have. But I’m not only out of their jurisdiction, I haven’t done anything illegal. At least not illegal enough. The anti-spam policy clearly states one must send thousands of emails to be punishable, not a few dozen.

I still think they altered something I sent either on their own or with the black pig’s help. Probably with his help. Still, I’m up here and they’re down there. And that’s the way it stays!