Adventures in Rooming, Part 1/God, please don't let this last long

Okay, so.

I have roomies, now.

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this, but I HATE living with other people. Mainly, because I'm a wretched, ogre-ish bitch and VERY set in my ways. And, I can't stand having to put up with other peoples', ahhhh, dirtiness? Yeah. I guess that's pretty much it. It's okay to be dirty in your OWN house, but I think when you live with other people, if you guys aren't dating or married, you should probably pull yourself together and clean up your act, so to speak.

Example 1:

Does anyone know what this is?

Here, allow me to zoom in:

I'll give you a hint. It's dried poop. And, it's been there for a week, now. Mind you, this is not a trick of the lens that I'm doing with my awesome point-n-shoot cam skills. This is the LID of the potty. For those of you who might be confused as to where that is, it's located on the OUTSIDE of the toilet.

Now, let me back up for a minute and tell you, I'm going to be talking a lot about the roomies, but we're going to use nicknames, so that we don't severely embarrass anyone. Because God knows I've done enough horrifying stuff that I actually HAVEN'T posted on my blog, although I haven't the slightest clue as to why. It's not as if my life could be anymore shameful than crapping in my pants, while being attacked by a psycho.

But, I digress. And, now, regress.

While I was NOT present for the making of this piece of art, I can pretty much guarantee it was Shatner who did it. The reason I know this is because when Shatner and I lived together previously, he had a night of drunken debauchery - his birthday, as a matter of fact.

A few months ago, he got REALLY shit-faced (no pun.........THIS time) and when we got home, he managed to shit, not only all in his pants (and then, subsequently HIDE them deep within the bowels of the dirty laundry, which I found LATER, much to my dismay and the disgust and almost projectile vomit of brand new boyfriend who was helping me do my laundry), but it covered the whole outside of the toilet, as well as the floor, tub, and the wall to the sink, which were on either sides of the toilet. As I came in from escorting new boyfriend to his car, I opened the bathroom door, just to check on him, and saw Shatner standing BUTT NAKED in the middle of the bathroom. He said, "JUST A MINUTE!," and slammed the door in my face. "Uhhhh, you're naked. Are you...okay?" "Yeah, I just got sick," and as I looked down, I realized that I was standing in a pool of alcohol-vomit, outside the bathroom door.

I pulled some yucky towels out of the closet and mopped it all up. I managed to somehow get Shatner coaxed back into the bed (while we were no longer dating and no longer sleeping together, we WERE still sleeping in the same bed - hey, I used to hate letting a king-sized bed go to waste, but that was SO long ago...) and he finally went to sleep. In the morning, when I awoke, I went to said bath-puke-pooproom and noticed there was, what appeared to be dried shit and toilet paper all over the floor, bathtub, potty and wall. I managed to get most of it mopped up with some lysol and a rag, and when I made it back into the bedroom, I saw...POO STAINS ON THE SHEET.

If you know anything about me and my relationship with my bed, you'll understand why that's a bad thing. VERY bad.

So, here's what actually happened:
Shatner falls asleep on the bed, while I'm walking new boyfriend out. He gets sick in his sleep, and as he jumps up to make for the bathroom, he barfs and craps on the way in. The puke, obviously, goes on the floor, since there's no barrier to stop it. The poo is contained, until he makes it to the potty, where he removes soiled pants. He sits on potty with soiled behind, and in removing rancid pants, steps in crap in pants, thereby leaving behind li'l footprints. It's kinda like Footprints in the Sand, but not quite as endearing and a WHOLE hell of a lot smellier. After marching around in poo, then "disposing" of pants (he swears he doesn't remember hiding them, but I certainly remember throwing them in the trash), he drunkenly sees the mess he's made and attempts to clean dookie with dry toilet paper, which I'm almost certain when you're drunk LOOKS clean, but in reality is a whole lotta smearing, if nothing else. After I coax him from the bathroom, he comes and climbs into bed, where he digs his feet into my sheets, leaving skidmarks of poo.

Ah, I forgot to mention that when I literally SCARED him awake, by yelling at him to wake up, that I'm changing the sheets, because there's shit in the bed, as he was climbing out of bed, he had crap all up and down both arms and on his chest and face. I said, "If you touch me, I'm pushing you off the balcony." I forced him into the shower (the conversation went something like this..."But, I don't feel good!" *SHOVE* *water on* "There. I made you better.") and cleaned and scoured and disinfected. I'll go ahead and say, I've cleaned up a LOT of adult excrement and yuck in my life...but there's NOTHING like that shit infecting your sanctuary...and it's NOT YOURS.

Okay, so all this brings me to the present.


And, if I SOMEHOW GET PINK-EYE (after washing my hands to the point I can hear the bones of my fingers clacking together as I scrub), I'm killing everyone in this house and possibly on this block, including myself. I've already mentioned the poo stain and have requested that it be removed, but all I got was an "I didn't do that! Is that crap? It's not mine!" Like hell it isn't. If I know anything, it's the color, shade and smell of Shatner's innards. After practicing advanced bathroom techniques for over 30 years, I've managed to always make mine stay IN the potty. I had one instance where I had a premature defecation, and that was when that psycho at my old work took me down like a linebacker. I'll admit, it literally scared the shit out of me. I don't know how that happened, but I remember it, and I remember being not only incredibly shocked, but also extremely mortified. I even forced myself to tell my lawyer, in the hopes that it might strengthen my case. So far, I'm pleading with him to forget I said that and "PLEEZE don't make me say that on the stand, if we can possibly win without my telling that part." But, that will make all of one time in my adult life that I've pooped myself. So, there.

See? Crazy stuff happens all the time. I just don't always have the balls (or the internet) to mention it at the time.

Anyway, when this guy drinks, he's got the rectal control of a 90-year-old. Wait, I take that back. I've done air contrast barium enemas on over-90's, and they've still managed to hold it better than him.

Of course, THIS "shit" is just the tip of the iceberg. Mo' later.


Next time, don't come in here

Got this from a customer yesterday, INSTEAD of a monetary tip:

Okay, seriously, DON'T ever leave your server "tips" like this, unless you want to make an enemy for life, unless you're telling her how friggin' awesome she is. I can PROMISE you that we do NOT take your "advice" into consideration or even seriously. I can't believe what judgmental bitches people are, when you wait tables. I mean, for fuck's sake, who the hell grows up and says, "I want to be a server, so that people can treat me like TOTAL dog poo for 6-12 hours out every, single day!" Almost everyone I know has waited tables (reluctantly, no doubt) at some time in their lives, and nearly every person who ended up having to work in the same kinds of places I've worked (lower class establishments - not like Bottega), it's resulted in some of the most miserable experiences of their lives.

I may not be the best server in the world, but I'm all over my customers like scabies. (Probably not the best analogy, but whatev.) I watch them like a hawk. I bring all their food, the absolute second it comes up, I keep their drinks filled, and when they take the last bite of their entree or even LOOK like they're not interested in their food anymore, I swoop in with the check - I'll even wait for them to pay, if they start digging for their money. If things are getting hairy, and I've got 50 tables going at once, yeah, I'll bring your check early. But, it helps ME keep everyone straight, and I, personally, HATE waiting on my check. HATE IT. I hate when it seems my server has disappeared into the nexus, and I'm left with a bone-dry glass and no check. I'm constantly walking by my tables, so that if anyone needs anything, all they have to do is look at me or put their hand up to catch my attention. I am THERE for my customers. (And, yes, I'll divvy out hugs to those who need them.)

Apparently, this guy wanted me to burp him, change his diaper, and lay him down for a nap, before I brought his check. Now, he's just going to get a loogie or a booger in his food. Okay, okay, I'm totally kidding...................maybe. *raises eyebrow*

Lesson for the day:
DON'T piss off your server. 99% of the time, they're in a difficult place in their lives (which is why they're waiting tables), so they'd appreciate a little kindness on your end, too.


Jennifer vs. The Job Market

Post 500, and I will go ahead and apologize that it will not be monumental, nor groundbreaking.

We just back from seeing Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, and I can easily say it was one of my favorite movies EVER. I would like to see it in the theatre again (about 50 times), but I guess we'll have to wait for the dollar theatre...since we're broke, and it's about to leave the cinema, anyway.

It's one of those movies that I could watch at any time, and it could cheer me up, IMMENSELY. I adored the music. I loved the people. I was rapt with all the CGI stuff they did.


Now, to bed. Work in the morning, where I will put in my 2-week notice. The bastard who works up front has been stealing my tips. I've caught him twice, but I refuse to besmirch myself by being a tattle-tail. Every time I do that at jobs (be labelled the "boat-rocker"), I get this horrible reputation that I'm never able to live down. So, I'm leaving this one behind - at least no bridge burning. It's the least I can do, with as horribly as my life is going right now.

I can do better. And, I will suffer greatly before relief comes. But, I will do better...for myself.


Where were you?

On September 11, 2001, I was on my way to Children's Hospital. It was my first real job after I'd graduated as a tech, and I'd been there for only a few months. When I got to work, a lady on the elevator said, "Isn't that awful about the Twin Towers?" I said, "Yeah...wait. What? What happened?" She said, "A plane apparently went off course and crashed into one of the towers!...all those people..." I had no idea - I guess I'd been listening to a CD or something on the way to work (back when I HAD a stereo in my car).

When I got to work, and I was passing through CT, that was the first time I'd seen a news report. I went and got my phone and called my aunt Amy. I stood there, clutching the phone, and we watched together in horror as the second plane crashed into the second tower, and subsequently, as the first tower collapsed. She and I cried on the phone together and told each other how much we loved each other.

Aside from physically being with my family, there's nowhere else in the world I would have rather been.

I love you, Amy. Thanks for being the main memory of my 9.11.


Blog about your day - Take 1


I just got back from babysitting someone's five chilluns tonight...and I made twice what I made from working seven hours at the restaurant today - AND this asshole stole my tip today.

I fucking hate that job.


I'm going to bed. ArtWalk with Bryan tomorrow afternoon, then slave labor from 5p-2a.

NOT looking forward to this. This week has been a complete suckfest. It seems the more I work, the busier it is, the harder I bust my ass, the LESS I bring home.

God, PLEASE make this be more temporary than I had first hoped...


Lost Child

I lost my puppy today.

No worries, though - he's back safe, now, and sleeping soundly in his beloved crate (his "house"). I know people think crating is horrible, but had we not been at it for over a year and he not retreat there EVERY time he's tired or in trouble, I would have definitely reconsidered.

He's been such a good boy, since we've moved. It's weird. He's a changed dog. I actually think he likes it here. He gets to go outside and play in the backyard (and, apparently, the crawl space) whenever he gets antsy. I wasn't sure how he'd take to backyarding it, but he's done really well.

Until today.

I actually left work about ten minutes early, with a HORRIBLE stomach ache, drove home exhausted and completely ready to fall apart, once I reached my bedroom. I came in, threw my crap on the bed, and dropped onto the mattress. Booboo came in to greet me, and looked up at me and meowed.
"That's weird. She NEVER talks, unless something's up."
That's when I realized that I couldn't hear Jack. I got up, walked into the kitchen (where said "house" is), and saw his crate empty. Mark was gone, and Ryan was at work, and I immediately got FURIOUS with Mark, for leaving him out, when he had left the house. Not a smart move in a city with a high crime rate, especially for stealing nice, pretty doggies who are fun to play with. I looked out the window to the backyard, but didn't see him. He likes to stay in this weird area next to the house, that still has fence around it, so I figured he was there. I walked outside, called his name.......nothing.

I went to the side of the house, peered into the brush and couldn't see him. I TRIED not to freak, so I came inside to call Mark, to see if maybe he took Jack to the dog park and forgot to tell me. Mark's phone went to voicemail...like, five times. I texted him. Then, I Facebooked him. Then, I started worrying. He texted me back and said, "he's in the backyard."

At that moment, I went off the charts. It was that whole "I thought he was with you" statement, that makes your heart fall into your feet and you hear that screaming in your head, only to realize that the sound is actually issuing from your mouth.

I called Mark and simultaneously tore outside, screaming Jack's name. The elementary school across the street was letting out, so I thought for sure he'd be over at the playground, with the kids. He's a TOTAL social butterfly like that - way more than his mom will ever be. Mark was telling me how he'd left him in the backyard and checked on him before he left, and I tried not to curse too much, since I was kind of phasing in and out on what he was saying and concentrating more on finding Jack. I ran back through the alleyway, next to the house, and broke through to the other street. There was a lady loading things into her car, and she obviously heard my frantic screaming (and saw my frantic hair), and said, "Hey, did you lose a dog? He's over here! He's been hanging out with me for about 30 minutes!" I started crying when she first said that, and I said, "a big, brown one???," and she said, "Oh! No....he's little and white, with black spots..." I described him to her, told him he was wearing all his ID (his driver's license, as we call it) and to call the phone number on the tag, if she saw him. Then, I took off towards the car.

I jumped in the car and literally drove up and down every, single street in the Glen Iris area. I was on the phone with Bryan at the time, and I was screaming his name like a crazy person. I circled the school several times (places with people), I drove back to our old apartment (places we lived), I looked in the pool (places he wouldn't be able to get out of), I drove back to the dog park (places he loved) - I even got out of the car and waded through the creek that circles the dog park, shrieking like a banshee. I know people thought I was insane. I went back to our old house and circled the block, where we would walk every afternoon, when he was a baby. Nothing. I drove to Dreamland (places that smelled good), I went back to Vickie's (places he'd remembered), I visited the house of every, single dog we'd ever played with in that area, but he was nowhere. I sat at the light on Green Springs, took my seatbelt off, climbed halfway out the window and SCREAMED his name over the roar of the traffic. Everywhere I went, I kept expecting to see him come bounding through the bushes or down the hill or from behind someone's house, with that juicy, pink tongue in tow. And, it seemed that everywhere I went, EVERYONE had seen a dog...but it was that same little white dog...and he wasn't mine.

I was frantic. I came home, after about an hour of searching and posted a desperate message on Facebook. My friend Mindy was online (thank God) and sprung into action. She reposted his picture, my message and a note, requesting people to share and keep a look out. I left the house, again. Mark had called, saying when he went to pick Ryan up from work, they ran out of gas in Southside, so they were walking back. I'm pretty sure I just hung up on him - I was distressed, distracted, and livid. The last thing I cared about was them (sorry). I started casing Glen Iris again, moving a little closer to Five Points. Still nothing.



Everywhere I went, absolutely nothing.

Finally, about 20 minutes or so, after I got off the phone with Mark, he called me back. (Bryan had been calling intermittently, to check to see if I'd had any luck.) All I heard was, "Hey! I found him!" The person behind me almost rear-ended me, when I slammed on my brakes (I'm sorry, person). I yelled back at Mark, "WHERE WAS HE???? WHERE ARE YOU????," and he simply said, "Home!"

I was way over towards the police station, and I tore into someone's driveway, backed out, and ended up back at what I SWEAR was the longest light in the history of the universe and got behind the SLOWEST person ever. All my windows were all the way down, and I screamed at the top of my lungs, "CAN YOU DRIVE ANY F*%&ING SLOWER??!?!?!??"

I wheeled around the "Do Not Enter" sign they had put on the street next to the school (yes, I was watching for kids - don't prosecute me) and tore sideways into the driveway. I jumped out of the car, fell out of my shoes coming on to the porch, and slid inside. There he stood, at his water bowl, sucking up water like it was going out of style. He looked and wagged when he heard me, but turned around and resumed his water funneling. I grabbed him and hugged him and cried and hugged his heinie while he drank water and grabbed him up again and fussed and cried some more...it was a very emotional time for me. &=\

Mark said he'd been at the house the whole time. When he and Ryan got home, Mark checked the backyard and went into that weird place next to the house - I can't explain it, except that it's about as wide as one of us, extends almost the length of the house and is COMPLETELY overgrown with weeds, brush, vines and cockleburs, or whatever those tiny, brown things are that get stuck on your clothes. We waded all the way the end, and almost at the end is a SECOND crawl space, big enough for maybe a small ten-year-old to fit through. Mark said he'd come all the way down, to see if he had dug his way out (he doesn't dig, and I'm not entirely sure he knows how - he's a very sheltered dog), or if there was a break in the fence, and when he looked down, he saw his tiny, light brown face, peering out of the hole of the crawl space, making no noise at all. Mark said Jack was wedged in there, and he literally had to PULL him out from between the concrete blocks. We'd had no idea how he'd managed to get in there in the first place.

I stood there and hugged Mark and cried forever, wailing, "THANK YOU FOR FINDING MY DOG!!!!!!!"

So, happy ending for once, to my day.

We have no idea what's under the crawl space, why it's making the band room smell like dead bodies, or why it keeps eating my pets (Booboo was it's first victim), but we're going to find out tomorrow...when one of us finds a working flashlight.

Until then, everyone's home and safe and sleeping, which is the way I want to keep it.

Aside from that, Jack's been eerily quiet, since Mark pulled him out. He laid with his head in my lap for about 15 minutes, which is unusually placid for him. And, during the band's practice and Joseph coming by to check on him, Mark said he didn't make a peep, which is ALSO very strange. After practice, and after Bryan came and went, Jack laid in the floor and seemed to just stare off in the distance. We kept making jokes about what he must have been going through under there and what had he seen that seemed to have traumatize him so? I'm sure he was probably just exhausted from being stuck under the hot house for two hours, listening to me scream his name around the neighborhood (he NEVER barks unless he's bored, so I'm sure he didn't know how to respond), being rescued, and then band practice (he functions as the audience or peanut gallery, now)....but it's still weird.

Jack, what IS under the house?



Bottom of the Barrel...

...or bottle, whichever I hit first. Actually, I told Bryan last night, after Mark destroyed my bed, that I feel like I'm laying at the bottom of a disgusting trash can with my mouth open, and life is just showering me with garbage.

I always feel a little self-conscious, talking about this crap, but I have to.

I've reached a NEW low. It happened last night, in the rush to get everything moved, and as Bryan and Mark were moving my bed frame down the mountain, Bryan said Mark was shifting too hard, and part of the bed frame jumped out of the back of the truck (yeah, I just anthropomorphized my bed - deal) and skidded down the hill.

I don't know if you've actually ever seen someone lose her shit over a bed - and I did not - but I did have to leave the house. Disregarding my fears of living in this part of town, I stopped caring, and I walked outside and down the sidewalk, for about two blocks, and planted myself on someone's front steps. I sat there and seriously considered my place in this world. I considered and reconsidered and then decided that this move, into this house, with Mark, was a TERRIBLE idea.

Let me clarify - it's not just about the bed. I mean, don't get me wrong - the scarring of a $3000 bed, that's been in near-pristine condition for almost a decade, does WORLD'S of fucking with a miserly middle-aged lady's mind. Considering it's the only NICE piece of furniture I own (which was my mistake, I assure you, but, again, it was a decade ago, so give me a little leeway), I kinda wanted to keep it that way. Had I the moolah to run out and buy a new, giant, good-for-your-back bed, I'd totally do it. I'd throw caution to the wind and buy that bed!

But - and this is where the "where the hell is she going with all this" comes into play - I have no idea what to do with the rest of my life. None. I'm completely out of ideas. I have a degree in x-ray...but I can't stay here (in Birmingham) and be a grunt for the rest of my life. I don't want to.

My original plan was to move to San Francisco and start working on getting a degree in computers. What kind? I don't know. Whatever. Then, "some guy" was telling me that that's the worst decision I could make, going into computers, that by the time I get done, it's going to be like x-ray, the field is going to be saturated, etc, etc. Not that "some guy" is going to tell me what to do with my life. But, it just made me nervous. Plus, my grandmother isn't doing well, and while I'm not actually helping my family out by sitting here blogging, I know Amy and Diane are running themselves ragged, taking care of Grammy, and I can do nothing from where I am. Amy's exhausted, working AND taking care of Grammy, and I know Diane's exhausted, but she's also seriously getting on my grandmother's nerves, which irks me. I'm not even going to go why, because *I* know why, and that's all that matters.

When the attack (by Jerry) first happened, I sent out an email to my loved ones, explaining what had happened and expressing my concern for a.) nearly throwing my life away on a fraudulent company and the indecision of what to do next, and b.) the concern that I was taking him to court as merely an act of revenge, something to which I'm not accustomed. I received all of this positive feedback (most of it only inspirational, yet not very directional) from everyone, except Diane. She sent me something back that simply said, "You don't want to know what I think." Putting all of my misgivings about our arguments over religion and her short-sightedness of the world in general in the past, I wrote her back and said (to paraphrase), "No, I sent this to you for a reason. You're family, I love you, and I want to know what you think." So, she wrote me back once again and said, "If you want to change the world, you need to come home and take care of your grandmother."

I actually can't remember if I've blogged about this already, so if I have, forgive me and just skip this part.

Haha, repeating that even NOW makes my blood boil. In fact, it makes me laugh, it's so...I don't know. When MY MOTHER was sick, I took care of her. I held down a full-time job (until they forbade me from leaving one time, when she had been taken to the ER - that's when I put my foot down and quit), I went to school full-time, and I moved with her, back and forth, from the hospital to the house, whenever it became necessary. I know I was a youngin' back then, and I had a LOT more energy. I also had Aaron at the time, to help me do a lot of the running back and forth from Pell City to the hospital. The only time I would ever ask anyone to look in on my mother was when I was at work or school. 99% of the time, I did everything myself, which includes changing her diaper, helping her on and off the bedpan or potty chair, going to and from the bathroom, scouring the city for the only foods she could stomach, while she was on chemo, driving to and from home, to pick up bills, take care of the cat and run whatever errands were necessary. Simply put, I just did whatever I had to do.

So, here I am, only recently 33, newly dating someone, new job making very little money, working like a dog, still desperately seeking employment that will allow me to support myself, looking STILL to find my place in the world and develop a life of my own. Now, I know 33 is getting up there, but for the love of all that's holy, my life isn't OVER. So, according to Diane, I should just give up my semblance of a life and come home, to the town I loathe, and settle down and take care of my grandmother, HER mother.

And, I'll tell you why that is. It's because she ONLY wants to function as a grandmother. She doesn't want to do anything but do stuff with Katy and the kids. Diane's always going on about how Katy constantly needs help with the boys. And, I'm not faulting Kate AT ALL. Kate's an adult. She had three kids on her own. I'm pretty sure she can take care of them. Amy had four of 'em, no job (like Kate), and Mark worked full-time (and then some), and they did just fine. She'd ask for help from us, whenever she really needed it. I understand people need help. I'm one person, and I need help sometimes. But, the fact that she would pin this solely to MY chest, to wear like a badge of shame REALLY PISSES ME OFF. Well, I say solely - she talks plenty of shit about Amy, too, so I shouldn't say it's just me. In fact, she's the biggest shit-talking "righteous and upright" Christian I know. She preaches all this crap to everyone's faces, but she sure as hell can't follow through on her game. I know she's old and tired - fuck, *I'M* old and tired. The government and church family aren't taking care of me. The fact that I've had to be on unemployment DISGRACES me. The fact that I have a degree and NOTHING to show for it, makes it hard for me to look people in the eye. I have a lot of pride for someone who deserves nothing. I mean, what makes me special? Not one fucking thing. But, I know I'd rather be able to take care of myself with full-time work and pay for my own health insurance than have to worry others with the task. This move has been humiliating, to say the least. While Mark (my roomie) destroyed my bed and has broken several of my things, including my will to live, he's been the one supporting us with his student loan money. I mean, I supported him, back when he first moved in with me, and as I always say, if I had unlimited resources, I'd totally take care of everyone; not a complaint would escape my lips. The fact that I have NOTHING, at this point in my life, is very difficult for me to deal with.

Uhhhhhh, all my stories are starting to cross. But, see, this is what's happening in my mind! This is why I'm turning crazy again! I'm finding less and less reason to pull out of this funk.

So, this is where I'm at....
My absolute first priority is to find a job that will allow me to stand on my own two feet. That's not happening fast enough, so I'm FORCED to keep what I have (waiting tables at a Nazi dinner camp). I'm making $2.50/hr there, and SOMETIMES I bring home $30 in tips. You do the math.

After that, I've got to figure out where I'm going to live: Pell City? Stay here in Birmingham? Pick up and move to San Francisco? For the record, I'm still leaning towards Frisco, but I'm also having the debacle of "will my family resent me for leaving?" I don't know, but I DO know that I have to be able to take care of myself, and me moving home to HELP take care of Grammy (I'm not doing it on my own, when there are others who are able to assist), and still not having work, whether it's in Bham or Pell, is going to do NO ONE any good.

After that, I've got to figure out what I'm going to do with my life. I have very little that's keeping me alive right now. I'm still hoping for a fiery car crash or something quick and semi-painless. I have a LOT for which I'm thankful...but that doesn't mean it's necessarily keeping me here. I know that's a horribly selfish thing to say, but I'm not exactly in a keen frame of mind at the moment, so you'll have to not judge me on this.

I told Bryan last night, that he's one of the few bright spots in my life right now. So much is changing, and a lot of it isn't incredibly positive. He's really been helping me deal, and I don't know if he knows how much he's been keeping me sane. While my pets are typing me down somewhat, I still wouldn't give them up. For that, you can judge me, but I assure you, I won't care. I don't have kids, so I'm that sicko who cares for her pets like kids.

Shit. Roomie Mark is in Clay, so I'm going to have to cut this blog short (not that it was making any sense at this point). He took my debit card, and I've got to have it, to go rent that fucking carpet cleaner, to clean the carpet at the apartment. Thank God the new place doesn't have any carpet...but then again, I don't know how long I'm going to last here...

More later.