Acquiescence

I've been here before.

Asking for help. Taking whatever I can get.

Warden isn't dead, but I could no longer feed him. Regrette, too. They are back at the shelter, perhaps adopted by now by some caring soul(s). Perhaps I will get my feet back under me, and they will still be there, and I will take them back. Perhaps I know deep down that that will not ever be true. Curt Jimenez can't pretend that the way things were will ever be the way they are again. If I ever have a job again, I must know that it is as subject to sudden change as the weather. A person living such an existence cannot take on such things as dogs.

I have sold things. My computer. My accordion. My food processor. Were it that I had anything else of any value, these would most likely be gone as well. I think of Rick's voice in my ear--I am practicing detachment! The things I once loved are detaching themselves from me slowly, one-by-one. They have gone, as easily as they came. Rick would have told me that they were never mine anyways. The library still exists, and will still let me in to warm up and check my email, see if anybody has work for an old con. Nobody does, it seems.

So what of this blog? Alas, it is one of the few things that I don't think anyone can take away, even once my landlord stops taking pity on me, so maybe I will keep up with it, to whatever degree I can. I don't know that writing is therapy, but it is something. I have not brought much good into the world. At least this little blog might be able to supplement that sad legacy a bit.

Who invented the wheel?

I wonder how many times it took to figure out that a circle would work best.

How many times, Curt, can you move forward like this?

First, a triangle.

Then, a square.

Afterwards, a vision quest.

But still. The ride is bumpy. Lumpy. Something is not right.

Why is it that a hole lets so much air in?

Relativity

If you are worried about me, don't be. So many have it worse than me, why should I pretend that my suffering is special, that it makes me exceptional? Think about it--I've never sold my body for money or drugs, I almost always have enough to eat (sometimes very delicious things), and I have a roof over my head, for the time being at least, even if there is a little drip drip drip that I can hear but can't see that torments me just a little bit before I fall asleep at night. Perhaps my ceiling will collapse, and I will sue my landlord! What a boon that would be.

Warden had a few great years with me, and then it was suddenly over, before hip dysplasia could set in, before his teeth had rotted so irreparably that I would have to throw his kibble in the blender. He would regret then never having listened to my urgings for him to chew his food, if only for the sake of his teeth. But he took such pleasure in scarfing! He tried so hard, and in the end, it never even mattered!

What further ailments and sufferings await me, if I don't get so lucky to be hit by a car, or better yet to just *poof* have the old ticker poop out on me in the middle of the night?

If this is punishment for wrongs committed in the past, why are there such bright moments in between the miseries? Is it just to make the little hells be magnified? If it was all just suffering, would it feel so bad?

Every time I start to believe that everything is relative, I realize fully that it's not. And then the knife turns again, a little deeper into my soul.

Reasons I Did Not Post

Yesterday, The Ghost fired me (again).
Warden was struck by a car and died.
I got into a fight with Guy and he called me "burnt toast unworthy of butter" and I kicked him out, but not before he set the couch on fire.
I got second degree burns on my arms and chest.
I am despairing. I am in a very dark place.
I am letting you all down.
There is nothing anymore.
I have failed in every aspect of my life.
I am a big loser and always will be.
I am down and out, forever.
Don't look at me, you'll catch what I've got.
It's alright if you pretend you never knew me. I understand.
That is all.

Rung-less Ladder

I have been trying to stay warm. I have been doing this by drinking more hott beverages. And by staying very still underneath blankets. This is the time of year when delivering papers is the worst. Staying up late, on account of Guy and his video games, and waking up early, only to feel kind of burly.

The Ghost doesn't care how I feel, or how my hands feel, or how my nose feels like it's not even on my face! What does that guy even do, besides yell commands and poke chap stick onto his lips? Can I even work my way up in this business? After I excel at delivering papers, do I get to deliver magazines? Then "hott" magazines in paper bags? Then, normal mail? Then, government mail? Then, international mail? I doubt it. OMG. This ladder has no rungs! A rung-less ladder is the wrong ladder to be climbing up--I am just realizing--gaw!

I think it's time for a raise for Curt G. Jimenez. Tomorrow, I think I will ask for a raise. Tomorrow, I will say, "Hey, Mr. Ghost sir..." Yeah, that's what I'll do.

Then, I'll buy a space heater. Or two.

Change

This year has not started off so well. It is no one thing, nor is it many things. It just is. Or I think it just is.

I have been thinking that maybe there is something wrong. Something big. Something that must change. I am not saying that it is Guy. I do not think it is Guy. Most likely, I think it is Curt.

Of course it is Curt. But what? Is it his job? His family? His dogs? God forbid, his hobby?

Change. Chains. Chains, changed. Change change chains.

Pink

I am wearing a pink shirt. The shirt was not pink, originally.

Guy thought he'd be nice and do my laundry. This was after he opened his eyes and said, "I will do your laundry, how about that?"

"Sure," I said. This was the seventh day of my new life and I figured, what the heck.

I am wearing the pink shirt because in my new life I am trying to be more thankful, despite the outcomes. Guy had good intentions. And my shirt is clean. In fact, the shirt has inspired a butter. Rose butter. Rose water and heavy whipping cream and just a spot of coloring.

They say it takes a real man to wear pink...right?