And another one bites the dust. in Candy Corn on the Cob (October 2019)

No, nothing died. My brain is on a Queen kick and I don’t have headphones. Miss ODD cut the wires on all my headphones because she was angry about bullies at school. Somehow, in her mind, cutting up my headphones made that better. Fine, but I really loved my headphones. They were furry cat ears and they were like $30. I wore them all around the house. She also diced my earbud wires, so I have to replace the whole shebang. This happens. She’s a cutter. Her own hair, her clothes, my sheets, my stuff, she cuts. Thankfully she hasn’t discovered her own skin. Hair is as far as her self-mutilation goes.

So we keep that in a pixie now - she can’t cut very much because it’s pixie.

Anyway, where was I going?

I braved I-5 for therapy on Friday. Spouse said “oh just follow me” but yeah, no one would let me over into the lane he was in, so I got swept off and he didn’t come back. It took me three hours to work my way from Hilltop to North Tacoma back to I-5 via University Place. Adia was highly amused. I cried. I called him for help, but he just said I should use Google Maps. Um. Well. Fuck you very much. And he STILL keeps gabbling “I love you” at me. Dude? I don’t think love means what you think it does. Actually, I am confused by what you think it might mean, because it fails to compute for me. This is not a healthy relationship.

Uh. Other news. I’m giving a talk on November 9. At St. Martin’s. I don’t even know where that is. I guess I’ll be using google maps a bit more…

I had the seed of a short story idea. Hearts and houses: as a couple starts out, the house is very accepting of him, but as time passes and he does stupid things, the house starts sealing him out. Yes him. I still think of homes as female spheres, I guess, even with the rise of feminism. And yes him as the villain (but not horrible) because therapy, I guess. Men just aren’t working out for me. Or for lots of the women I know. Men are a crapshoot.

My dad: I adored him, but I know he was a philanderer, a liar, and a blowhard. My husband is a completely ineffective and weird ass ball of neuroses. My cat, who is also my husband, because he sleeps all over my butt, is stinky in the morning. He likes to poop at 5 fucking 30 am. I have to wake up at 6. You can’t sleep through it, though. You wake up thinking you’ve been gassed and you’re going to die.

(Yes, the box is in my room, because it wasn’t my room before…it was storage space. We didn’t even go in there most days unless we needed the microwave. Or I typed in there. Anyway, that’s their favorite box now, and it ain’t pretty when it gets moved.)

I started another short story, a theater-of-the-absurd number about a divorce in a cabaret setting in a society that has outlawed marriage in the first place, but it went straight into bashing something…not sure what…and the pov character is gay and the emcee. So that wasn’t working. Mostly he was making drag jokes at the singer. Not a story. Not nice, either.

If I go home, I can have macaroni and cheese and brownies. If I stay here, I might get papers outlined.

So. torn. Brownies. Or work?

Fuuuuuuck.