Still Crying

I want my family back. 😭

In other news…


Tears of a Clown

You know that Smokie Robinson song, Tears of a Clown? Yeah? Well, that’s me today. And most days, really. 😢 I am glad to have had company the past few days.

Roll Initiative

My D&D rogue has a stupid-high initiative modifier. I always go first. So, I can choose to be last.

We had another lock-popping rogue play with us last night. My feelings, or, rather, my rogue’s feelings got hurt. She was jealous.

The night pretty much went like this:

“Raise your hand if you have rolled higher than 20.”

*raises hand*

“Okay, what to you want to do?”

“I pout in the corner.”

Rock Bottom

In my 32 years, I went from collecting money door-to-door for church charity, to digging in dumpsters for flowers to sell to buy candy, to hoarding lunch money and eating lunch for free at school, to bumming smokes, to prostituting for party money, to spare-changing (“spanging”) for a bite-to-eat, to thieving for money for gas and rent, to the welfare line to get food for my baby, to my family for support, to my husband for everything, to legit employers for an earned paycheck.

In the last two months, I seem to be regressing in my progress. I get one grand from my ex each month, hopefully. I’ve taken handouts from my relatives. I’m going to go get on food stamps to feed myself. I won’t thieve again, but, it is within reasonreasonable opportunity that I slang for cash. I am already bumming food and smokes.

Stupid as it seems, I am still holding out hope that my ex takes me back. I don’t know what to do with my days alone. My life without my family as my focus can only be described as “hood rat.” Nothing really matters to me any more, other than getting food and money and shelter. My primary concern is me, and I am not doing much to care for me. Imagine how many fucks I have to give for anything else.

I want my life back. Or I want to stop believing that I will get it back. Hope sucks.

Dusting-Off My Self

*Dodges the book that has been thrown in her general direction.*

I’m still not really sure what happened in court. None of my court-ordered educational requirements have changed. “Ex” now has legal custody of all of my kids. At least I know how to get to Monterey Park from Long Beach. (*hint* It’s right down the Blvd.)

My bank card stopped working. I have no money.

I am down to the bottom of my peanut butter jar and a serving of salad with no dressing and about a third of a block of cheese.

There is something stuck in my left foot.

I’m on my stupid period. At least I stressed enough about my court date that it came late. I prayed that would happen.

Good Night.

Must. Not. Sleep.

I need to sleep, but my body is not putting forth any cooperative effort to accommodate my will to do so.

I nearly passed out at the mall today. I’m not a physician, but, I think my woes were caused by my inability to prevent my self from chugging two giant cups of Orange Fanta.

Court in the morning.

Buenos noches, mi compadres.

Hear Me Now and Smell Me Later

In response to The Daily Post’s writing proimpt: “Smell You Later.”

What smell carries me back to the days of my youth?

The musty smell of rooms that are only used as places for people to go to and smoke pot. The fragrance is frequently present in nearly-abandoned rooms, like old camper shells, middle-class backyard pool houses, or converted garages or attics. Those places are usually furnished with with torn-up couches, frayed and yellowed curtains decorated with tiny flowers or vines or fruit, and faded, hand-painted images from the 70’s of bunnies or quail or owls nailed to faux-wood-panneled walls.

The pleasing aroma of these stoner sanctuaries takes me back to long, hot summer afternoons as a kid, playing “clubhouse” with my friends in places far from adult supervision, where we could use profanity without fear and discuss taboo subjects like sex or how to make explosives out of household objects. I associate the smell with places to make-out with boys, from my teenage years. And, from my time on the streets, with fairly-dry places to sleep at night.

To this day, I am not sure if the aged essence actually comes from all the marijuana that had been combusted within the dusty chambers, or if the smell in these dark, time-forgotten rooms just attracts people with a hankering for the gonja to light up within them. Whichever the case, it’s a smell I will always recognize as a source of good times, friends, history, and imagination.