The Thinning of the Soul's Membrane (curse of Tom C.)

It's been awhile since I blogged, much like it's been awhile since I had any semblance of stability, sanity, or found a really good deal at Target. But hey, that's OK. It is the election season, the skies are clearing, it is Lent, I actually voted in the primaries (easier than you can say, Jimminy Cricket) and everything else goes on and on and on until you want to scream or commit some kind of torrid sex crime. Of course, that's a joke, because I have never committed any kind of crime other than that one time in North Carolina when the mean southern cop pulled me over and immediately said, "Didn't you see me behind yew??" in tones that suggested I should be shot on sight. Ah, the South, land of maximum tempers and minimal education. Hey, you heard it here first.

So I'm in a mood. I actually have a PT job tutoring, a crush on somebody besides the blue-eyed doctor, and am #1 now (yah! I'm #1) on the list for a decent apartment, and #12 on another list. Ah, waiting, the fundamental activity of the poor. We wait, we wait, we count our blessings, we scream at night into our pillows, we wonder why, why, why over and over again until our skulls feel as though they are bleeding. Such is life, life, life.

Lately I am trying to figure out my life, and have come to the conclusion that in this hepped-up, thoroughly confusing, and basically addled age that ain't ever going to happen. I wonder why I let certain friendships go, why certain people don't seem to be good for me or if I could ever figure out whether or not they are, and why there is never anybody around when you need them to be. I wonder why my entire life is a long series of endless phone calls, or why it's also an endless series of tedious appointments that go nowhere. Much like cabinet meetings in George W. Bush's administration unless they've decided to bomb the shit out of some country just because A. they can and B. they're bored and C. won't this stick it to the taxpayers for the next century or so. Ah, our government, working for you.

So that's that. I really am the most amazingly wondrous creature, and once I am out of the homeless shelter where I currently live I will feel even better. Lately it's all stealing, and more stealing, and feeling accused when you know you didn't do anything because some people never leave and are always having their shit stolen and everything is endless dysfunction. It's enough to make anyone scream, particularly in this dripping confessional age where we let it all hang out and then some. Tennis, anyone? Or just a heaping helping of bad transitional living, as it's called? HA! More like hell in a Turkish prison without the delights, thanks very much (Turkish delights, that is).

So there you have it. I had to take a Klonpin (1/2 tab, my dear psychiatrist) in order to function because I have a terribly hard time sitting in restaurants of any kind (in this case Subway, land of phallic shaped sandwiches and an ordering time of approximately 15 minutes as workers labor to put endless condiments and other assorted goodies on a sandwich you could make in half the time in your very own kitchen, ah). Now I am here in the library, wishing to God something (and not me) would break. If only for my guitar, if only for my soul, if only for anything that matters any longer. It's all hell, hell, hell, hell, hell.

Ah. Now I feel better. Tennis, anyone? Rudolpho, are you there? I'll take tea in the sun room, thank you. And no shrimp, thank you, as I believe it was stolen. But not by me, people. Not by me. The only thing I want to steal is your SOUL (diabolical laughter insert here). Did I mention I'm crazy? But only in the best way, Tom Cruise!