Everything is so weird right now!
I'm paranoid about the bad man from my past. I really did open up a can o'worms with that. I thought I was wearing my internet condom. I am comfortable in the knowledge that he couldn't possibly have any of the hacking credentials he claims to, or I'd already be compromised. I have been getting weird fishing emails and messages on my SoundCloud account. All manner of nice to ugly, trying to get me to open links. Right, I haven't been that stupid since . . . no, I was never that stupid. And he obviously is.
I got latched onto by a troll on Twitter yesterday. I played with him for a while, but eventually got tired of him calling me a dumbass and asking what was wrong with me and shaming me and offering pity to my friends and relations. So I blocked him, and he kept posting more and more obnoxious stuff. So I took a screen cap, sent it to twitter support and then filled out a harassment complaint. He was suspended earlier today. Stupid fuck. Yes, actually, calling me names and shaming me is, in fact, harassment. Way to be.
I'm not fucking with people anymore. There is one person who would actually have the free time and sick desire to really bug me, and because of the possibility of him, everyone I don't know who even types at me sideways is getting slammed against the wall. If it makes me stand up for myself for once, it can't be all bad.
Doc went to the dollar store today to get me stockings, and the whole aisle was empty. He inquired, in broken Spanish, as to where the stockings were. He got back, in broken English, that they weren't summer stock and had been put in storage to make room for beach stuff. We're in the middle of a desert. Pro tip: you can't make sand castles with dry sand. So, recording put off another day. Which actually just gives me another day to re-read the pieces and get familiar with them. Some, I haven't seen or read through for a few years. How hard can it be to find panty-hose?
Doc wants to take me to the thrift store to get clothes. He is dissatisfied with my clothing choices. He bought me four plain dark v-neck tshirts. I lost two immediately in my room. And I have been wearing a torn to hell stained white tshirt with a v-neck torn into it for the last few days. I don't feel comfortable in new clothes because I know I'm just going to stain them and get holes in them. And I always do. I can't have nice things. Not wearable things. And I don't really need clothes. Just a pair of flip flops and a new pair of tennis shoes. The flip flops I can get at walmart, or he can get there, so I don't have to go out. And the tennis shoes, I want Chuck Taylors, and I'll just order them online. I only have one pair of shorts, but I don't wear pants when I'm at home, so there's really no need for me to have any more. Doc's just concerned about the "wearing rags" thing. He doesn't hear my pleas of "but I wore this to see the Ramones, it's my favorite shirt!" He doesn't get punk. He doesn't get not giving a fuck. He scolds me for wearing my sleeveless flannels when it's 109 out. But they are sleeveless, and loose, and comfortable.
Ah, for a moment, everything is beautiful . . . "Gloria", as played live June 28, 2015 by U2. First time in two and a half decades. If I were going to see a tour, this would be the one I would want to see. I kind of wondered if they would bring the really old stuff out because of the name of the tour: "Innocence + Experience". The album is all new songs about first times. So there is innocence and experience in it. And the old songs, obviously innocence of a new band and the experience they have now as they play those old tunes. So simple. But so brilliant. It was time for them to do this. I just wish that Bono had had more time to recover from his accident before the tour. I admire his tenacity.
A guy on twitter last night posted a "whatever you do, don't shop at walmart because they are evil" thing. And he was an older gentleman, who I have seen as sensible, a little right leaning for my taste, but by no means a right wing nut job. So I asked him very politely where he would have the poor shop? Could he name an alternative? I got no response last night or all day today. This evening I finally wrote him again and said, "I thought so. It's so easy to be all idealistic, but then the reality of the poor springs up" or some other smart ass shit meant to make him think a little about his crusades.
Jesus, I was just reminded that my mother messaged me. Another fucking thing I can't talk to Doc about. I should make a list. He doesn't know the struggle I am having with my cognitive symptoms, and doesn't even want to know that they exist. He doesn't know about the bad man from my past not so much being in my past, and we won't tell him because then he will have to have people killed. And now my idiot mother. And we have no vehicle or anything to go over there and get the box of fecking ornaments. That's the real joke.
If we had hung the sheets in my room yet, I would be in there, hiding. I just want to make myself really small.
And this is when I need to stand the fuck up. I need to record, paint, write, CREATE. Get it all out and get it all down.
I figured out, if someone were to ask me what it is I wanted, why I do the things that I do, I actually have an answer: I want to be seen, acknowledged, not pushed aside anymore.