Fuckedupedness

[UPDATED 30Jun09--this blog post has been updated to include things left out, and new things since it was written, almost 2 years ago]


I've become a little harsh. I'm on my last gay nerve about romance, i guess. So when i say to my friends, "Don't be a dumbass" i mean that in the most loving way. LOL.

Really, i think it all stems from this overwhelming file of evidence i have that 99% of all lesbians and lesbian-wanna- bees, and fence-jumpers are just one big screaming touchstone for FUCKEDUPEDNESS. I don't recall feeling this strongly about it back-when. It seemed we were all cut from primarily the same cloth, and there were options...dates to be had... relationships to explore....or maybe i was just naive. Maybe i hadn't gathered enough data until now. Does it take 45 years to gather that data? I think that's actually what I was doing by writing both Plethora and ISO. Manifestations of the DATA.

Maybe the Mayans were right and we're headed for that revolution of spirituality and evolution in 2012, and this is merely the precursor...the "getting worse before it gets better" scenario which all caregivers, or mothers with small children and an arsenal of peroxide and BandAids are intimately familiar with. The very fact that sapphists like me, and assorted other friends exist, seems to indicate that while we might be a dying breed, we must exist somewhere...are we just a breed somehow incapable of finding each other? Where are all of them hiding? where are our people?

And what has MY experience with dating been? Aside from my 5 longterm relationships of 9, 4, 3, 2 years, and 1 1/2 years, respectively, and the little trysts in between, in the authentic sense, i would have to say my dating relationships have been limited. A blip on the radar screen. I didn't date in high school and had only one date in college, and went from that into my epiphany that i was gay, my first girlfriend, and my first sexual experience, all rolled into one event and one person. From there, I went into the mode of serial monogamist. Then, as the relationships got shorter, and my list of criteria longer, I found myself single more often, and had only a one year period where I was actually "dating." But even those experiences weren't truly "dating" if we are using the old-fashioned definition. There were no sparkly meetings, evenings out to the movies and dinner, and a chaste kiss by the door before one of us went home alone and called later in the week for another date.

That list of dates was 11...and the one-night-stands and/or one hit wonders and/or DUDS of:

1. The one who who visited me, drove an hour and a half home, then called me and said she'd turn around and drive back right then just for a kiss from me--which she did, though i thought she was kidding, and that ended up being a one-sided encounter from whence sprang Justice's jibe: "The way to get rid of a woman is NOT to give her a mind-blowing orgasm.".....and
2. an agreed upon fuck that was one-sided with me using a toy and then being unable to let her stay the night and making her drive home 2 hours in a thunderstorm because I was so freaked out about it, and
3. The one i met online, talked to at length, then drove 5 hours out of town to meet, and her huge horse of a dog jumped all over me and ruined my good clothes, while also ruining the house and leaving presents on the floor, whose house had a layer of dust an inch thick all over it, who seemed to be a hoarder, with stacks and stacks of newspapers, magazines, papers...who was a hard-core diabetic with a dismal life expectancy, and admitted that she often forgot to care for her health, and who had a medicine cabinet full of psych meds, and then insisted i could safely sleep next to her with no hanky panky, and then came to bed stark-naked....
4. ...the one whom I met once for lunch in MO after chatting on the internet and phone, and with whom I had no chemistry, who was rude to the waitress at our lunch, could not stop talking about her ex, and who lived with her mother who was NOT disabled or bedridden, and who later blasted me for not writing to her or calling, and for my implication that we were not a romantic item, when I thought that was pretty clear, and
5. ...the one with whom I had one date, and liked her as a person, but had ZERO romantic chemistry with, and
6. ...the one to whom I felt no attraction, though still I tried to get past that pesky lack of chemical response, fearing that i wasn't trying hard enough or giving it a fair chance; we had sex twice, then realized it was just not going to happen, while also discovering she was emotionally damaged and also a pathological liar...(see the Sullied Pajamas series).
   
7. ...the date that had no longterm promise, but turned into Friends with Benefits, but dissolved when she found someone she wanted to date seriously, and
8. ....the date who had absolutely no future with me, as she was about as dumb as a box of rocks; but the sex was good, and it provided another much-needed fuckfest, which eventually could not continue either, because she was a pathological liar, and (she appeared as a character in Plethora, and I didn't have to change many of the facts for it to fit into the plot).
   
9. the rescue that turned into a sexual encounter, and another Friends with Benefits situation; I knew she could never capture my heart> this was interrupted by dating other people, and eventually moved to just friendship, but then was dissolved altogether by continued delusion and betrayal on her part....(see Herniated Disco: Necessary Scissors)
10. The former actress who was now back home in Kansas, who came to visit/meet me, and turned out to be a nutjob. (See Nightmare Dates: Actress with a Bad Vibe )
    
11. ...and the one whom I thought was just a coffee friend, as well as STRAIGHT, but who drank too much wine one night and confessed that she wanted me to kiss her since the first time we met, and then wanted me to do other things, upstairs in my bedroom, and who disappeared afterward, reappeared for more of the same and disappeared again.....see Mercy Kissing...
    

*for another example more recently, see Ditto.

And then there were the two pseudo-relationships that were doomed from the start with Big Eraser (a bad girl, previous drug dealer, alcoholic, cheat and liar, who I convinced myself i could save, and who eventually inflicted some nasty bruises and a broken toe) and

PhillyFilly (a recipient of 3 kidney transplants, who lived with her parents, for whom she had little respect if the condition of her room was any indication, who I tried to convince myself I loved, because i wanted to be in love so desperately, but had to finally admit it was impossible to convince yourself of love; this process was hurried along by her thinking that it was acceptable for me to support her ass for three or four years while she went to nursing school, never honored her promises to me, never seemed to think i was worth fighting for, bored me out of my mind, had a hidden drinking problem, a reality problem, an initiative problem, and delivered even more boring sex which i found numerous ways to avoid...(see the "CircleCircleCircle fiasco",The Truth is Ever Clear and Et Tu, Brute? ),

And then there was the Angst Ridden Blogist girl, (not an obvious romantic interest, but at least a seemingly profound connection)--with whom I exchanged a novella's worth of intellectual/ philosophical emails and some phone calls, who seemed to be some sort of cosmic kindred, but whom I never met in person, since she changed her mind after I rented the car and made the arrangements, because she decided she was suddenly dating her best friend. Then she swiftly turned on me like some card-carrying harpy.

Justice and I were discussing our strings of women, and came to the conclusion that NONE of them were good relationships at all. So we've not had a single good relationship in our entire lives.

My experiences with dating were all like this::: (1) meet on the Internet or--rarely--in person the first time, (2) make a date (3) get climbed in an amorous fashion the first time we are together, before i had even decided how i felt about them, (4)allow it to turn into some fuckfest, (5) then discover the 27 deal breakers and,(6) then deal with the aftermath.

I talk to my friends about most things, even the personal ones, and they all seem to have a similar story where sexual escapades are concerned. Mine seems no different: In the bedroom, I too heard similar declarations. The most common two being: (1) I have never let ANYONE do THAT before you! and (2) I have never had an orgasm that big, ever! I was also called "a master," "the best lover I've ever had," and told that they couldn't get enough of me....(oh, even one of my ex's new girlfriends was drunk enough at the bar one night to THANK ME for all the great things, sexually, I had taught my Ex; things she was now enjoying).

"Happy to be of service," I said blandly.

So, I didn't ever feel like my sexual prowess was in question. (Well, until that "CircleCircleCircle" fiasco with PhillyFilly, which I decided was a fluke based on her inexperience, even with her own body). I have made women open up like they'd never opened before, had them doing things they thought they hated but decided they loved, and willing to be my sex slave at the snap of a finger. And none of them--NONE--did I want in any way other than strictly carnal because I had "needs." Not one, did I love, Did I for one minute believe I'd want to keep for any appreciable amount of time. And yes, i did make it my mission to study sexual pleasuring until I felt I should have some kind of fucking degree in it. (That would be called, naturally, a Fucking Degree.) I earned those accolades, by god. But i did so thinking it would be one element in making me a good LIFE PARTNER, not just a good lay. What did it matter, if I didn't want to keep the woman I had just stupefied?

I spent years believing that there must be something horribly wrong with me, until I had my epiphany that it wasn't me, that all my self-work had actually paid off, and that all this "crazy" or "damaged" I thought *I* was, was really not the case, and, in fact, was represented to the nth degree in THEM. I finally realized that they were all MORE crazy, on MORE levels, and infinitely MORE fucked up than I was. A dubious liberation, to be sure. For awhile I was relieved that I was not so damaged as I had believed. It meant that there were a slew of damaged women out there, who resided in my dating pool. If I had met someone, romantically, who was "normal" and real and self-actualized and financially stable, and say, willing to get tickets to cool events and to spend time with me---why, I would have been in heaven, I tell ya. My suitors were either trying to impress me and buy my love or convince me I should be the sugar mama, as if my own happiness was inconsequential in the equation.

So I ask you: are we left with friend-dates just to enjoy the company of quality women without the perk of sex or romance? Maybe that's what I'm headed for, along with meaningless one-night-stands to curb the carnal appetites, when and IF I can even find that, without the threat of an STD. (which means I can only have "safe sex" for the rest of my life).

I'm going to dig a hole and crawl in and cover myself up.
Like a turd.

Fuckedupedness

Sullied Pajamas: A Steak won't Change my Mind (5 of 5)

M.D. told me that SP emailed her, saying she had a hot date on New Year's Eve with some corporate type woman and they had already booked a cruise.

So when she arrived with the two sofas, I was determined to steer the conversation a bit, to see if she'd tell me another story. We lugged the sofas inside, and afterward it was like I had an elephant on my chest. I was all out of breath. The remnants of the cold I'm still recovering from. We made small talk and she seemed in no hurry to leave. Then she stated that i needed to eat and a steak would be good for me. I didn't put up much of a fight, because i have this attitude now. I don't care what she does. I don't care if it costs her money. She's lied to me about so many things from day one, so i'll happily take anything she wants to give me. Except grief, of course.

So we went to West Oaks, but it was closed. Across the street was Tall Pines, and it had steak on the marquee, but i told her I'd never eaten there and had no idea if it was any good. It wasn't. But over lunch, I avoided making eye contact because when I did, she was giving me those goo-goo eyes, still. She said, "You're killin' me." God, when will she stop that? She said it had taken her so long to open up again, and she met me, and then--well...then i RIPPED her heart out, i guess.

I wanted to feel her out about the stuff she told MD. She denied having any plans for the Holiday, and said she was really over the dating thing. Same old song and dance in reference to how torn up she was that i had dumped her. She said, "You're a heartbreaker, Jae." Then she continued with the usual, about acquiring 20 cats and holing up at home for the rest of her life. You'd think that we'd dated for a year, lived together for two, and been married for three, to hear her talk. I told her she'd recover. It wasn't all that. I said she should just treat herself to a vacation, go somewhere, take a CRUISE. She said no. She said she had some invites to a function or two but wasn't going to go... then she even teared up, right there at the table. Very uncomfortable, and I knew that she was either lying to me or had lied to MD. Probably the latter, because she sure didn't want MD to know she was still so easily thrust into a funk, or still single, maybe. She was sure acting pitiful with me. She acted like she didn't want to leave and I had to sort of hang out and wait patiently. She said she was also going to give me her bedroom TV because I needed to move the big one I bought recently into the living room now that I have furniture...and I would need one for my bedroom...she was getting a flat screen for hers. I accepted. (What the hell?) I Finally told her I had to get in the shower and get ready for my plans this evening.

I played it casual with her, but gee whiz. She's just become this pathetic and uncomfortable figure in my life now.

Sullied Pajamas: A Steak won't Change my Mind (5 of 5)

Desperation Barrel

Take one part sexual frustration, two parts loneliness, three parts overwhelming need to be needed and wanted, add an overzealous good-timer and beer, stir vigorously. Simmer well in a bed of cotton sheets, and you have a recipe for disaster.

When one hits the bottom of the Desperation Barrel, there is always someone down there.

Sometimes we make ill-advised choices based on the ingredients we allow ourselves to stock. While we might not be proud of these one night stands that last months or years, we must appreciate the educational value of such an excursion. If we learn our lessons well, we will be loathe to cook that dish again.

Desperation Barrel

Figs From Hell

or FIGtastrophe
or
The 7th Circle of Hell is Full of Figs and I Can't FIG-ure It Out

It was supposed to be a simple process. My friend, Justice Harlow, drew a logo for someone. A company called The Hairy Fig. We were going to scan the drawings and then import them from the scanner to Paint Shop Pro, where I would resize them according to the needs for the website, and for business cards. Somewhere in the middle of all this, something went terribly wrong.

It began when my friend asked me to place all the large versions of the 4 different fig designs on one page and print it out. And to put all four of the smaller ones on a page, too, and print that. When inserting the large images onto my web site design software page, they were HUGE. I mean, like Figs from Space. It even crashed my program after getting some pesky memory overload error. I looked at the image dimensions, and it showed they were huge. Like Texas-- Huge. But when I would print them, they would be half-size. When I resized them, they printed even smaller.

She became so upset, waving her arms and saying, "What the hell?" that she knocked over her Sam's Diet cola, and made a huge spot on the rug. We blotted that up, and pressed on.

No matter what I did, I could not get those damn figs to be the right size. Go FIGure. It became a comedy of errors after that. And since it was in the wee hours of the morning, This incited screaming meemies in me me. I mean in me. Perhaps it was just a FIGment of my imagination, but these figs had a mind of their own.

Justice wondered aloud if maybe all the images on both our websites were also too big, but for some reason we couldn't tell, because our software showed them smaller. This was a horrible thought, because I knew we had hundreds of images. I told her to stop fucking with my Chi, and we moved on...

Meanwhile, the Velveeta and Ro-Tel cheese dip we had consumed earlier, began to turn on us. We suffered gastrointestinal distress, and I was experiencing vertigo. We knew it was the Velveeta and Ro-Tel, because we had had the first part of it the night before, with the same results, but only the second time did we make the connection. What are they putting in cheese these days?

While I strained my brain to FIGure This out, my partner left and came back with a fresh bottle of Mocha Frappuccino, but couldn't get the lid to screw off, so handed it to me, feeling I was the stronger of the two of us. (A myth I perpetuate by calling myself the "husband.") After several tries in which I felt I had totally lost my ability to grip (or couldn't get a grip?) I reminded her that we had appointment with galleries early in the morning after our meeting with the Fig Client. We needed to go to sleep....but she made this whimpering sound. It seems that Mocha Frappuccino is an excellent substitute for her chocolate craving--the one that usually has her eating candy bars or Snickers Ice cream cones purchased from Walgreen's at 2 a.m. She also pointed out that since the Mocha Frappuccino only had one gram of fat, but was like eating 10 Snickers bars, it was a health conscious for her to drink it.

But I couldn't get the lid off it.

More screaming meemies, and the added enjoyment of peeing in my boxer briefs. I finally used scissors to remove the plastic coating around the cap, but entertained images of gouging the scissors into my hand--This made me laugh so hard, that tears rolled down my face. I finally got the cap off without mishap, but then I was still taxed with the dilemma of the figs. The cute little cartoon fruits that had become my nemesis.

I went on a potty break, and saw that my Christmas lights in the bathroom had burned out. I like Christmas lights in the bathroom because it's just enough light to keep me from stubbing my toe or missing the toilet, without having to suffer the glare of the overhead lights. There have been times that I wore sunglasses into the bathroom when I did not have Christmas lights...but I digress..

Back at my desk, and the Fig Fiasco, I opened a new Aqua filter to attach to my cigarette and the innards came out of it and dropped to the floor. I laughed some more, and peed in my pants again.

Finally, Justice said she would just go to her office (in the next room) and use her computer to print out what we had. She brought back the sheets and the tracing paper wrinkles were now showing up bolder than ever, even though this was the same file, printed on the same printer. The Fig Files were now becoming more wrinkly (older?) as they rested on the floppy disk.

Then she said, "Don't you think I ought to color a bigger version of the figs, in case the client wants to use it on the web site?

Some days it just doesn't pay to gnaw the straps off...

-------------
illustration by JH ©2002

Figs From Hell

Cognitive Dysfunction.

(this entry was made before i knew that the problem was i had Grave's Disease, and my thyroid was dying)


A new phrase with echoes of old demons. Almost every difficulty I experience these days is directly related to some sort of cognitive dysfunction. I have multiple physical ailments, but the most overwhelming, the most debilitating, seems to be related to memory, concentration, and all the peripheral sub-routines that stem from it. Frustration is a major example of that. I am so disgusted and stressed by the betrayal of my own brain function. It's as if I have had part of my brain matter removed, or that it is simply atrophied. To wit:

When I am doing something creative, i.e. painting or writing, i move into this "zone" that blocks all the stimuli. I become peaceful, meditative, and pleasant. When I put the creative project away, and have to deal with everyday stressors--bills, busy work, the prospect of moving, the desire to purchase a home, the irritants of other people, noise--I become almost maniacal in my reactions. I have angry outbursts, crying jags, and sometimes, at crescendo, the overwhelming desire to cut myself or mash a lit cigarette into my skin.

When the phone rings, I am flooded with dread. I'll have to talk to someone. I'll have to answer questions. I'll have to deal with problem. I'll have to feign understanding, pleasantries, interest.

I look up a number in the phone book, turn around to dial it, and the number evaporates from my short-term memory.

I forget when I did things, when I said things, what I did, what I said--even if the event only happened the day before.

I've developed aversions and intolerance to certain things. I can no longer stand the sound of silverware scraping a plate or bowl-- I have to use plasticware. I am rendered psychopathic at the sound of incessantly barking dogs; shrieking birds; snoring; someone drumming their fingers; the chatter of a friend; the hum of florescent light bulbs; bright lights or sunshine; alarm clocks; those shouting announcers on car commercials; the decline in quality customer service; eating the same thing more than once; anyone controlling any part of my life; anyone asking anything of me...

I can be driving somewhere, and suddenly forget where I'm going. Many times, I've had to pull over and gather myself, struggle to remember...

I cannot focus on two things at once. If I am doing something on the computer, and someone is talking to me, I lose my train of thought. I can't recall what I was doing.

I no longer remember my dreams.

I hear someone talking about something that they experienced in childhood, and I can't recall very much about my own. When asked what my life was like when I was 10 or 15 or 20--I simply have no idea. Likewise, if asked to remember an event--even, sometimes, memorable ones, I can't draw that information out.

I don't visualize things, so that i can retrieve the visualization later. The memory seems disconnected. There seems to be no trigger. If I don't write down my ideas or thoughts, they vaporize into mist.

I cannot find the right word, although I know it exists in the vocabulary portion of my brain, and so I just stop communicating.

It's very much how I imagine an amnesiac would function (or not function). And I get so angry with myself; So angry with others for their lack of understanding. I often feel I am being singled out for torture by the Universe or the Powers That Be. I feel persecuted, abused, neglected... retarded. I often liken the function of my brain, with the function of my own computer. My brain thrashes, struggling to pull something from the hard drive, it crashes when too many applications are up at once, it's buggy and inefficient. The operating system needs badly to be upgraded.

Cognitive Dysfunction.

Clearly Not An Alternative

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)


With a phone and a pager, I could manage to drum up some clients for my little home pseudo- business. I spent almost all the income from a previous set of shows to make that happen. I went with a digital phone company because I liked the features and they only required $250 for a deposit.

My recent Chapter 7 Bankruptcy insured that a deposit would be required with any new service. Oddly, my previous good standing with the local phone company did nothing to decrease the $500 deposit they required from me in order to have cell phone service.

My first bill arrived, to the tune of $400. I knew there would probably be taxes and such added to the bill, but since I was expecting the $49.99 monthly charge, this was a bit of a shock. In examining the bill, I noticed that I was being charged for an additional month of service, another phone number, the phone itself (which I did not even purchase from them, but from Radio Shack), a month of service for the other phone number, plus taxes, and another deposit AGAIN.

I spent the next two months trying like crazy to remind them of the concept of "customer service." Each time I called the local store, I was confronted with a menu of options. If you’d like information about this, press one. . . If you’d like information about that, press two. . .If you’d like to hear an endless list of our promotions whether you’re interested or not, press three. . . I kept waiting for that selection, If you’d like to speak to a human, press twenty-seven. . . But it never came. Once it got to the end of the menu, the honey-dripping voice instructed me to stay on the line to speak to a "customer advocate." I waited, enjoying the strains of Air Supply’s I’m All Out of Love, and then Barry Manilow’s Looks Like We Made it. I recalled this as my High School Prom theme song. Appropriate, since it was a surprise to most of us and our parents that we graduated at all.

Finally, a "Customer Advocate" answered—not by saying "How may I help you?" like in yesteryear, but "Your account number, please." Whether we admit it or not, we have all become just numbers, like those prisoners you see in old movies in striped shirts with digits across their chests. I always hated that. I didn’t want to give them all my information, I wanted to get right to the point. But of course they had to have it in order to pull up my account and verify everything I was saying, because, you know, most customers lie through their teeth about everything.

In great, put-upon detail, I described the problem and got very little sympathy, and a whole lot of attitude. I was put on hold several times while she "researched the problem," and each time she returned from this dubious research, she assured me, in so many words, that they don’t make those mistakes. She asked me if I had a receipt for the deposit, and I said no (kicking myself) because I had paid in cash. *A method of currency unrecognizable and non-transferable after the year 1990.

"We always give you a receipt," she said haughtily.

I told her I received some sort of invoice, but that my deposit was not noted on it. Further, I recounted the fact that after my information was entered that day, their computer system went down, and the clerk had to re-enter everything, and wasn't it possible that the deposit wasn't noted the second time?

She didn't believe this was possible. "Our cash drawers would have been off by that amount if it wasn't."

All I knew was that I had paid the deposit. And maybe, just maybe, the charge was noted, payment noted, bringing me to zero, then entered as a charge, but not noted as paid the second time. This would be an error in their favor, and therefore resistant to change. Money is always the bottom line. My lack of money is always the norm. My lack of luck is always the norm, too. It was like my Guardian Angel was on vacation. I have this theory about Guardian Angels. Some of them are good at their jobs, and some aren't. What I know about the machinations of heaven, you can fit on the head of a pin, but at least I know what the pins are for. They're for gouging out the eyes of some Guardian Angels. I lovingly refer to mine as Murphy: as in "Murphy's First Law: Anything that can go wrong, WILL."

The debate continued with all the other items on the bill, and I explained that I had signed up first on the Internet from their web page, but found out later the page was outdated, and no longer counted as a real order. It must have counted somewhere, because I got charged for the first number and all the fees that went along with it. She said she would research the issue and call me right back.

I listened intently, but never heard my phone ring.

Since I was getting no semblance of "customer service," I called back, waded through the tiresome recordings, reached another human, explained it all again, and asked for the number of a district manager. Happy to be rid of me, she gave me the number, and I hung up to call him. Predictably, I got his voice mail, and left a message, again explaining the problem.

This game of cat and mouse went on for the next few months. Explaining and re-explaining the problem to each new Customer Advocate and District Manager, until I was ready to kill them all. Meanwhile, my bill went unpaid, as I refused to send payment until everything was worked out. My service was disconnected just before a flat tire in the middle of nowhere required me to use my phone to call for help. Naturally, this was necessary because I had a flat spare tire awaiting the emergency in which I could curse it. I had to walk several miles to a pay phone and fill it with change in order to find someone to come fetch me. With my physical disabilities this was particularly unpleasant.

Eventually, I actually spoke to one of the managers, and he agreed to "meet me halfway" by charging me half the deposit again and one month’s service charge. Reminiscent of the cop who was nice enough to give me only two tickets. He assured me the service would be restored if I paid this amount at the local store.

At this point, I was endangering the few clients I had for my computer work, and felt that if I had my service, I could get on with things and eventually get the credit back to me or onto my account. I agreed to pay, albeit under duress. *Murphy’s Technology Law #16: To err is human, but to really foul things up requires a computer.

So I went down to the store as the District Manager said to, and gave them the cash (everything I could scrap up including my rolled pennies). After they took my money, they informed me that I had to pay for next month too, or they wouldn't turn my service on.

I stood there, my system REALLY low on Paxil, and began to feel a little like one of those Postal Workers who show up with an empty conscience and a full clip. I said, "I was told by the District Manager that if I came down here and paid this, my service would be turned back on." She gave me some slime about "policy" tempered with a really shitty attitude, like I was some gutter rat who had the audacity to touch one of their phones--and I just lost it. "I want you to call him and verify what I've said. And I want you to call him right now."

"He's not available right now."

"How do you know that, until you call?"

"I know he's out of town."

"That's okay, he has a CELL PHONE!" I shouted.

"He's NOT available," she said again.

"Who's your supervisor?" I said, REALLY LOUD. *Murphy’s Technology Law #13: The first myth of management is that it exists.

She said SHE was the supervisor. I said, "Who'd you sleep with to get the job?"

The look on her face was almost worth all the hassle from the last few months. She said, "You can't have your service 'til you pay. Next!" And looked right past me to another customer.

It was at this point that I believe I went ballistic. I said, "I want to see a REAL manager, and I want to see one now!" And I went right past her BEHIND THE COUNTER and started searching the back offices. I was aware that I was causing a scene, and that other customers in the store were staring at me, thrilled that they would get to see something as exciting as a "Caught on Tape" episode.

She yelled at me, "I'm calling the police!"

I yelled back, "Call them! I need to file a report on THEFT BY DECEPTION!" and I continued to look for a manager. There was NO ONE to be found, and when I came back to the front, she was on the phone with the police.

I can't tell you how close I came to snatching the receiver from her hand and beating her to death with it. When she hung up, I had decided that those cell-bunks were a little less that friendly for my back, and I didn't want to spend the night on one. So I leaned over the counter and got in her face and whispered, "Watch your back," and walked out. I guess it was a threat. I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to have some kind of last word with her before making my exit. "Caught on Tape" was now quickly turning into an episode of "Cops."

*Bad girl, bad girl, whatcha gonna do. . .whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

By the time I got to my car, I think a massive aneurysm was in order. I had earned 4 tickets, been up to my neck in the red tape and bureaucracy of government offices, totally overwhelmed with chronic pain, sick to death of struggling to get by on sandwiches and coffee and five dollars per week, feeling terribly worthless, victimized and generally sorry for myself.Then I had to deal with this garbage on top of all that. I mean, what had I done to deserve such turmoil and hardship? Hadn't I tried? Hadn't I kept my chin up and my head down?

On the way home I cursed God, Buddha, Mohammed, Ghandi, Republicans, fertile women, and a couple of Toyotas.

Clearly Not An Alternative