This has been a 90% Free Write site. Typos abound, and I never expected people to actually read it! So I’ve begun a new, hopefully more prefessional site: A Little Bit of Something. It will start off with a lot from this site, but hopefully with fewer typos and better content.
I’m not giving up on this site!
Honestly, my right arm isn’t working. As a right, this has been a problem. And it’s much easier to edit than type a new post.
I’ll be getting a needle in my neck in a couple of weeks, so hopefully that will help. Until then, check my Instagram (killerkat327) or Twitter (@dkstevens327).
Ok. I freely admit that I have avoided the various David Bowie tributes like the plague. How can they pay tribute to a man who, in my mind, is still alive? It’s offensive! Not to mention too soon…
Then we have the Trump inauguration. Which means his run for POTUS wasn’t some huge, unfunny joke.
And then my Nikita dies. The kitten that I got to keep me company when a cruel judge gave my son’s abusive dad 2 weeks in July and 2 weeks in August — which was used the first year to “fatten” our son up and which his dad gave up — last minute — the 2nd year. Either way, that first year, as I cried myself to sleep, worrying about the various abuses my son’s dad and girlfriend at the time were doing, it was my autumn colored Nikita (the Russian female version of Nicholas, my son’s name), who dried my tears on her fur and lulled me to sleep with her purring. She slept on my chest until she got too big and then slept by my side. She was always there for me. The night I realized that she wouldn’t make it, we sat in the dark as I scritched her favorite spots and she purred. Just before 3 a.m., she put her hands /front paws on my leg, took three deep breaths, and she was gone.
Ema was there, too, my tuxedo girl, 2 years older but dying of thyroid cancer 16 days after Nikita. The tumor was in her throat and, even if I’d had the money, nobody would operate. Like Nikita, she wasn’t in pain — until the last few hours. Having worked in a cat clinic, I know how to euthanize a cat, and due to my health problems, I had the ingredients legally. I went to the pharmacy downstairs to get what looked like a mini-turkey baster, albeit a bit big for a cat, and returned to find Ema dead.
And that’s how I spent my first 2 months of the year: inauguration; crying and carrying my dead cats down the hallway to the trash compactor because I had nowhere to bury them. Fortunately, my son always considered Nikita my cat, but we were given Ema by my son’s dad when we first moved in and my son was 18 months old. I’d said, after Fluffy, my 22.5 year old cat dying the previous year, that I wasn’t ready. But does Bad Dad listen? (Only to the committee’s in his head. A story I’m working on.)
It’s not gotten any easier to write / type fast on a phone. And I’m trying to get out my autobiography: the drugs, being a Professional Dominatrix, the years I spent trying to get my dad to love me at the expense of my happiness. Which is more interesting? What will people relate to more?
Fun story: last December, our therapist went on permanent maternity leave and suddenly the replacement therapist couldn’t fit us in her schedule. So why did New Therapist say that she could see us? I was going Thursday morning and my son Friday after school. First new therapist switched my son to Wednesday, his only early day off but with getting up at 6am, school, therapy, getting home at 7pm, homework just didn’t fit — which I’d said would happen. My Thursday mornings became Monday mornings, but Monday is just a bad day because I know that my weekends with my son are limited and a strong depression hits me Monday. Was that the last weekend before my son decides I’m not cool, or that his friends are cooler?
So we stopped going. (Update: I’ve since called the place we went. We both need therapy. No call back. I’ll try again today, Thursday, since I first called Monday.)
I’ve been reading books about drugs (“Fall to Pieces”, by Mary Forsberg Weiland; “Not Dead & Not for Sale”, by Scott Weiland) and thinking about the time that I was using and… I know that I would never use while my son is living at home; honestly, I probably never will have my goddess heroin in me again — but if I had to state that, it would be harder to shut that voice off. That addict, “Once is ok” voice. So I tell myself that I’ll be able to in a decade, in 8 years… But with the stuff out there nowadays, I’m way too scared. Cutting heroin with fentanyl and carfentanyl — which is used to put down elephants for surgery! No, thanks. I think watching my son as an adult, writing, and having a clouder of cats sounds better.
Off Topic Story:
Back when I was using in college (I’m a “functional addict”: I can support my habit legally, work, go to school with a B+ / 3.3 average, A in my major, Political Science.), I was going down an escalator when I saw a payphone. It was nearing my 27 March birthday, and I was afraid I was becoming an addict. I called an ex who had moved to L.A. and she said I could spend the first week of Spring Break there. (Not sure if I told her why.) A few days before, Scott Weiland went on Howard Stern. I’d seen the drug scene change and figured Scott wouldn’t have the same dealer. I had connections and planned to bring him some heroin and a bit of coke. But then he said that he was “clean”. Well, I’m not going to tempt him so I never went. That day, he was arrested for trying to buy drugs. Dumbass! My birthday happened. I went to a Rancid show the next night with my fake friend, who had once been a real friend, and the cold cheese on warm bread sandwich just kept coming up. (Ironically during, “Dope Sick Girl”.) I’d seen them a bunch of times so I left. I finished my last half bag when I got home and woke Friday 2 March to large snowflakes. I had a flight to L.A.! I brought an apple but was so dope sick the entire six hours. As I got off the plane, my ex lit up, but was pointing to the guy in front of me; I was staring at his awesome ass. He stumbled, turned, banged into me muttering about leaving his hat… Scott Weiland! My ex and I said our Hello’s, she admitted that I was right about needing a car in Los Angeles (she’d never been before moving out there; I wish that I could do that.), and we got on one of those moving walkways. The place was empty except for Scott and some girl who glared at me while Scott looked at me from the walkway opposite ours. I wanted to run over and ask about any connections he might have, before remembering this was a time to detox. And that’s my Scott Weiland story. Exciting, no? (Sarcasm)
who could help me with my tarot deck. I’m not sure why it’s so hard. Maybe because I can’t offer money?
Then there’s the story I thought my ex had completely deleted: I had floor plans; lists of characters including date of birth; date of death (& reason); relationship to other characters; etc. I had an outline, etc. Now I’ve got a few notes, but maybe it’ll be enough to write The Great American Novel my dad always referred to (still trying to please my dad. Pathetic.).
Yesterday, Monday, 27 March, was my birthday. My grandma guilt tripped me so I guilt tripped my son into seeing my dad. (Christianity and Catholicism come from Judaism, so we have been using guilt thousands of years before the Catholics.). Unfortunately, I had a cold and missed the Birthday celebration which went on without me. Odd. How do you celebrate someone’s birthday without them present but still alive? My dad bought my son an expensive video camera and is giving us (another) hand-me-down-I-hope-there’s-no-porn-like-last-time laptop. The laptop is more important than the camera. We NEED a laptop.
Maybe next year I’ll be included in my own birthday celebration.
I have continually praised you. I have recommended you to friend and people I do not know. And now, as I look through my entries, I see that you have NOT been posting blogs that I have written. Not just scheduled blogs, but blogs that I’ve written (like this one), where I post immediately (or think I do and you tell me I have).
Wednesday (with some Thursday edits):
My plan with these “journal entries” was two-fold:
— keep with the Free Write element, making the train of thought a bit more personal, as in some other wonderful blogs that I will no doubt share (I’m waiting for permission on an especially good one and still hoping to ask a writer at The Write Practice a few questions)
— get rid of the numerous drafts that are taking up room by incorporating them into the journal posts.
I’ve decided that in order for me to get the writing done, I will start including Journal Entries into my usual Free Write format. There are quite a few blog posts that I wish to go over, redo, and rewrite, adding details that the Free Write format doesn’t always allow for.
For those unfamiliar with Free Writing, it is an excellent exercise used in writing classes and in ones own. It can help break the dreaded Writer’s Block, as well as get to What I / You Really Want To Write About. I am a huge fan of the Free Write, probably due to the fact that I have put myself in therapy for most if my adult life (insanity runs in my family, as does denial). To do a Free Write, take a piece if paper and pen (or other writing tool) and simply write. You can choose the amount of time — five or ten minutes being the “norm”. Write whatever comes into your head. Do not worry about spelling or grammar. You can write a story, a piem, ideas for future stories, your grocery list, “I can’t think if anything to write” over and over if that us what is in your head. It does not matter as long as you do not stop writing.
There are quite a few Blog posts that I have started but, for various reasons, have never finished. This is a Free Write Blog, meaning I write down my thoughts and, with few exceptions, post as is. There is no editing. (Although I can think of a few I’d like to go back and edit.)
Here are some I don’t see going anywhere:
There is a Room.
It is at the top of a three storey building, but it is not the attic. The ceiling is high, perhaps 12 feet, with sturdy pipes and beams which crisscross at about 10 feet. The windows are blackened, the walls soundproofed, though there wouldn’t have been much of a view and the rooms on the second floor are unused.
There are four small rooms on the first floor; these are rented by the hour. Or the half hour. Depending on what the customer is willing to pay for.
The office on the first floor used to be the pantry, but Sal had cut the door in half, and made it his office. The top part of the door could be closed, and locked with a vertical lock to hold the door together. There is a small card table that Sal used for his desk and for eating his meals. His meals are brought to him by one of the ageing women who work in the rooms that rented by the hour. Or the half hour.
The front door had a chain with a lock, so customers were forced to enter thru the back door.
Sal’s balding, shiny head, looking down at the newspaper, was the first thing customers saw when entering the house.
“Wipe your feet,” is Sal’s greeting.
When he looks up, he is able to tell which room the customer is looking to rent.
Today, he looks up and sees the bulge of cash in the pocket and the hangdog look. He slips the lock connecting the top with the bottom half of the door, and points to a chair for the customer.
After finding out that the customer is looking for the top floor, due to a breakup with a lady, Sal instead calls one of his “girls”.
” On the house,” Sal grunts at the “girl” of 63 years. Sal winks. She will still be paid.
Two days later, another man enters. His head is up, but his neck stiff.
The lock is put in place, and the man sits to the right of Sal.
“Everything is in order,” the man says, handing over a copy of his will and the letter he has written.
Sal reads it, slowly. Sal grunts.
“You know how this works, yeah?” Sal knows the answer. “What have you decided on?”
The man pulls a small handgun from his front coat pocket, and slides it, handle first, towards Sal.
Sal puts his hands in the air, a mock signal of, “I give up!”
“Don’t want no fingerprints, now,” Sal says. The man nods slowly. “Got the fee?”
The man reaches into his pants this time.
“For the room, for the clean up, and for putting the will and the letter in the proper hands.”
The man recites this in a monotone voice. Sal nods and opens his office door. “Top floor,” Sal points.
The man takes the gun and places it back into his jacket pocket. He heads for them slowly but with purpose. As soon as he’s disappeared out of sight, Sal calls for two of his others “girls”.
” Should be about fifteen minutes, ” he says, a loud *pop* from the top floor interrupting him. “Or less.”
The girls get their cleaning materials and head up the stairs, as Sal fills out the tax deduction form for a Suicide Premises.
Sal whistles as he signs his name at the bottom of the form.