A mixed cd

Heart Shaped World- Chris Isaak
Manic Monday- the Bangles
Life is a Highway- Tom Cochrane
Son of a Preacher Man- Dusty Springfield
Hot Child in the City- Nick Glider
Devil Went Down to Georgia- CD Band
Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald- Leo Kottke
Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue- Crystal Gayle
Killing me Softly with His Song- Lauren Hill
Sunrise- Donna Godcheaux

Would-be to-do list

Sweep bathroom and kitchen at old apt, with use of force when necessary. (I pancreas a well-made scrubbrush. Pick up rubbish from carpeted areas by hands, catch the detritus with the bissell. Mop kitchen & bathroom floors. Scrub entirety of bathroom, floor, walls, commmode, underneath those places most people are lucky enough never to even acknowledge, let alone repeatedly apply caustic chemicals and liberal elbow grease to tamp down the level of nasty stench.

So I'll hit all the "bulimic arterial spatter" points as well, out of courtesy. You know what I'm talking about- those sprays that inadvertantly wind up 8 feet up on the wall behind you. And who hasn't experienced a rousing game of "what's that stuff stuck to the ceiling, and how on Earth did it get there?"

I need to absolutely sterilize this new place, though. I grow accustomed to the rank odor of cat piss after spending an hour or so back home, but the stench is magnified a gugelplex entering the bathroom.

I'm also meant to change my address with the post office, SSA, HFS, and- oh! unpack my own shit. God forbid. And I've decided, on my second night here, that my top household decoration priority will be drapes. Stringing up networks of scarves from Russia and the Far and Middle East has a certain kitschy charm, but it doesn't make it nighttime indoors whenever I need it to be. Further, the uneven nature of using random cloths (even if some are quite large) as window coverings is that they never*quite* fit, leaving totally unjest individual rays to hit exactly one third of the face.

More importantly, I think, is that such curtains leave such a wide opportunity for nosy sniveling snitching peepers. Mom's coming up this weekend, my freedom depending, and I would love toenable her shopping complex. (It's generally quite tempered by my stereotypical late-20th century American Jew genes.) If I had anything to contribute, I could almost say that we balance each other out. In actuality, we haven;t down much "recreational shopping" (yes, drs. do this) since I lost my TAship in 2003. And I guess I'm not as much fun to shop for, when my response to every item proferrred is "and what exactly does one do with that?"
I don't need five new pairs of shoes at a time

I will write more on how much I love my new neighbors later, but for the time being I think I'd better do my TaeBoe before another crisis comes up.

I don't feel good.
I am not happy.
It's not okay.
Everything is wrong.
I alone am not acceptable.

I don't even really want to eat. I just keep bingeing because that's the only way to remember who I am. Forget who I am. Without that protective barrier of cakecrumbs and puke between me and reality I will fall into the abyss. There's no oxygen and no light there.

The only places worse have the words "mental health" or "psychiatric" in their titles.

Woe is me, car owner

Are there precision tools and advanced technical training required in order to shatter the idiot panel in your modern American locomotive? Or do you think I could do just as well myself with calm hands, a steady eye, and a mid-weight hammer?

I've never had a car with such a yen to fortel doom- and such bad timing with it- before. "Low tire"? First of all, how the fuck do you how many PSI are in my tires? I'm just dicking around here, but I'm willing to bet we could pull out a tape measuring and determine that you-IL "low tire"- are actually further from any of my four tires when I am properly seated and buckled with hands at 10 and 12. Further-fucking-more- why didn't this come up a couple of months ago when it was discovered that one of my tires was as low as 15PSI? Is that not low?

Or are you telling me about my spare? You know, I may be 10 feet away from the spare tire, but you're 11. I think I have a greater level of sensitively.

Of course so as not to leave "low tire" feeling exposed and awkward, "antilock" lit up at the same time. Where the fuck did all these lights come from? I've had the piece of shit 3 years now; if this were the result of a group of drunk Chinese New Year revelers staggering in late, I could almost understand.

Yeah, almost. I'm sure this sure of thing happens all the time at GM.

The one neat thing about brakes I've learned from driving my way through 4 used American pieces of shit is this, though: anti-lock, shmanti-lock, brakes pads, maxi pads, brake lines, sprinkler systems. . .it only really matters if you plan to stop.

Institutionalization is not Housing

Attention! The Good Ship Lollypop has registered a direct hit! All personnel to the Reality Tugboats and paddle for shore!

Yes, my lease is running out. Yes, I was foolish enough to bring up my housing situation as a conundrum with which the county mental social worker might help me. No, hospitalization is not a housing option. And fuck what you want to say about my health, you can't look at me and make a prognosis.

I've already addressed this. Fuck "supportive housing". Double fuck a nursing home.

I swear to god I thought your job description- attached to the "Our Vision, Our Mission" section of the facility for which you work- was to foster the maximum possible safe level of independence for us fuxtored people. You know, in accordance with the most popular beliefs about how mental health care being practiced today?

I've read a lot of the propaganda. Nowhere does it advocate revoking any aspect of an adult's autonomy to promote progress or even tease out stability. So quit swooning at me over every shitty boarding house with a nursing staff that has a free bed. I'm still a fully enfranchised fucking adult; stop suggesting I forfeit the right to un/lock my own door or I'll. . . I'll. . . I'll run away goddamnit!

Encore of the Living Dead

Ahhhhhhhh! The first of the month, finally my foodstamps have been reupped. I am waging a losing battle to restrain myself from going out in public looking like a seriously hideous unwashed stinky food zombie and blowing a large chunk of them on things that make the self-righteous and uber-frugal go "tsk". But fuck them. I'm not ignorant white trash, goddamnit.

I know that it's imperative not to go grocery shopping hungry. *Honk if you get irony.*

Discuss amongst yourselves.

So I was having a chat with Mickey Mouse last night about politics. . .

And on topic. People who experience the world in 2-D, who assume that she who plays devil's (republican/ recovery/ MIA queen/ recipient of disability accomodations/ devoutly religious/ nurse-who-made-a-triggering-comment's advocate must be the devil (or the republican, the recovery nazi, the MIA queen, the receiver, yadda yadda) irk me. I don't know, maybe its a fault and my brain is hyperextending (soon to implode on release, I'm sure). But wow- is it really that hard to process one or two additional bits of information on a subject that might greyscale it? Is it really that unusual to despise some of a person's beliefs while truly empathizing with some of his experience?

When a person appears to exist only as a bundle of compulsory idea/ action- devoting most of his time, thought, and energy to a distasteful pursuit like recovery/ eating disorder/ converting to Catholicism/ watching television I have to believe that he is using a new obsession as mental protection against some thoughts/behaviors that might be far more dangerous. Clearly this can only go so far with something like an ED. But if attending the seminary is somehow filling your ex-boyfriend's life, and blowing his brains out has ceased to be a viable option, maybe Catholicism deserves a break.

I mean, honestly- how can one make complete sentences without the capacity to hold two ideas in one's head simultaneously?