questionable ends
Well well well.
Hmmm hmmm hmmm.
These are the utterances of someone who feels they might be able to gloat, or maybe reprimand another if that opportunity arises. It is almost February of 2019 and I have mentioned to Don twice over the past three years, “if things do not change, we will drive off a cliff. ” Usually this is qualified with, next year if we are doing the same things, fuck it. Now the dog IS still alive and it would not be easy for me to leave him in the care of whomever and yeah, technically yes, this would all be a terrible travesty and people would pretend to care for fifteen minutes and we would be forgotten as before. You hear all the time killing yourself is a selfish thing, but sometimes I feel like it is sometimes the only way to avoid the bullshit.
Fortunately for anyone not happy with the idea of suicide, things have changed, and maybe last year’s change was big, but this year’s are bigger technically. They have the ability to really facilitate something great for us, provided I can find a few other revenue streams to offset the loss of the charge for the non-degree waste of my life for however long that was.
Rent is damn expensive here–ours coming in at about $1400 which is Colorado, people. It is not $1400 worth of amenities or location but that is how much a thousand square feet will get you in some of the least attractive places. Now if you live in a real city, that shit is cheap. I get it, but rents have effectively doubled since I moved here and that was NOT the case back east. And it is not the east coast which means bla for so many things, unless you enjoy fellating a football, I am sure it is top notch.
This morning we were looking at houses, double the size here, only $545k. (!!!), yes this is true. See with shit like that, Amsterdam is a better value but who the hell knows. What kind of focus should I have? What am I allowed to have or do, really? I have been under the impression all of my life I could have nothing. I have never been proven wrong but what if I could avoid problems for a few years. What if I make it to, (gulp) 50? Now I would definitely not be all there, my swiss cheese for brains, but should I be finding a place where I can die peacefully? Shouldn’t I still be doing whatever the hell I want at any given time since it is not likely I will make it to 50 and definitely won’t be around to pay that mortgage off–but then it gets stuck with Don? Shouldn’t I still be living for my immediate gratification rather than planning for a tomorrow I will never get to really see?
These are the questions I fight with myself over constantly, and even after I told Don if he wanted a house we needed to really calm down, stop traveling a few years and figure it out, he reminded me he wanted to enjoy time with me while I was still around and could remember the fun. The sobering reality of my current health condition is not lost on him at all—and I have been feeling more mortal lately which is either a sign of something bad coming, or I am just noticing too many people dying around me. Not that people are just offing themselves or dropping like flies but man…some people I know thought I would kick it first beat me to it. They beat me to it and wow, I bet they were surprised.
Fuck it, I am too, and I know a bunch of you are as well, having randomly checked on me through the years. DEANNA IS STILL ALIVE, you fuckers, no thanks to anyone but myself, but I am fucking alive. And I am going to figure out how to do one normal average thing people do. Children? Nahhh. Big fancy new car? Nahhh. Try to buy a piece of the earth somewhere somehow? Maybe. But I will still need all of you to help me sell the shit I need to have some hope. I don’t expect a free pass, hell no, this is an exchange–something I have you want for something I need, which is cash. I need to figure out a way to do something not remarkable, except that it is remarkable for me. To have a stable home and something…man. Nope. I have not had a stable home since I was an adolescent, I guess. I moved out as a senior in high school. I had a job at 15, my first time. I was on my third or fourth job I had had by the time I was 18. But I paid my portion of the $400 total rent in Worcester, Massatwoshits and I was not worse for it. I got sick not even 6 months later with my first dissection. I never went back to my parent’s house for more than a few weeks because yes, it was that bad I had to move out in high school.
I have been a sick lady for more than half my life and I have legitimately almost solely supported myself for that entire time, aside from the other men who were around at various points, but never disability, never sat on my ass for long. Never took for granted my ability to help myself except when I realized the value of my labor would never touch real medical problems. Their cost is beyond oppressive and we should all be surprised more people aren’t blowing their heads off because it is that hard to negotiate that kind of debt. See, for me, I am paying for the house I live in, which is my body–and they want a LOT of money for it, but at the end of the day, I still have no real house and no hope to ever get one, except when Don and I drunkenly conspire to win the lottery, which we barely play.
What do I deserve? I guess all that I work for and towards, but even then, is it earned? I am a lemon sucking on the teat of society and leaving no children to make the world better, leaving a trail of sickness and debt. I hurt everyone who gets close to me because I keep dating and falling in love with men who have no resources so I drain what little there is.
Man, sometimes it would seem the obvious conclusion is not a fun one, but there has to be a point beyond the suffering, one would hope. But instead of looping back to my first sentiments, let’s assume I can make–hmmm–shit, well that is a LOT of fucking t-shirts and headbands, guys. But let’s assume you will want something or many things to help a lady live.
Love you guys. The two, three who read me with any frequency. You make me feel seen. haha.
