Dial M for Torture

Psychiatrist's office. Cold, esoteric surroundings make me shiver. I am captivated by all the ADHD pamphlets for children sitting on the table. "Does your child speak out of turn?" one asks and I shudder at the thought of filling little children full of largely untested chemical combinations. "They may be attention deficit hyperactive disordered!"

"Come on back," the receptionist says in a very heavy Southern accent as she opens the door.

"Kermit is ready for us," my father whispers, as we get up from our chairs, and walk down that sterile seeming and long, boringly white hall to his office.

"How are you, today?" my doctor asks as he greets us, shakes my hand, and we sit down again.

I chuckle. The thought of my father's words of calling this esteemed and learned man, Kermit, makes me smile. I envision a little man up under the table animating and speaking for the personage sitting in front of us. He does look like Kermit, I think.

We talk of side effects.

"How is your sexual health?" my doctor asks after a myriad of questions.

"I haven't m-a-s-t-u-r-b-a-t-e-d in months," I reply. "I have no desire for sex."

I can't believe I said the M word. I look at my father and he is leaning forward in his seat, interested. I want to curl up in a ball and disappear with a wink. I felt like the proverbial bull in the conversational china shop.

"Are you okay with that?" my doctor then asks. He goes on a long diatribe about how my medications can cause sexual dysfunction.

"I want him to get married again and to have a normal life," my father chimes in, looking at me to see if saying this was okay.

I am so embarrassed, by now, that I want to run out of the room and hide in my father's car. I still can't believe I said the M word.

"Dad, did I say too much?" I ask my father on the ride home.

"Son, he is your doctor. You need to talk about those things with him. We all want you to have a normal life and everybody masturbates," my father said.

I felt sick at my stomach talking about it, but dad's words did make me feel better.

A Bridge of Worlds

I love when it's cool in the morning. I fell asleep with nothing but a sheet and the white noise drone of my box-fan by the bed. I awoke beneath a mound of freshly washed comforter, the strong smell of Gain fabric softener invading my nostrils. I had such a realistic dream about The Homeless Guy. Me and a childhood friend were sitting in a rescue mission, eating a sparse lunch, destitute and penniless. He came walking in with new clothes, computer laptops, digital cameras, and donations of cash from his blog. We were jealous. "Homeless people don't live like that," I told Jason, my friend, over rancid rice filled with mealy bugs. "Why work when gullible people will send you things for free?" was the Homeless Guy's reply, overhearing us. I remember feeling angry at his words and woke up feeling that way. The dream would end with The Homeless Guy in my father's pharmacy begging for medications for his high blood pressure. My father, the kind man that he is, didn't tell him to just lose weight, and would go on to help the wily guy solve yet another of a never-ending string of problems that is his life. I finally stirred awake with the epiphany that we love to hate in other people what we hate in ourselves. At least, I do. And I have certainly had my fair share of life crippling problems like that fellow. My dream was filled with jealousy and raw, negative emotion because of it. Some say that dreams are the bridge between waking life and the afterlife. I am glad I don't believe in that claptrap as some of the nightmares I've experienced are best forgotten and not relived throughout all eternity. I certainly don't want to spend my afterlife feeling angry and jealous.

Home

I am so damn happy. It is so wonderful here that I feel like I am on vacation. I keep turning to Maggie to say, "Can you believe that we actually live here? These are our sunsets. These are our streets. I mean, this is like our very own home!" Unfortunately, Maggie doesn't share in my exuberance, nor does she understand what I am saying. She does understand O-U-T-S-I-D-E. I have to spell it out just like I wrote it to not get her excited when Charlie, Rosa, or my father are over here.

Also, there are neighbors and they like me. Not often do I walk out of the house and don't get caught by Joyce or Ed down the street. We talk about neighborly things such as the weather, or my sister-in-law's newly found-out pregnancy. It will be her and my brother's second child. News travels fast in this little, small Southern town.

Today, I am editing my book for the umpteenth time; in my own computer room full of geeky goodness like computers, new desks and chairs, and shelves upon shelves of software and parts for future computers. Motherboards. Processors. Little boxes of random access memory. All just sitting and waiting for the perfect moment when I get the urge to tinker and build. And then there is the soft and comfortable bed in here that I will sometimes lie upon at night while I listen to the radio streaming over the internet. Things are coming together. Glorious. It is the only word that really comes to mind right now. This all feels so grown-up with smells of fresh paint, newly shellacked wood floors, and a kitchen filled with matching white appliances. I think I am finally home.

Exhaustion

The morning was a whir of breakfast and activity. Eggs. Toast. Bacon frying in a pan. Dishes piled high in the sink much to my dismay.

"How many eggs do you want?" I asked Rosa, pan in hand, as butter melted.

"Two," she replied.

"Now dammit," I said as I laughed nervously. "You have to have multiples like three or six."

"God, you are so anal," Rosa said, rolling her eyes. You should know me better, was my thought.

Out the door we went. I had to walk back and check it three times to make sure it was locked. My computer! my mind screamed, fearful of all the foot traffic on this street.

"It's locked!" Rosa exclaimed, standing at my car and rolling her eyes once again.

Dropped Rosa off at her house. Rendezvoused with my two-week injection for my schizophrenia. A cold blast of air greeted me as I stepped into the doctor's office causing goose bumps. Signed in. Short's pulled down to the side. Cold, steel needle pricking the skin of my cherub bum. Nurse gossip. "Work sucks here." "Works sucks, period, unless you like what you do," was my reply.

Snarling traffic. Police cruiser behind me. Paranoia. Is my tag current? Is my license in my wallet? What if I have a warrant out for my arrest? I turn into the driveway exhausted mentally as I sigh with relief. And my day has just begun.

Vanity

I stepped upon my scales this morning and weighed 215 pounds. My extra large t-shirts are fitting me like discarded circus tent canopies. The seat of my shorts sag and hang off my butt like Droopy's jowls. It is hard to believe that just a few short months ago I weighed 255 pounds. And I gained all that weight in a mere matter of months on my new medications. Easy come. Not so easy go.

I take some comfort in that I am 6 foot, 3 inches tall. That allows me to spread the extra weight around further than most. But I don't want to be fat. I am vain. I will admit it.

My good blogging friend, Annabel, wants to come and visit me at the end of July and I vowed to get down below 200 pounds before she came. It doesn't look like I am going to make it. I have been avoiding her because of it. I want everything to be just perfect if she does come.

Vain, I tell you. It's a curse.

Mad Scientist?

I was thoroughly enthralled with this week's book as Rosa began to ask me a hundred questions just like my mother, the queen, as my brother calls her. My mother can form a question upon her lips for my father before he has even pulled into the garage good.

"Tell me about college," Rosa asked as one of her questions.

"I hated it," I said, not wanting to talk much tonight.

"Come on," Rosa said, pulling my book from my hands to get my full attention.

"It's grade school for adults," I quipped.

"Momma always wanted me to go to college, but I was too busy having my daughter," Rosa replied.

"I was too busy avoiding class to graduate," I said as I laughed, not revealing the real reason I was holed up in my dorm room with a bottle of bourbon most nights neglecting my studies.

At the time I was in college, I was just having a hard time keeping it together. The first symptoms of my mental illness had manifested themselves and I began to withdraw from society and social contact. I had a string of miserably failed relationships that only furthered to complicate matters as my self confidence was destroyed. I would later throw what was left of my self esteem out the window by dropping out of college and taking a night shift job driving a forklift in a towel warehouse. I worked. Came home in the morning and drank a twelve pack of beer. Slept. Then I would get up and go through the same process all over again. Rinse and repeat. I felt like I was trapped in a bad B-movie version of Groundhog Day without the Christmas theme.

"I actually went back a few years ago and tried once again," I then told Rosa. "Sadly, it interfered with my drinking and I didn't go back after one semester."

"That's a shame. I could see you as a professor the way you read and write so much," Rosa replied as she looked at me wistfully.

"Yeah, I could be a mad scientist," I said sarcastically as I smiled and picked my book back up to continue reading. "Literally."

I can be so self deprecating at times. Rosa burst out laughing with me as she leaned up against me upon the couch. It is going to be nice having her stay over tonight.

Long Lost Friend

Jay was my best friend when I worked at the pet store during my second try at college. Jay was a transplanted New Englander and I still can't watch This Old House without thinking of him due to the accents on that show. "Bah-ston," I can still hear him say in my mind's eye.

Jay kind of adopted me. He was the type of friend that would come over and drag you out of the house to go do something. This fit my social anxieties well as I needed someone this aggressive to draw me out of my shell. Jay just wouldn't take "no" for an answer and I was known to protest at times and to try and stay at home.

"Where are we going?" I would ask as we would walk out from my apartment to his truck in the parking lot.

"Hockey and Lynn's Den," he would reply in that Boston accent with a devilish grin upon his face.

Lynn's Den was what Jay called a "titty bar" or what you would know as a strip joint. Can you imagine a guy riddled with social anxieties being thrown amidst exotic dancers crawling all in your lap and begging you for tips as they urged you to buy them mixed drinks? I never could get used to slipping those dollar bills down their skimpy thongs as they danced in front of me.

"Lighten up and have fun!" Jay would say, chugging a Miller Lite, as he would pat me upon the back.

Somehow, I would always go and manage to have a decent time as long as I could avoid the lap dances that Jay would occasionally buy for me. My avarice for sexual things was never very pronounced. I especially enjoyed the hockey games beforehand and the numerous beers and hotdogs we would consume. Me and Jay would drive home in his Silverado, late at night, singing, as Angus Young belted out old AC/DC tunes on the stereo. Those were good times and I miss that Yankee.

Missives

I will never forget the time my ex-girlfriend, Carolyn, asked me, "How do you do it? How do think of something to write every day?" I had built her a computer, got her on the internet, and had made the mistake of letting her read this anonymous blog. "I can not, not do it," was my reply. Writing is part and parcel of who I am.

People think they know me from what I share on this journal. I have said often that you are getting little snapshots of my life. Little missives I care to share. I didn't write about staying up all night drinking diet coke, or the call at 11:50 PM from Rosa about her fears of being a bad grandmother and mother that was too intimate to share. Some things are best filed in the rainy day folder in the writing memory bank. I do probably share more than most, though.

I was so worried when I moved into this house, far removed from my usual haunts, that I wouldn't have anything to write about – the blog would just wither and die. No George and the gang. Little of Rosa as she can no longer just walk over. I couldn't write about my daily journeys and walks into downtown, or over to Rodger's Barbecue to eat lunch. I can't just go camping because I have to be hand-fed my medications every night. The exact opposite has happened. This move has forced me to be more introspective and creative with my writing – trying to make each little moment I share with you count and to be an enjoyable-to-read anecdote of my life. I hope you enjoy the next chapter in this journey and of my writing career as I share it upon the blog. And thanks for reading.

Fresh Air

One morning I awoke to a terrible smell as you slept beside me.

"Did that come from you?" I asked you as I stirred you awake.

You groaned, "No. You are just gross."

"It wasn't me!" I would reply emphatically as I pulled up our covers to look for the dog.

The business end of our canine companion greeted us.

"Must be from Otis." I would then say. "I would have claimed that one proudly."

Otis was our Boston terrier that had a known history of flatulence and bowel irritation. I didn't have the foresight that blaming this poor dog many times for my own emissions would someday backfire. You didn't believe me as I had cried wolf once too often.

"That dog would have exploded before releasing that," you told me and I smiled at the thought of you almost making a fart joke. You were always so serious about such matters.

My inner 8-year-old was now grinning broadly; trying hard not to burst out laughing. It was too early for you to let me show emotion. Otis would poke his head out from under the covers with a look upon his face of, "Someone say my name?"

I finally broke out laughing in a show of gleeful exuberance. You would hit me, pull the covers around you tightly, and go back to sleep, un-amused and disgusted. Sometimes, I miss being married for the little moments such as this.

A Grit is a Grit

I grew up eating hot, steamy, buttery bowls of grits – the kind of grits that would stick to a spoon and the bottom of a bowl, and still melt in your mouth. I have heard northerners ask, "What the hell is a grit?" and it never fails to make me laugh or smile. Of course, it was once poverty food in the South, and just like cream of wheat, you have to grow up eating it to appreciate it.

Getting me to school was always an ordeal and dad, not mom, would fix a big breakfast to kind of soften the coming blow. I was a big kid, loved to eat, and could be persuaded to do anything after a hearty home-cooked meal. "Breakfast's ready!" dad would holler from the kitchen as I would be pulling on my Sketchers and tying the laces. Me, my brother, and sister would all run to the kitchen as dad ladled up that thick and creamy porridge-like concoction into bowls. If we were lucky, dad would be the adventurous Southern chef, and throw in some sharp cheddar cheese. Man, that was some good eatin' as they say in the South.

Breakfast was always the most important meal on my grandmother's farm, but I never recall her serving grits. She grew up in the Great Depression in farmland Alabama and said they were so poor that they ate corn in everything and she had eaten enough for a lifetime. Cornbread. Grits. Hoecakes. Hominy. Corn sticks. Corn soufflé. You name it and somehow they incorporated corn into it. It is a wonder they didn't find a way to eat cotton – the cash crop of the South and most widely grown. In my grandmother's later years, she believed in eating bacon or sausage every breakfast – a precious commodity when she was a child and something only served on special occasions as slaughtering a hog was an all-day celebration and holiday that seldom occurred. I take eating bacon at breakfast for granted every morning.

And since we are on the topic of grits and breakfast foods, I think I shall go mosey on into the kitchen and simmer a pot of cheddar cheese grits with a side of bacon. I'll see ya'll later.

The Worst of Both

I was just on the phone with my father. He loves my way with words and told me he was going to tell everyone in the family what I said just below in our conversation.

"Dammit, Dad. I got the worst of both you and mom," I told him as I chuckled.

We had been discussing how things were going lately and this little gem of self awareness blurted out of my mouth.

"I got your laissez faire attitude about life and I got mom's mental illness and obsessive compulsiveness. I am just screwed."

My father laughed and laughed. As if it was really a laughing matter. Sometimes you have to smile at your foibles, though.

"Your brother says all three of you got some of it," he replied.

"Yeah, but they made doctors," I furthered. "I haven't made anything yet."

"You do damn good to have gone through what you have," Dad said, trying to bolster my spirits. "I am very proud of you."

That made me feel good and I look forward to seeing him tonight when he gets back in town. My cheerleading section has been on vacation and he has been sorely missed.

Gregarious

I have heard the old saying that dogs take on the personality of their owners. That certainly isn't true for Maggie and me. She is such a gregarious little soul. I am terribly shy.

This morning, I was sitting on the porch, early, smoking my first cigarillo, vanilla hinted. Joyce came bounding out of her house with a perky gait full of conversation. Maggie's tail immediately began to wag and she whined, longing to run over and greet her. My first inclination is to mutter, "Oh shit, I am going to have to make small talk," as I am overcome with a feeling of dread. I always end up really enjoying our talks despite my social anxiety. Joyce and I are two peas in a pod I am starting to learn.

"Do your medications make you sleepy?" Joyce asked me once again this morning. I guess she had forgotten she had asked me this before.

"Terribly," I replied. "Charlie brought them over last night and I was soon in the bed after taking them. I then usually get up at five."

"Me and you are a lot alike," Joyce said. "My Tegretol makes me terribly sleepy and I then get up at five as well for breakfast."

Maggie sat this whole time so happy, wanting to go over and greet Joyce. Joyce then did her customary baby-talk encouraging Maggie to get overly excited.

"How's my girl?" She said in her high pitched voice.

Maggie was in ecstasy.

"Well, I have to go open up the church and turn on the air conditioning," Joyce said, climbing into her car. "Do you need anything while I am out?"

"No," I replied. "Thank you so much for asking, though."

I watched as Joyce drove off to do God's work and Maggie didn't quit wagging her tail and whimpering until her car disappeared around the corner. I will say again that she is such a gregarious little soul. I wish I shared the alacrity with which she greets people. I want to take on the personality of my dog and not vice versa as the old saying goes. It's a dog's life they say.

Muddling

I realized this wasn't going to work the moment I heard him speak. His voice was like fingernails rasping across a chalkboard. I would have to talk to this person often on the phone. I hate to be so petty, but it was the truth. I hated that voice. Our avenue for our meeting was also suspect being a burger joint due to his request. McDonald's. Gross. I imagined many meetings here at this scourge of culinary crassness over my preferred coffee and omelet at the Waffle House.

"I know this great guy," Wanda had said on the phone. "I think he would be a great sponsor for you. Meet us for lunch."

He was near my age. He had gotten sober at twenty-five. Can you imagine? I didn't know my ass from a hole in the wall at twenty-five, let alone having the soundness of mind to get sober at such an early age. Drinking and getting drunk was cool then. All my friends got drunk and stoned. I would have been a social pariah by abstaining.

"How long have you been sober?" He asked me over fries and ketchup, spilling some on his shirt.

"I don't keep count these days," I said, long ago having quit practicing the chip system of A.A. "It's been awhile."

I could tell he didn't like my answer at all. It was just a major hurdle for me to show up for this so I didn't care. I just wanted to go home, curl up in the chair on my porch, and read chapter twenty of my book. I was doing this for my dear friend, Wanda. I have not had my mind much on Alcoholics Anonymous anyway.

"So what did you think?" Wanda asked as we walked out to our cars in the parking lot.

"He was cool," I replied out of niceness and respect. The guy did take the time out of his life to meet me and I owed Wanda this much.

"Do you think you can see him as your sponsor?"

I just knew she was going to ask this awkward question. It is the story of my social anxiety riddled life. They always ask the hard questions.

"I am not ready for a new sponsor, yet," I replied. "I am still getting over Tim."

It came out sounding as if me and Tim were lovers and I was recovering from a terrible and tumultuous breakup. I cringed at my own words. It was weak and I could see the disappointment in Wanda's face.

"Think it over," she said, crawling into her old Ford Crown Victoria as I stood in the parking lot. "Give it some time. I think you two would be great."

I had never been so glad to get in my car and drive home. The whole ordeal was nerve wracking, but I muddled through. Bless Wanda's heart, but this one just wasn't going to work.

Blurring the Line

I do not know when Rosa and me blurred the line of friendship and a more serious relationship. I do know that most good friends of the opposite sex do not hold hands or snuggle on the couch. Such intimacy is reserved for more serious and sexual relationships. And yet we do not have a sexual relationship. I made myself very clear to Rosa early on that I am functionally dysfunctional sexually due to the medications for my mental illness. I have no interest in sex these days, nor do I miss it. This doesn't stop her from lacing our conversations with sexual innuendo, though. She takes great satisfaction out of seeing me blush and squirm, and can be very crass about it at times.

What brought this on was me reading my post the other day where Rosa, me, and her granddaughter were in the car. I said sorry and Rosa reached for my hand. It felt so natural at the time. Normally, such intimacy would make me uncomfortable, but with Rosa it feels sublime. It was as normal as the sun coming up in the morning or the katydids calling on a Southern summer's night.

Rosa and me did sleep together once. I broke with my sobriety and drank copious amounts of beer. She joined in on the party and we both ended up drunk and naked in the bed. There was a most extreme feeling of uncomfortableness when I woke up sober and hung-over in the morning and realized what had happened. It almost ruined our friendship and there was a tenuous few weeks of us avoiding each other intermixed with emotionally charged arguing. Somehow, our friendship weathered the rocky shores that were the banks of our indiscretions and we never slept together again.

One Out of Two

Dinner was pasta last night. I love the ritual of the cooking of a good pasta sauce – the house filled with wonderful aromas after the sauce simmers on the stove for hours. When I was child, I would always be dismayed with how my mother prepared her pasta. She would break it up into little pieces before boiling it – travesty! One of the important rituals in eating good pasta is carefully twirling the long strands upon the fork, making sure to get a chunky piece of tomato or some ground beef with every bite. That smell of garlic, basil, and grated parmesan is almost always intoxicating. I could easily become a food addict now that I am sober these days.

As I was making my way home from my early morning walk, I thought of what I wanted in life. Pasta. Cooking. And someone to share it with. I could curl up with a friend on the couch and watch hours of The Food Network getting ideas for our next culinary foray into the kitchen. We would sit eating pasta as we talked of our day. "Pass the parmesan and grater," she would say. I would smile as I asked her if she would like another bowl, taking great satisfaction out of her enjoyment of the meal. I realized there was no greater relationship magic than sharing a bowl of pasta between friends and ample, good conversation. I do not have much hope of ever finding this combination of conversational and culinary bliss, but I do take comfort in knowing that the next bowl of pasta is always only a few hours of cooking away. One out of two ain't that bad.

Summers Past

I used to would spend my summer days down at the shopping center, home of the Piggly Wiggly. There was George waiting upon patrons for his fly-by-night taxi service – that old jalopy of a car of his was always illegally parked in the fire lane. George would ask me to buy him one beer which I always thought as odd. Shouldn't an alcoholic want multiples like six or twenty-four? Little did I know at the time that George always kept a large bottle of cheap wino wine under his car seat. The beer was just a treat. We would grow to be good enough friends that he would begin to share that terrible swill with me over time. I much preferred those little ice-cold green bottles of Heineken myself.

Then there was Big S or Slop as he was known down there. Every day, like an omnipresent sun, he would sit on a bench begging for spare change. He didn't drink or do anything dastardly. He just liked sodas and loved to eat. He abhorred work. He would tell everyone his meth addicted sister and her five kids took all his disability money. I rarely believed him unless I had a few beers in the old gullet and was feeling gullible. Big S was known to lie or embellish his tales quite often. And boy was he a terrible gossip. Slop and George were the information grapevine of the gang. Nothing missed their astute ears and attention.

Ferret and I would become fast friends last summer. He was homeless - sleeping in a tent down by the river. I would gladly walk down every morning to drink a beer and share breakfast from Sarah Jay's. We had some good times on that broad riverbank. I almost envied Ferret of his homelessness. I found keeping a home and the resulting responsibilities to be much harder than just being a homeless man. I was also so naïve at the time. Ferret so desperately wanted a home and would have traded places with me any day.

I have been looking back over the past few summers this morning and realized how transient my life can be over time. I am bounced around from one place to the next like some red headed stepchild. I am hoping that my current abode is a place where I can put down roots - a place to house me and Maggie for a long time. Abbagirl's mention of the gang this morning got me to thinking about them and the times we spent together – lazy summer days without a care in the world other than when I would have my next smoke or buy my next beer. Much has happened in a year.

Consensus of One

The phone rang harshly and loudly at 5 AM.

"Damn, what in the hell?" I muttered as I looked at the alarm clock on my bedside table and turned on the lamp. There was a hurried bout of acrobatics as I clumsily pulled on my shorts, socks, and shoes. It didn't even phase Maggie as she briefly looked up and then went back to sleep upon my warm and soft covers.

"Hello?" I stammered, picking up the phone, worried it may be Rosa having a hard morning.

"Can I be speakin' to Sheniqua?" A brusque male voice asked with a heavy Southern African American accent.

"Damn," was my final mutter as I sighed and hung up the phone abruptly – perturbed at having been woken up so early from a blissful slumber – the kind of which doesn't come easy to me.

Hell, I was wide awake and up now. It was time to get this day going. I hope Sheniqua and her brazen early morning caller unite and have a good conversation together. There ain't no Sheniqua here though.

I can be a stodgy old fart about rituals. My father has been known to jokingly call me an old man I am so set in my ways. Breakfast doesn't escape the tenacity with which I carry out the tours de force that are the obsessive compulsive side of my personality. Mess up my routines and I am on the floor, balled up in a fetal position, and crying my eyes out in frustration.

"Would you like an egg?" I asked Maggie as she had finally roused herself from the bed when she smelled frying bacon.

I looked into the carton only to realize that by cooking Maggie an egg would leave me five left and I have to have three every morning. I stood there stymied for a moment almost totally frozen. wondering what to do. No egg for Maggie was the majority report. I am a consensus of one and I am also obsessive compulsive. "You have plenty of kibble, girl," I told her, much to her dismay.

I used to shudder at the thought of eating alone. Now it is commonplace to find me sitting at my kitchen table, solitary, with a meal in front of me or down at the barbeque joint, table for one, scoffing down a pulled pork sandwich. Social anxiety can often be a weird mix of phobias and quirks. You would think a person suffering from it would gleefully eat alone. Actually, by eating alone, you stand out from the crowd and this is terrifying for a person who suffers from it. It is much calmer and anxiety lessening to have a trusted companion to eat with you when eating out. Luckily, I have pretty much overcome this deep seated fear of mine.

Well, let me head out for my morning walk. I will write again soon.

Six Lanes and a Blind Man

I have tried so hard to drink diet soda, but I hate them. I hate that chemical, foreign aftertaste. A moment ago, filled with wanton abandon, I crawled into my car and headed south to my father's pharmacy on a quest for real sugar, carbonation, and lots of caffeine. Screw this diet, I thought. I have lost thirty freakin' pounds! Luckily, my father was off with what I presume to be his mistress or mister as my ex-wife would always accuse so I didn't get berated when I walked out of the store with five six packs of regular Classic Coca-Cola.

I arrived home and stuffed the cans in my refrigerator. Then began that all too familiar ritual of filling a large glass full of ice cubes, the crack and fizz of opening a Coca-Cola, and the pop and crackle of the cubes as that warm cola is poured over ice. I sat in my lazy boy lounger with remote in one hand and glass of cold coke in the other. That first drink was heavenly and as thirst quenching as if I were parched after a leisurely trod through the Sahara.

My neighbor, Ed, showed up earlier in the day. He wanted to see the house so I showed him around. I had just cooked a large pan of lasagna and it was sitting on the stove top. I could almost see Ed lick his lips as he passed by the stove for me to show him the laundry room. The house smelled like some Italian villa in Sicily. Joyce soon knocked on the door and I had a house full of neighbors. I am not used to neighbors being so neighborly. My neighbors at my late grandmother's house didn't speak or visit for the two years I lived there after my bout with homelessness. It feels good, but it is scary at the same time for a person with social anxiety. I am just exhausted after our friendly visits and exchanges. My therapist keeps telling me that these are exactly the types of situations I need to place myself within for practice in overcoming my anxieties. It is kind of like telling a blind man to walk across six lanes of traffic in downtown Manhattan. It is that damn scary!

A Therapist’s Dream

A great wave of contentment overcame me as I watched Rosa and her granddaughter play in the park this morning from a distance. I sat at a sun-drenched picnic table watching on like a hapless bystander while adding to the freckle count upon my fair skin. I do not have much experience with children as an adult. I am actually scared of kids and worry that I may scare them as well. I then turned around in my seat to watch the throng of Vietnamese immigrants fishing on the riverbank for carp which fascinated me. I don't see how they can eat those overly bony fish was the most pressing thought on my mind at the time, dividing my attention between them and Rosa and her granddaughter.

I often brag to my father about the lucidity with which I avoided children. My mother, also a schizophrenic, put us through hell as children with violence, mania, and general chaos and emotional abuse. She didn't regain her sanity until I was a grown man and she found doctors and medications that helped. I vowed to stop the cycle that had gone on for generations. I knew from an early age that I would make a piss poor parent. I have a hard enough time trying to keep my little world in order let alone the world of another small being dependent upon me as did my mother before me.

On the drive home, Rosa turned to me and looked long and hard as if she was going to say something. I was concentrating on driving and was also deep in thought about little dependent humans in general. I broke my silence and turned to Rosa to tell her I was sorry in an effort to read her mind about what she was going to say. I just knew she was going to say something about my aloofness at the park.

"Sorry for what?" Rosa asked, looking befuddled.

"Sorry for not being better with kids."

Rosa laughed and reached for my hand.

"You remind me of my father when he was a young man," Rosa said. "I barely remember him, but he always seemed so at unease around me."

"Kids get my social anxieties going," I replied. "I feel like I have to perform – have to set an example. I am a poor example."

Rosa scolded me for being so self deprecating.

"The main thing is just to love them," she said of children. "That is what kids want most."

I nodded my head in agreement thinking of my own childhood and the constant search for my mother's sanity and her lost affection. I wanted to just cry deep, long, and hard, but kept it together long enough to take Rosa and child home. I realized I could never remember my mother hugging me or holding me as a youngster. I still find myself searching for that affection I never got from her. Even as a grown man, I want to sob like a small, scolded adolescent over it and the deeply guarded resentment it fosters. Good thing I am in therapy. I will keep my therapist busy for years.

Finis

My much touted and ballyhooed book is finished. I put the finishing touches on it this morning. It came out to be 320 pages. Now, I need to see about getting up the money to get self published and order some boxes of printed copies. I long ago gave up on my grand dreams of being discovered by my blog and given a contract to write a book about my life and Rosa and the gang. I would really love giving out copies of my book to family members for Christmas. My sister and father would love some of the real life elements of my grandmother's many years I weaved into the tales of the tome. It was also so satisfying when I wrote that last sentence and saved the file to a DVD for safe keeping. Finis.

Not much is going on in my world today other than taking Rosa and her granddaughter to breakfast and then to the park. It is supposed to be a gorgeous day sans rain and storms and with low humidity. I look forward to a sun filled afternoon of warmth, azure skies, and puffy clouds. Well, let me go get in the shower and then put on my favorite summer outfit. I hope you all have a great day and I will write again around lunchtime of this morning's much needed adventure back to my childhood as experienced through another precious little soul. Good day.

Future Lost

I never could comprehend the future. Sure, I try, but usually fail miserably. It is about as incomprehensible as me trying to imagine the kind of life on a planet revolving around a star in the Andromeda galaxy. Lately, days come and go and I have trouble discerning if what happened today actually happened yesterday and/or vice versa. My life is one big dawn and dusk with a bunch of shit thrown in between. Oh, yeah, and that thing called sleep. I almost forgot how to do that simple bodily function earlier in the year with my daring dance with Senorita Insomnia.

I was thinking today about what my life is and what it should be. I came to the conclusion that things are just right so don't any of you go messing with my mojo. No wife. No kids. No problem. A little crazy, but nothing a handful of "happy" pills, as my father calls them, can't cure. It could be a lot worse. My bout with homelessness has proven to be one of my most able teachers about life and what should matter. There is not a day that goes by that I don't thank my lucky stars for my new home. Future lost? I beg to differ. The coming days are looking bright, indeed.

Reconciliation

I have been very pleased over these last few months to watch Rosa and her daughter's relationship blossom. Rosa called me tonight ecstatically telling me of her daughter leaving Rosa's granddaughter to stay with her until next Monday. This was a momentus occasion and a major step in Rosa regaining year's lost trust with her daughter.

"My mother always said I was good for nothing," Rosa said over the line. "I want to prove her wrong."

"What's your granddaughter doing now?" I asked.

"She's sitting in the floor watching one of the three channels my TV will pick up," Rosa replied.

I smiled as I changed the phone from one ear to the other.

"Are you still going to come get us in the morning?" Rosa then asked.

"I thought we would drive down to the Waffle House for breakfast and then ride out to the playground at the park by the lake."

"Thank you," Rosa said. "Thank you for helping me make this special."

I hung up the phone to escape to the porch to smoke tonight's last cigarillo. "Thank you," I thought of Rosa, wishing I had her back on the phone so I could tell her in person. "Thank you for giving my life so much meaning these past months and for being there when all my fair weather friends such as George deserted me."

My neighbor, Joyce, had showed up again earlier this afternoon knocking on my door bearing gifts of snacks and garden grown tomatoes.

"I just wanted to officially welcome you to the neighborhood," she said as she stepped inside. "I called your mother and asked her what your favorite snack foods were."

Joyce had brought Chex snack mix which will just devastate my diet. I can eat a whole bag in a matter of hours sitting reading a book. I will have to fast for a day after tomorrow to make up for my overindulgence.

"I still want to wash your car for you every month when I wash mine," I told her as I walked her back outside.

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't keep saying that," she said out of neighborly modesty. "I don't want you to go to any trouble."

"I insist," I said, not giving up an inch. I was determined to do something to help her as she is a single woman, living alone, and unable to do this herself.

It has been a good, but busy day. Now, it is time to curl up on the couch with this week's book of me and my father's book reading marathon. I find reading fascinating now that I am aspiring to be a writer one day.

Appearances can be Deceiving

"You don't look disabled," she said, dismissively. "Nor do I as a matter of fact."

"Ah, but I am medicated!" I quipped as I laughed. "Catch me off my medications for a month and you would find me a far different man."

"Seriously though," my neighbor said as we sat on my porch. "Have you thought about going back to work?"

I had just been complaining about all the seemingly free time I have now that I have moved. I used to would just walk down to the shopping center or the railroad yard and hang out. Gas is so expensive right now that I hate to drive and rarely do. Joyce thought a job would help me fill my time and help me to feel more productive.

"I can't afford to lose my prescription coverage," I replied. "My medications cost $1500 dollars a month."

"That is exactly why I can't work full time as well now," Joyce told me. "I feel better. I almost feel like I can work. I just can't afford it."

We both sat mired in our Catch-22 as we drank ice cold tea and enjoyed each other's company. It has been so nice having a caring and talkative neighbor who faces and endures the same issues and problems as I. We have become inseparable friends in a matter of days.

Deliveries of the Awesome Kind

Charlie and his co-worker, Kevin, dropped by yesterday to deliver my new computer desk and chair. I was pleased as punch to see him pull up into my driveway around lunch. It took me two freakin' hours to put that desk together though. The instructions were written by an illiterate three year old. I was so glad to get my computer off the kitchen table and onto its proper place in my front bedroom in front of a window with a view. It is quite picturesque sitting here as I type looking out this expansive window as the joggers run by in the early morning fog.

I and dad have a new project. We challenged each other to read a book a week and then spend time discussing the book. I have all the free time in the world so this will be easy for me. Dad, on the other hand, works ten hour days so it will be interesting to see how long he lasts. He seems determined though and is the type of person to finish something he starts unlike me. This week's book is Dead Wrong by J. A. Jance. It is on the New York Times best seller list. I am going to go sit out on my porch, open a Vault energy drink, light a cigarillo, and start chapter one shortly.

Tuesday nights is always my grocery shopping night. Kroger had cans of Star Kist tuna on sale for a dollar a can so I bought ten. Maggie will have a treat every morning this week and already engulfed a can for breakfast. I try to find little treats that are healthy for her and make her life more enjoyable. She also got a bag of rawhide bones and one ended up in the bed with me this morning. I rolled over to a pain in my back only to reach back and pull out a slimy, wet, and half-chewed dog bone. Oh, the joys of dog ownership. They are a lot like having children except they don't talk back

Against all Odds

The alacrity with which Rosa tackles her addiction never ceases to amaze me. It gives me strength. When you think of someone addicted to crack cocaine, you don't think of overwhelming recovery from that addiction. The odds are usually slim. You rarely hear her bitch and moan about her struggles as well. That is my job, as it was this morning. I can whine and moan with the best of them. It makes me feel better.

"Will you not sit still?" Rosa asked me as she sat on the couch in my den.

"I am struggling something terrible today," I replied as I donned my little radio to listen to the morning news and to pace the floor.

"I really wish you could just drink a six pack and quit," she said. "It would help with that anxiety you are experiencing this morning."

"That's why I always drank," I replied. "I could be content for hours drinking beer – sometimes days. I self medicated. It helped with my schizophrenia I thought."

I woke up with this feeling – a feeling of unrest and uneasiness. A terrible affliction that can be all encompassing as I struggle to resist the urge of driving straight down the road to the convenience store and tanking up on a case of beer.

Last night was better. Charlie came by bringing some homemade vegetable soup and hot cornbread that his wife had cooked.

"I should have never sold you this house," he told me, musingly. "It looks so good that I am jealous."

I beamed with pride. I have been so pleased with this house as well. It is so nice to have a place of my own to hang my proverbial hat. Charlie had also brought me several pictures to hang in various rooms. I was especially pleased with the mural filled with ducks. It looked like something a strapping young bachelor would hang on his wall.

My father arrived at 10 PM to give me my medications for my mental illness.

"I am so glad to see you," I told him as he stepped through the threshold that is my front door. "I was terribly lonely for a moment there."

"That makes me feel so good to hear you say that," my father replied.

We sat out on my porch and talked for an hour until sleep overcame the both of us and he drove home to crawl into the bed and to answer my mother's last questions of the day which she is so apt to ask. I went to sleep listening to a documentary on TV about Rembrandt which aided in inducing slumber. Morning arrived with a flourish of anxiety, social aloofness, and a dull feeling in my mind. Against all odds, I wander through this life one day at a time. Rosa give me strength.

• C. R. Morris – an email is on the way soon to help you with Google Adsense
  



• Annabel – I am working on an email for you as well and will send you my new phone number. I have to call mom and get it. I can never remember it.
  

The Lush of Yesteryear

"Do you think you will ever get married again?" Rosa asked me this morning as we sat on my porch drinking sodas.

"No," I said, with an air of sureness in my voice.

"Why not?" Rosa then asked inquisitively.

"I couldn't take the pressure," I said. "The pressure to be a husband; the pressure to be a mate and friend. My nerves just couldn't take it."

I had seen my ex-wife this morning, told Rosa about it, and it precipitated this conversation.

"What was your biggest gripe about being married?" Rosa asked.

"Not being able to drink when and how much I wanted," I said as I laughed.

Rosa laughed along with me, but it was the truth. I would still probably be married if I wasn't a drunken lush then.

Editor's note: Rosa watched as I typed this and read it. I think Shy_Smiley had said in a comment the other day that she wondered if Rosa ever reads my blog. She rarely does and shows little interest in my biggest hobby, computers and the internet. Rosa's only comment about this post was, "You type so fast!"

Mule to Water…

I had written Kevin "The Homeless Guy" Barbieux out of the goodness of my heart and explained to him in lengthy detail how to make a steady income with advertisements on your Blogger blog. I gave up some guarded secrets doing so. He mainly ignored me and actually changed his blog to Wordpress shortly for which it wouldn't work. I gave up. I realized he wasn't going to help himself and would probably make excuses about not being able to do it as a homeless man even though he manages to stay online all day somehow. That old saying you can lead a mule to water, but you can't make him drink comes to mind. I tried. I have come to the conclusion that he will always be homeless. It is a chosen lifestyle for him. He is homeless because he is an asshole and not because of lack of money – irascible old codger.

Last night found me at a much needed A.A. meeting. I hadn't gone much all week and it felt good to be in those hallowed halls of sobriety. I did take the step of telling my sometimes sponsor, Tim, that I thought I needed to find a less "Christian" sponsor and someone not twice my age. He took it well, actually wishing me the best.

"Let's still go get coffee sometimes at the Waffle House," he said as he shook my hand and smiled.

I sighed with relief as he walked off. Such ordeals always test the limits of my social anxieties. I abhor confrontation and Tim is outspoken. I have actually felt better about my sobriety not having a sponsor than having one. Strange, huh?

Cold Steel upon Steel

The adventure started off on the wrong foot with my father never showing up to give me my medications last night. I waited and waited and couldn't call his cell phone due to my phone phobias. It was finally going on 10 PM. Soon, there was a knock on my door and it was Charlie with my crazy meds and a new stainless steel toaster oven for my kitchen.

"Your father is indisposed," he said as he handed me a beige envelope with my pills inside along with a diet coke. "I am the bringer of your medications."

I told Charlie of my grand camping adventure and he proceeded to lecture me on the dangers.

"Now, dammit, Andrew," he said. "It's a goddamn dangerous world and you are playing with fire. You are going to get murdered down there."

"The world is no more dangerous than it was forty years ago," I argued vehemently. "It's people's perception of it that has changed. And a murder hasn't happened in this small town in decades."

Charlie left and I threw my big Kelty backpack in my car undaunted and drove down to the Post Office and parked. It was a short 5 minute walk across the highway to behind that grand old abandoned cotton mill. My tent was still safely where I had left it, undisturbed. Soon, it began to rain and I curled up in my unfurled sleeping bag and went sound asleep. One nice thing about rain is that you know no one will be prowling around back there in inclement weather. What dumbass would be behind that old mill with it pouring down rain? Me…that's who.

I awoke at my usual 5 AM to the sound of cold steel flange upon steel rail making their characteristic singing sounds as tons of train rolled by forty yards from my tent. I roused myself and immediately lit my camp stove and got some water boiling. Breakfast was a Southern tradition, cheese 'n grits – one of my favorite breakfast foods as a child. Food just tastes better and feels more nourishing in a camping setting to me. I sat eating from a plastic bowl as I listened to the weather band on my radio. The computerized voice was warning of a large swath of rain moving into east central Alabama. I quickly packed up my gear, donned my Kelty backpack and drove the mile home. As I arrived home, the heavens literally opened up and it poured rain. Maggie jubilantly greeted me at the front door wondering where in the hell I had been.

Well, let me get a pot of coffee going and go sit out on the porch and smoke a cigarillo. This rain is so wonderful and a much needed gift from ye weather gods. I then need to get a shower as Charlie and me are driving down to Office Depot when they open to pick up my new computer desk and computer room chair. I am so excited!

The Adventure Begins

It's Saturday – my favorite day. As is customary for me, I get up before dawn and start my coffee. I then stand on my back deck smoking a cigarillo, coffee mug in hand, as I try to wake up. This new house is so eerily quiet at night and I sleep much better. It is tempting to sleep until late in the morning, but I would miss my favorite time of the day, dawn. I also have to let Maggie out as she is refusing to use this complex contraption they installed called a dog door. It has double doors which scares her.

Rosa called this morning after breakfast.

"Tonight's the big night," she said.

"I have to wait until dad brings my medications then I am driving down to near the campsite," I replied.

"You know I am going to worry about you."

"I will be just as safe down there as I am here," I said, trying to reassure her.

"I wish you would just come and camp in my backyard," Rosa replied. "That way I could crawl into the sleeping bag with you."

This was a woman who used to get high on crack and sleep on benches in public parks in Atlanta after turning tricks all night. Lately, I am flummoxed by her concern over my camping down at the mill. Rosa really has mellowed and turned scary these days.

"Are you going to take your gun?" Rosa then asked.

"Dad took it away from me," I replied. "He got all nervous after the Virginia Tech shooting. Said mentally ill people and guns are dangerous. I gave it up just to keep the peace."

Rosa didn't reply so I took it as she agreed with my father about the gun. She then told me to come by at lunch for sandwiches changing the subject. I told her I would be by at noon and then hung up the phone.

Well, I am very excited about tonight. It will be night one of my urban camping experiment. I have a grand camp stove meal planned that I am going to prepare this afternoon. I will write again in the early morning of my overnight experiences.

Pleasantville

The rain softly pattered on the hood of my car parked by my porch. In my left hand was a lit cherry hinted cigarillo. In my right was a cold glass of iced sweet tea wrapped in a paper towel. Maggie lay on the floor at my feet chewing on her favorite plush toy, a cow.

"Me and you are two lucky souls," I said to Maggie as she looked up at me trying to decipher human-speak.

This was the moment before many souls would descend upon my home in the span of mere minutes. My father arrived bearing gifts of Risperdal, Lithium and Lexapro. Charlie and his son soon followed with gifts of hamburgers, potato salad, and baked beans. It was sort of an impromptu spur-of-the-moment party complete with crazy meds for us more mentally addled folks. We wouldn't want the party-goers getting too interesting now would we?

Charlie helped me drill some holes in the floor and we ran a cable line from my basement into my computer room. I hooked up my modem and I was soon back online after a week of mostly sporadic internet access.

"That is just awesome," I told Charlie as I opened Internet Explorer and the Google homepage was displayed.

"I can't believe that modem worked from your old house," Charlie replied.

"I learned that trick from when I was homeless," I replied. "I figured out you can move modems around to different locations in the cable network and they will still work."

My father looked on totally disinterested. He is a man who is completely baffled by electronics. I have often chided him about the very nice stereo in his Honda for which he has trouble turning on.

I was sad to see everyone leave as I shut my front door and turned off the porch light. I felt some fierce writing mojo coming on and just had to escape to the front bedroom and write this on my newly established internet connection. The first word that came to mind was Pleasantville so that is what I titled this post. It has been a long and interesting journey from homelessness to owning my own home – a road less traveled by most. I am glad to be home – home, what a marvelous word. Good night.

Music to my Ears

It was cool and overcast this morning when I poked my head into my tent to survey the contents.

"Everything's fine," I told Rosa.

I had parked at the Post Office and we ran across the highway to behind the old mill. A train roared past just mere feet away as we stood on the old concrete loading dock behind that grand abandoned building where my tent was pitched.

"Isn't that going to keep you up at night?" Rosa asked, speaking of the clamorous train that was now disappearing down the tracks.

"Nah," I said, nonchalantly. "That is music to my ears."

"Come on," I then said. "Let's go get some breakfast."

We ended up eating Krispy Kreme chocolate glazed donuts and drinking coffee in my car in the parking lot of the convenience store not far from my father's pharmacy. I pulled out my Google Adsense check that had arrived yesterday from my glovebox and showed it to Rosa.

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed. "You made all this on the Internet?"

"I made a lot of it writing about you," I said as I smiled and then endorsed the check on my knee with a pen.

"I hope you are writing good things about me."

"Darling, you are the princess in my world."

Rosa smiled and blushed and then told me to quit being so gay. I burst out laughing.

This morning's wanderings ended with us at the bank depositing that check and then I drove Rosa up to the shopping center. She had some acquaintances she wanted to run into today. I have become thoroughly bored with hanging out down at the shopping center thus no posts about the gang in a long time.

Scouting Around

I went and pitched one of my cheap $30 Wal-Mart tents over at my urban campsite this morning. Inside, I put an old pillow and blanket along with some magazines and bottled water to make it look well used recently. I want to see how long it will take before someone messes with it. It is a pretty stealthy spot, but I do know I spent a lot of time down there as a child. I wonder if children even explore like I did in this age of video games and organized sports.

I then went on a big shopping spree down at my father's pharmacy for things such as washing powders, dishwasher detergent, soap, shampoo, toilet paper, paper towels, and some various canned goods. I tried to write a check, but dad wouldn't have anything to do with it. He told me to save my money and that the store would cover sundries for me from now on.

My relationship with my father has been really great lately with him giving me a lot of freedom since the move. Only one minor perturbing incident has occurred when yesterday, while Rosa and me were over at her house, someone used their key to open my house to leave some cokes and a bag of hamburgers on my kitchen counter. I think it was Charlie so he must have an extra key to my house. I just feel uncomfortable with a bunch of people having free access to my home.

All Stocked up on Crazy Here

"Sex Lube?!?!" Rosa asked. "You mean like K-Y Jelly?"

"Yep," I said. "It makes for the best waterless shave when you are camping. No razor burn at all."

Rosa and me were discussing my upcoming urban camping experiment and some of the things I needed to bring.

"Where are you going to get your water to drink?"

"From the river," I replied. "I have a water filter."

"Don't come crying to me when you get some kind of funky parasite that grows in your bowels."

I laughed. I have used this same ceramic filter in pond water and muddy puddles many times dying of thirst when I was homeless. I trust it.

"Are you going to come spend the night with me?" I then asked Rosa as we pulled into my driveway this morning.

"I'll do a lot of things for you, but I am not sleeping behind that old cotton mill," Rosa replied, huffily.

I smiled knowing Rosa would say no. She has come a long way from her homeless crack smoking days. Creature comforts are much more to her liking in these latter years.

"I just don't see why you are doing it," Rosa said after we had sat down in my den on the couch.

"To me," I said slowly and clearly, "this is a grand adventure and a lot of fun. I want to test my mettle so to speak."

Rosa sighed as she looked at me warily and lit up another cigarette. I shushed her off to the porch reminding her that we are not to smoke inside my new house.

"I'm staying till your father gets here tonight," Rosa then said, sticking her head beyond the porch door. "I want to make sure you are taking your medications as well."

Sometimes it feels like I have the whole town watching me for signs of crazy about to happen. I tried to assure Rosa that this little planned adventure wasn't a symptom of my mental illness - I don't think.

Can't Please Everyone

One of my posters had commented about that they were no longer going to read because of the "negativity" of my blog. I think that despite a debilitating mental illness, social anxieties and addiction troubles that I am surprisingly upbeat on this blog. I try to rarely write about the constant effects of my schizophrenia and mentioned this to a friend in an email the other day.

On a positive note (and I am not being glib by saying that), I have become fast friends with my next door neighbor. She has a mental illness, smokes and lives on disability. She went to high school with my mother and father and graduated with them. Her name is Joyce. I am just overjoyed to have a neighbor who "understands."

Earlier yesterday afternoon, Rosa and me were sitting on my porch in the swing when Joyce came outside to speak to me.

"Do your medications make you feel spacey?" she asked, standing in her carport.

"They make me feel like a zombie," I replied.

"I can just sit and stare for hours," Joyce said, cigarette in hand. "It worries me."

"I understand completely," I replied.

"We have to take those medications though," she said. "When I don't, I will be up at 3 AM trimming my shrubbery."

I laughed.

"I will be living in a tent in the woods, homeless, with my friend beer," I replied with a smile.

"We don't want that to happen," Joyce said as she turned and went back inside.

"Looks like you have a new friend," Rosa said.

"Yeah," I said. "I think we are going to be pretty good neighbors."

Hopefully, Joyce will start joining Rosa and me on our daily conversations upon my porch over ample cigarettes, cigars, and sodas. I have been truly blessed with people like her and Rosa finding me in life.

Busy...

I am finally moved in and have been so for four days now. Maggie is having the hardest time adjusting. She will only be a year old come July 20. I love my new house. The bad thing is that internet connectivity will be sporadic for a week or so. The holidays got the cable company all screwed up and they "might" not get my internet installed at my new home until next week. I am dying without being online to do my normal weather related watching and reading.

I have picked up Rosa everyday and we sit all day out on my screened in porch drinking sweet tea, smoking cigars, and talking with the radio on. Rosa still can't believe that my father bought me that house and gave it to me. I tried to assure her that there will be strings attached.

Well, enough of me rambling. I am off to get my shot for my schizophrenia soon and must drive home to get a shower and put on some clean and butt accessible clothes. I am missing you all and hope to at least write once a day down at the library.