I seem to have recovered from my existential crisis-and I find myself going from the frying pan straight into the fire. When I moved into this property eight years ago (eight years. Oh my! Purgatory has lasted so long!), I was told that this was a small area for disabled people. Gentamicin disabled me; I naturally assumed that everyone else was physically disabled.
What? Hell, no! More than a few of these people are completely bonkers. A few-okay, a lot- possibly never had marbles to lose. I sometimes feel like I'm qualified to be a special needs teacher. Or a psychologist. Or both.
My neighbor is called Lil. Her name is really Elizabeth, just like about 98% of the population (plus the guys, of course). And wherever I am, she sees me coming in, and going out. Just what I need: a geriatric female stalker. She always pounces to deliver bad news, most of which she gets by reading The Sun. It's a tabloid rag, read by most of the idiot population, and written (if you could call it that) by a bunch of functionally illiterate, pig ignorant, brain dead racist hacks. And the vast number of idiots who actually read it believe that everything printed in The Sun must be true. Think the UK's answer to the National Enquirer. Of course, Elvis, Michael Jackson and Marilyn Monroe are all really alive.
They're all together, line dancing in Venezuela (maybe I shouldn't say that. It might be tomorrow's headline).
Lil was shrieking recently over the Sun's article about-you guessed it:monkey pox. Highly contagious, it originated in Africa. Now wait for it:
Lil has the hots for two carers who work for one of her neighbors. They are half her age, m arried Iwith children, and both come from Africa. What if they've got it? What if they brought it with them? I tried so hard not to laugh. And failed. She was panicking so much, I've never seen her move so fast.
So I consulted the CNN news feed-yes, there is monkey pox in the UK, no, it's nothing to worry about, and I couldn't resist telling her to wear gloves and a mask when she's trying it on with them.
I told you: crazies! Monkey pox my little New York Presbyterian ass...
My new buzzword for bullshit: monkey pox.
Monday, 15 October 2018
Monday, 8 October 2018
Moaning Minnie and the Whingers
That would make a good name for a pop group-not as catchy as, say, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but the best I can come up with at the moment.
To explain to anyone who is new to this blog: moaning minnies, in this country, are people who complain a lot (moan). Whingeing (whinge rhymes with hinge, as in door hinge) means essentially the same thing. But, in the interests of being absolutely not politically correct, I decided to make some changes.
Moaning minnies are female. Think Minnie Mouse. Female. Exactly. Whingeing Willies are male. I've already told you about Wee Willies: I haven't done a poll to see the length and width of willies, but from all the women I know, British males are very small. Some are so small they're the size of peanuts. And less functional, too. And all they do is complain (if you had a tiny willy, you'd complain, too).
You can tell what I've been doing while I haven't been online: mostly moaning. I took this long to get back because-well, it is harder for me once I have taken time off. I decided to call it a "sabbatical". I took a lengthy sabbatical from blogging, journalling (which I did every night), emails, anything that didn't involve going to the docs for check-ups. The longer I stayed away, the more difficult it became to get back to normal life.
If I'm going to be honest about it: it wasn't a sabbatical. It was a huge bite in the ass from the black dog, and I've been really depressed since the last time I wrote. I wasn't suicidal (homicidal, maybe, but never suicidal). I didn't need any kind of medication. I had to get myself out of the really difficult downer I was on. I figured that I got myself into it, so I had to get myself out of it. And moaning didn't help-so I did my best to stay away from the moaners and the whingers. Easier said than done: it seems that just about everyone is either a moaner or a whinger. Or both.
What did I do? How do you get out of a depression once it takes hold? It was a really big bite-and the last time I was this depressed was when I got the cancer diagnosis five years ago. So - I mostly sat. Cried. Walked a lot. I need to walk every day anyway, because if I don't I will revert back to the worst of the balance problems I had before. So walking helped. I like to think that I got stronger. I certainly got more opinionated. Brexit this, Brexit that-oh, screw Brexit, I just can't be bothered any more! Do I get into political arguments like I did before? No, I don't. I've reached saturation point, where I see what's going on in the world (a scumbag in the White House! Earthquakes, tsunamis, terrorist attacks, weapons in this country like I've not seen in all the years I've lived here...a dirtbag voted into the Supreme Court...the racist anti-Semitic party ready to take over the country - that's the Labour Party for you!). The world hasn't just gone to hell in a handbasket. The world has turned to shit.
No wonder I got depressed. But I also realize that there is nothing I can do to change things; all I can do is try to keep a positive attitude, keep making jokes (as if I would ever stop), put one foot in front of the other (trying not to fall over), and keep my head down. Everything works its way out in the end. Hopefully.
Walking helps tremendously-and it's free. No gym bills, no young women in full make-up and the latest gym gear...did you ever notice how these women never sweat? They wear the latest and tightest workout gear, wear full make-up, have perfect hair-and they never sweat. Of course, they don't work out, either. They seem to spend a lot of time checking out the guys (most of whom are really, really ugly).
It must be a mid-life thing: we get to a certain age, and we go to the gym to work out and get stronger, we don't even really look (not for long, anyway. Too depressing) at anyone else, and the harder we work, the sweatier we become. I get home and think, whoa, what a workout, good for me-and then I usually can't move for two days, and then it starts all over again. At least I don't watch daytime tv instead. If you really want to get depressed, watch daytime television. It's gross.
Well, there we are, I'm back on track. I got out of my depression, although I can tell you one thing: middle age really sucks.
To explain to anyone who is new to this blog: moaning minnies, in this country, are people who complain a lot (moan). Whingeing (whinge rhymes with hinge, as in door hinge) means essentially the same thing. But, in the interests of being absolutely not politically correct, I decided to make some changes.
Moaning minnies are female. Think Minnie Mouse. Female. Exactly. Whingeing Willies are male. I've already told you about Wee Willies: I haven't done a poll to see the length and width of willies, but from all the women I know, British males are very small. Some are so small they're the size of peanuts. And less functional, too. And all they do is complain (if you had a tiny willy, you'd complain, too).
You can tell what I've been doing while I haven't been online: mostly moaning. I took this long to get back because-well, it is harder for me once I have taken time off. I decided to call it a "sabbatical". I took a lengthy sabbatical from blogging, journalling (which I did every night), emails, anything that didn't involve going to the docs for check-ups. The longer I stayed away, the more difficult it became to get back to normal life.
If I'm going to be honest about it: it wasn't a sabbatical. It was a huge bite in the ass from the black dog, and I've been really depressed since the last time I wrote. I wasn't suicidal (homicidal, maybe, but never suicidal). I didn't need any kind of medication. I had to get myself out of the really difficult downer I was on. I figured that I got myself into it, so I had to get myself out of it. And moaning didn't help-so I did my best to stay away from the moaners and the whingers. Easier said than done: it seems that just about everyone is either a moaner or a whinger. Or both.
What did I do? How do you get out of a depression once it takes hold? It was a really big bite-and the last time I was this depressed was when I got the cancer diagnosis five years ago. So - I mostly sat. Cried. Walked a lot. I need to walk every day anyway, because if I don't I will revert back to the worst of the balance problems I had before. So walking helped. I like to think that I got stronger. I certainly got more opinionated. Brexit this, Brexit that-oh, screw Brexit, I just can't be bothered any more! Do I get into political arguments like I did before? No, I don't. I've reached saturation point, where I see what's going on in the world (a scumbag in the White House! Earthquakes, tsunamis, terrorist attacks, weapons in this country like I've not seen in all the years I've lived here...a dirtbag voted into the Supreme Court...the racist anti-Semitic party ready to take over the country - that's the Labour Party for you!). The world hasn't just gone to hell in a handbasket. The world has turned to shit.
No wonder I got depressed. But I also realize that there is nothing I can do to change things; all I can do is try to keep a positive attitude, keep making jokes (as if I would ever stop), put one foot in front of the other (trying not to fall over), and keep my head down. Everything works its way out in the end. Hopefully.
Walking helps tremendously-and it's free. No gym bills, no young women in full make-up and the latest gym gear...did you ever notice how these women never sweat? They wear the latest and tightest workout gear, wear full make-up, have perfect hair-and they never sweat. Of course, they don't work out, either. They seem to spend a lot of time checking out the guys (most of whom are really, really ugly).
It must be a mid-life thing: we get to a certain age, and we go to the gym to work out and get stronger, we don't even really look (not for long, anyway. Too depressing) at anyone else, and the harder we work, the sweatier we become. I get home and think, whoa, what a workout, good for me-and then I usually can't move for two days, and then it starts all over again. At least I don't watch daytime tv instead. If you really want to get depressed, watch daytime television. It's gross.
Well, there we are, I'm back on track. I got out of my depression, although I can tell you one thing: middle age really sucks.
Sunday, 12 August 2018
Grumpy and the other six dwarfs
I told you that I don't like weather that's so hot it makes my hair frizz. And I look like a very sweaty person with an afro (good look for some, but not necessarily for a white woman on an elbow crutch).
I've been very grumpy, bad tempered, pissed off...and I told you about the neighbors, and, trust me, some of them really want a punch in the face-not by me, I'm not a hitter. I do my hurling of abuse verbally, and they're too stupid to understand it anyway.
It's been that kind of situation since the beginning of June, when we suddenly got weather that could match Hell for heat. Oh, yeah-I forgot. I live in Hell. Oh, well...it is summertime, after all. Could be worse: I could be living in the middle east, and then be fighting heat and terrorists, bombs, guns, crazy people with weapons-so I consider myself lucky that I'm living here at the moment. Guns, bombs, knives, acid, all manner of weapons-come to visit London, we've got them all.
How fortunate that in eight years I've learned to duck.
The good thing-apart from the fact that we've finally had some badly needed rain, and some cooler weather (less that 80F- "cool" is relative), I had some good news on Tuesday. Actually, it was great news.
My neurologist gave my name to another radiologist-someone who is doing research on bilateral vestibular hypofunction (loss of the balance system, it took me awhile to be able to even say the technical term without tripping over it. Try to say "bilateral vestibular hypofunction" very fast-especially after a couple of glasses of wine. I dare you.)
So I got a call a couple of weeks ago from the testing neurologist (Ray), explaining that at another hospital there is research into BVH (so much easier to abbreviate!), looking at testing people who have had this condition for a long time (eight years. They're all very excited). I immediately said yes, and then on Tuesday I braved the London Underground to go to West London, walking through a cemetery to get there (easy peasy. Not a ghost in sight. And yes, I watch Supernatural).
I had enough time to cool down over a coffee before we met-a good thing, because the underground was so hot that everyone else was sweating, too. Imagine. I'm 5'3"- I come up to people's armpits. How very, very unpleasant.
Several hours later-and a lot of tests, including standing on a moving platform with a blindfold on me, I had an EEG to measure brain function. I said to Ray that I was glad that it shows that I really do have a brain. I did all kinds of things before then: standing in the dark, feet together, feet apart, same without the blindfold, looking everywhere,walking in the light then in the dark...it was tough, but I soldiered on. And the end result?
I did extremely well. I've done most of those exercises for less time, with worse results, and the moving platform did nothing to make me more secure. But Ray said that I did better than most of the other patients. They're looking for 20 so they can publish. I was number 11. And I did things that some of the other people couldn't do. I've definitely got vestibular destruction-but after eight years, I measure so much better than I did when they did the same tests six years ago. I did better than I did even when the tests were repeated three years ago. I could've hugged him (I didn't). My neurologist works there, too, not just in Queen Square; he came into the room to thank me for taking part, and said that he'll have a lot more data to provide when he sees me in October.
Even the journey back to North London in a stinky carriage that was like travelling in a sauna couldn't upset me (good thing I didn't eat anything until I got back, though. Yuck).
And I stayed away from as many neighbors as I could after that. I just did the mundane things, like cleaning and laundry. I also did my daily walk, which usually takes place very, very early (6am).
I'm being cautiously optimistic when it comes to recovery. It's been eight years; on Friday it was exactly eight years since those idiots nearly did me in. Eight very, very difficult years to reach this point. What a terrible journey! But I learned things.
I've learned how strong I am, how strong I've had to become. I get grumpy with the neighbors, all fighting among themselves and whining about how this one does this, this one doesn't do that...it's like being in a group of four year olds-only I think that four year olds probably behave better.
I go out my front door and if I turn left out of the building, someone corners me to complain about some trivia or another. Go out my door and turn left and leave the building by the other entrance, and someone else stops me with some other mindless drivel. I know that they're all much older, and some of them are even physically disabled, but hey-what do I do next, go out the window?
After Tuesday, I know that going out the window is a distinct possibility. I can probably do that now. I can even climb the fence if necessary. But I've nailed the escape, and not by any means necessary: I put my earphones into my phone and I pretend to be having a conversation. I wave at the neighbors, talk into the phone, and just hope that nobody phones me until I get well out of the area!
So far, so good. Now I'm going to Starbucks-with earphones in, of course!
I've been very grumpy, bad tempered, pissed off...and I told you about the neighbors, and, trust me, some of them really want a punch in the face-not by me, I'm not a hitter. I do my hurling of abuse verbally, and they're too stupid to understand it anyway.
It's been that kind of situation since the beginning of June, when we suddenly got weather that could match Hell for heat. Oh, yeah-I forgot. I live in Hell. Oh, well...it is summertime, after all. Could be worse: I could be living in the middle east, and then be fighting heat and terrorists, bombs, guns, crazy people with weapons-so I consider myself lucky that I'm living here at the moment. Guns, bombs, knives, acid, all manner of weapons-come to visit London, we've got them all.
How fortunate that in eight years I've learned to duck.
The good thing-apart from the fact that we've finally had some badly needed rain, and some cooler weather (less that 80F- "cool" is relative), I had some good news on Tuesday. Actually, it was great news.
My neurologist gave my name to another radiologist-someone who is doing research on bilateral vestibular hypofunction (loss of the balance system, it took me awhile to be able to even say the technical term without tripping over it. Try to say "bilateral vestibular hypofunction" very fast-especially after a couple of glasses of wine. I dare you.)
So I got a call a couple of weeks ago from the testing neurologist (Ray), explaining that at another hospital there is research into BVH (so much easier to abbreviate!), looking at testing people who have had this condition for a long time (eight years. They're all very excited). I immediately said yes, and then on Tuesday I braved the London Underground to go to West London, walking through a cemetery to get there (easy peasy. Not a ghost in sight. And yes, I watch Supernatural).
I had enough time to cool down over a coffee before we met-a good thing, because the underground was so hot that everyone else was sweating, too. Imagine. I'm 5'3"- I come up to people's armpits. How very, very unpleasant.
Several hours later-and a lot of tests, including standing on a moving platform with a blindfold on me, I had an EEG to measure brain function. I said to Ray that I was glad that it shows that I really do have a brain. I did all kinds of things before then: standing in the dark, feet together, feet apart, same without the blindfold, looking everywhere,walking in the light then in the dark...it was tough, but I soldiered on. And the end result?
I did extremely well. I've done most of those exercises for less time, with worse results, and the moving platform did nothing to make me more secure. But Ray said that I did better than most of the other patients. They're looking for 20 so they can publish. I was number 11. And I did things that some of the other people couldn't do. I've definitely got vestibular destruction-but after eight years, I measure so much better than I did when they did the same tests six years ago. I did better than I did even when the tests were repeated three years ago. I could've hugged him (I didn't). My neurologist works there, too, not just in Queen Square; he came into the room to thank me for taking part, and said that he'll have a lot more data to provide when he sees me in October.
Even the journey back to North London in a stinky carriage that was like travelling in a sauna couldn't upset me (good thing I didn't eat anything until I got back, though. Yuck).
And I stayed away from as many neighbors as I could after that. I just did the mundane things, like cleaning and laundry. I also did my daily walk, which usually takes place very, very early (6am).
I'm being cautiously optimistic when it comes to recovery. It's been eight years; on Friday it was exactly eight years since those idiots nearly did me in. Eight very, very difficult years to reach this point. What a terrible journey! But I learned things.
I've learned how strong I am, how strong I've had to become. I get grumpy with the neighbors, all fighting among themselves and whining about how this one does this, this one doesn't do that...it's like being in a group of four year olds-only I think that four year olds probably behave better.
I go out my front door and if I turn left out of the building, someone corners me to complain about some trivia or another. Go out my door and turn left and leave the building by the other entrance, and someone else stops me with some other mindless drivel. I know that they're all much older, and some of them are even physically disabled, but hey-what do I do next, go out the window?
After Tuesday, I know that going out the window is a distinct possibility. I can probably do that now. I can even climb the fence if necessary. But I've nailed the escape, and not by any means necessary: I put my earphones into my phone and I pretend to be having a conversation. I wave at the neighbors, talk into the phone, and just hope that nobody phones me until I get well out of the area!
So far, so good. Now I'm going to Starbucks-with earphones in, of course!
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
Postcards From Hell
I've gone from living in Hell to living in Hell plus. We've had a heat wave for weeks-since June-and, although we finally got some rain last week, it still wasn't enough to make a difference.The services: airlines, trains, just about anything you could name-have ground to a halt in some areas.
When the temperature rises above 20C (68F), I start to sweat. So you can imagine how delightful it's been, having more than 90 degrees for days. Actually, for weeks. I sweat. You can find me easily by just following a sweat trail. My hair frizzes to the point where I look like a white person with an afro. My friend Julie has an afro-but she's black, and, trust me, it looks much better on her.
I also get ratty-I'm really bad tempered in severe heat. So when some imbecile-and imbeciles are everywhere, this country has more imbeciles per square mile than it has rats (and there are ten rats to every person in this country, so statistics will tell you). They see someone with a stick and obvious mobility challenges, and they aim right for me. If I was quick enough, I'd give them some mobility challenges!
I told you a little about the area in which I've been living since a few months after the gentamicin poisoning. My friend Eileen (Irish, not English, so you know that she has functioning grey matter), has heard all the stories about the neighbors, and last week she said that I should put the latest ones in the blog, because nobody would really believe that it's all true. It's true. Sadly. And I'm going to use real names, because I confuse myself (and you) by forgetting who has been given which name. It's a sudden attack of what I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit). I'm cheered by the fact that I know several people who are in their 20s and 30s who suffer from the same malady. Of course, some of them are from Essex. No surprise there!!
I've been fighting the landlord since two neighbors, Rob and Ellen, approached me for help because there have been drug dealers and drug addicts doing their business right outside their windows. They went to everyone: police, antisocial behavior department, and found that everyone they approached was useless. They went to their good friend Toothless Tosser Terry (my neighbor next door, so that gives you an indication of their lack of taste and judgment). Any good? No.
I jumped in, fighting, and the results were almost immediate. Two senior directors and one policeman arrived a few days later, and looked closely at the area in question, made several promises (I'm old enough to trust nobody who makes promises-especially people who work for the government), left, and the shit hit the fan.
Apparently, Rob and Ellen-and their neighbor, Sandra, who was away when the meeting took place-told everyone how much I'd helped them, and Rob thanked me repeatedly. Terry the Tosser accused me of thinking that I did everything. I naturally told him that was true, since he did nothing for two and a half years.
To shorten a long story: Rob, Ellen and Sandra hate-and I do mean hate, as strong a word as it is-several of their neighbors down at their end of the little apartment complex. I'm at the other end, so all the fighting doesn't affect me. But did I stay out of it? Of course not. I sat for several afternoons, listening sympathetically while Rob said that he was going to kill Eamon, the noisiest neighbor from Hell. And then Rob and Sandra started to ask me to do things that they could easily do themselves: send an email to the housing people, send an email to the directors, find accommodation for Sandra's friend Caroline who has allegedly been abused by her partner for years, but has no evidence to support going to the council to be rehoused...
Next time I post I will give you a bit of background on all the little old darlings. The fact that they're all in one place and haven't killed each other is just mind boggling. It's like someone emptied the asylums and put the crazy people in with exceptionally nasty old people who have nothing better to do than spout vitriol at their neighbors while spying on them with-get this-binoculars. Yes, I did say binoculars. And I've been asking myself since May (actually since I moved in) why on earth I was put there. Of course, there was a vacancy (someone died) and the hospital was afraid that I would go flying downstairs and crack my head open (I do know how that feels.), so the borough had to find me something. It could all have been worse.
Rob and Ellen keep asking me to come over for tea. It's almost always to complain about this one, or that one, and I'm such a sucker for a sob story that I go and try to convince them to feel sorry for the other guys, since they have no other life of any consequence. No luck.
Now when I go over there, the tea comes with a request to email this one, or that one, and last week was the last straw. Would you please email the director about the fence that's going up? The man who's doing the work needs authorization. And what's wrong with him that he can't get the authorization himself? Well, you could get it more quickly.
Sometimes it takes crossing the line too many times to get me to put my foot down. I'd like to put it down on someone's head, but he's a lot bigger than I am. I can make my own tea, thanks, and when I see the new fence I just smile and say to myself that I did that. I did something for everyone who lives there. But I have done enough. As for Toothless Tosser Terry: we say hello, we're next door neighbors, but I never stop to talk. I don't talk to slime. And I truly believe that he's got testicles the size of chick peas. I'll bet they called him "needle dick" at school.
I'll tell you about everyone else next time, so you can have a good laugh. Meanwhile, I'm going to Starbucks. If I drank, I would be off to the pub. I've got a group of neighbors who are more than enough to drive anyone to drink!
When the temperature rises above 20C (68F), I start to sweat. So you can imagine how delightful it's been, having more than 90 degrees for days. Actually, for weeks. I sweat. You can find me easily by just following a sweat trail. My hair frizzes to the point where I look like a white person with an afro. My friend Julie has an afro-but she's black, and, trust me, it looks much better on her.
I also get ratty-I'm really bad tempered in severe heat. So when some imbecile-and imbeciles are everywhere, this country has more imbeciles per square mile than it has rats (and there are ten rats to every person in this country, so statistics will tell you). They see someone with a stick and obvious mobility challenges, and they aim right for me. If I was quick enough, I'd give them some mobility challenges!
I told you a little about the area in which I've been living since a few months after the gentamicin poisoning. My friend Eileen (Irish, not English, so you know that she has functioning grey matter), has heard all the stories about the neighbors, and last week she said that I should put the latest ones in the blog, because nobody would really believe that it's all true. It's true. Sadly. And I'm going to use real names, because I confuse myself (and you) by forgetting who has been given which name. It's a sudden attack of what I call CRS (Can't Remember Shit). I'm cheered by the fact that I know several people who are in their 20s and 30s who suffer from the same malady. Of course, some of them are from Essex. No surprise there!!
I've been fighting the landlord since two neighbors, Rob and Ellen, approached me for help because there have been drug dealers and drug addicts doing their business right outside their windows. They went to everyone: police, antisocial behavior department, and found that everyone they approached was useless. They went to their good friend Toothless Tosser Terry (my neighbor next door, so that gives you an indication of their lack of taste and judgment). Any good? No.
I jumped in, fighting, and the results were almost immediate. Two senior directors and one policeman arrived a few days later, and looked closely at the area in question, made several promises (I'm old enough to trust nobody who makes promises-especially people who work for the government), left, and the shit hit the fan.
Apparently, Rob and Ellen-and their neighbor, Sandra, who was away when the meeting took place-told everyone how much I'd helped them, and Rob thanked me repeatedly. Terry the Tosser accused me of thinking that I did everything. I naturally told him that was true, since he did nothing for two and a half years.
To shorten a long story: Rob, Ellen and Sandra hate-and I do mean hate, as strong a word as it is-several of their neighbors down at their end of the little apartment complex. I'm at the other end, so all the fighting doesn't affect me. But did I stay out of it? Of course not. I sat for several afternoons, listening sympathetically while Rob said that he was going to kill Eamon, the noisiest neighbor from Hell. And then Rob and Sandra started to ask me to do things that they could easily do themselves: send an email to the housing people, send an email to the directors, find accommodation for Sandra's friend Caroline who has allegedly been abused by her partner for years, but has no evidence to support going to the council to be rehoused...
Next time I post I will give you a bit of background on all the little old darlings. The fact that they're all in one place and haven't killed each other is just mind boggling. It's like someone emptied the asylums and put the crazy people in with exceptionally nasty old people who have nothing better to do than spout vitriol at their neighbors while spying on them with-get this-binoculars. Yes, I did say binoculars. And I've been asking myself since May (actually since I moved in) why on earth I was put there. Of course, there was a vacancy (someone died) and the hospital was afraid that I would go flying downstairs and crack my head open (I do know how that feels.), so the borough had to find me something. It could all have been worse.
Rob and Ellen keep asking me to come over for tea. It's almost always to complain about this one, or that one, and I'm such a sucker for a sob story that I go and try to convince them to feel sorry for the other guys, since they have no other life of any consequence. No luck.
Now when I go over there, the tea comes with a request to email this one, or that one, and last week was the last straw. Would you please email the director about the fence that's going up? The man who's doing the work needs authorization. And what's wrong with him that he can't get the authorization himself? Well, you could get it more quickly.
Sometimes it takes crossing the line too many times to get me to put my foot down. I'd like to put it down on someone's head, but he's a lot bigger than I am. I can make my own tea, thanks, and when I see the new fence I just smile and say to myself that I did that. I did something for everyone who lives there. But I have done enough. As for Toothless Tosser Terry: we say hello, we're next door neighbors, but I never stop to talk. I don't talk to slime. And I truly believe that he's got testicles the size of chick peas. I'll bet they called him "needle dick" at school.
I'll tell you about everyone else next time, so you can have a good laugh. Meanwhile, I'm going to Starbucks. If I drank, I would be off to the pub. I've got a group of neighbors who are more than enough to drive anyone to drink!
Wednesday, 18 July 2018
Sometimes you just have to walk away...
You might be kicking and screaming-but when you've gotta go, you've just gotta go. Nobody said that life is going to be easy. Believe me. I know.
I've had a hellish time since I wrote last. For one thing, we've had a constant heatwave since the beginning of June: higher than 90F, which will amuse my friends in Florida and the east coast no end. That's probably like a cold snap in the middle of summer over there. But I am really terrible in the heat.
I like having the sun shine. I just don't like severe heat and humidity. When my hair starts to frizz (over 20C or 68F), I start to sweat. And I do mean sweat. I don't glow, I don't have a lovely sheen, I leave a sweat trail wherever I go. That isn't a nice look, trust me. And my balance pays the price, as does my vision. I also get very ratty. I've got a short fuse anyway; when I'm too hot and sticky, I've got no fuse at all. If there's any air conditioning, I will find it. But this is England, and they finally woke up to the importance of not having everyone dying of heat stroke, so the big stores have a/c. I can always tell someone who is inside wandering around, picking up stuff but not buying anything; they're the ones who are suffering from the heat and trying desperately not to keel. over. I'm one of them. Misery doesn't always love company.
Between the severe heat, the humidity, and the ugliest people you have ever seen practically walking around naked, it's been a very unpleasant few weeks. I'm looking forward to cooler weather (if I don't melt into a puddle on the ground first)-then I'll be moaning about it being too cold. I promise I won't. If I want to moan about cold weather, I'll remember this summer from hell and I'll keep my mouth shut-and be grateful.
I said that sometimes you have to just know when to walk away-and go, even if you're kicking and screaming, because there is no point in fighting a losing battle.This has been that kind of month.
I helped my neighbors, who were having a terrible problem with drug addicts and dealers doing their business right outside their windows. Terry Two Face, my obnoxious and revolting next door neighbor, kept strutting around (still does, too-like a demented peacock. Or, rather, cockroach), telling everyone that he is in charge, but doing nothing except expelling a lot of hot air. So when these neighbors (his friends, sadly) asked me for help, I couldn't say sod off and make Terry do something. I knew that he's completely incompetent, so I started emailing the people in charge, and less than a week later, those in charge paid us a visit.
Things are happening. A security light was put on the wall outside these neighbors' windows, and it switches on when someone walks by. Yay. Success. It's a beginning, but the beginning of some security that is needed in an area where the residents are disabled. Am I proud of myself? Yes, and I worked hard for eight weeks (nearly nine) to make it happen. But...
I got a repeated thank you from Pete and his girlfriend, but not from anyone else. I didn't expect a thank you, I didn't do anything for thanks. But Pete and Teresa contact me every time they need something. When they ask me to come over for a cup of tea, there's always a motive. Always. Their neighbor is called Sandra, and the drug problem was happening outside her kitchen window. So you would think that she would say thanks-just as a matter of courtesy. No, she didn't acknowledge me at all. But she is good friends with Terry Two Face, and we don't speak at all, so there's no surprise at all. Only-last week I got a text from Pete. Come for a glass of wine (it was Friday evening). And I didn't feel like going over there, because I had a feeling that there was an agenda in place. How right I was.
Pete was very insistent. Please come for just one glass. So I went (if a sucker is born every minute, I must have been born twice). No sooner than I sat down, Teresa poured the last glass of wine from the fourth bottle that was out on the table. Sandra was there, so was her friend Carole, and everyone was pretty wasted. They'd been drinking for hours, they said. Teresa poured the wine and immediately told me that Sandra's friend is constantly battered; could I help get her a place nearby. They all started, singing my praises, saying that if anyone could help, it would be me.
To shorten a long story: Carole has no documentation, no police reports, photos, doctor's reports, or evidence of any kind. And I first met Carole two years ago, and it was the same story then, and hasn't changed in two years.
Well, I said that she needs proof: documentation, witnesses, GP's report, police reports...I said that she has to do things in the proper order, because she also said that if anyone put her in a hostel, she would kill herself. I listened to all this crap for over two hours, and then I made my excuses and left.
The point of the story? My neighbor Ellen, who is 85 and very wise (not wise enough to quit smoking when she has COPD), stopped me the next day and told me that I shouldn't let these people use me. Did I tell her the story? No, I did not. But she knows that several people have come to me, moaning about things that are broken, or don't work, or should be changed...Ellen said that it's the people who are trying to save the world (even a small part of it), who want to help everyone who needs it (if they can), who are used and then thrown away. She pointed out that people don't like the renegades of the world, even though the renegades are the ones who create change in the world. People who push, who forge ahead regardless of opposition, who make things happen-they're the ones people don't want as friends, or to socialize with because they're only useful when they can do something for someone else.
Ellen finished by saying that I'm looking very pale and stressed, and that I need to stop what I'm doing and start doing the things that I enjoy. Let the users take action themselves, she said. And that was that.
So, after nearly nine weeks of being up to my eyeballs in the neighbor situation, I am taking Ellen's good advice and I'm walking away. She is right. I've had quite enough of being used. All these people are old enough to do things themselves. If they're not willing to do that-well, don't come to me and expect me to stop living and help them. They can shove their flattery and platitudes up their asses-not that I didn't realize what was going on, because I can spot an agenda from a mile away. But be honest. Play nice. And fuck off.
So there you go. It's so hot outside, that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And if you're really either stupid or crazy, you could probably eat it, too.
I'll be back soon. I'm on my way to Starbucks. It's air conditioned.
I've had a hellish time since I wrote last. For one thing, we've had a constant heatwave since the beginning of June: higher than 90F, which will amuse my friends in Florida and the east coast no end. That's probably like a cold snap in the middle of summer over there. But I am really terrible in the heat.
I like having the sun shine. I just don't like severe heat and humidity. When my hair starts to frizz (over 20C or 68F), I start to sweat. And I do mean sweat. I don't glow, I don't have a lovely sheen, I leave a sweat trail wherever I go. That isn't a nice look, trust me. And my balance pays the price, as does my vision. I also get very ratty. I've got a short fuse anyway; when I'm too hot and sticky, I've got no fuse at all. If there's any air conditioning, I will find it. But this is England, and they finally woke up to the importance of not having everyone dying of heat stroke, so the big stores have a/c. I can always tell someone who is inside wandering around, picking up stuff but not buying anything; they're the ones who are suffering from the heat and trying desperately not to keel. over. I'm one of them. Misery doesn't always love company.
Between the severe heat, the humidity, and the ugliest people you have ever seen practically walking around naked, it's been a very unpleasant few weeks. I'm looking forward to cooler weather (if I don't melt into a puddle on the ground first)-then I'll be moaning about it being too cold. I promise I won't. If I want to moan about cold weather, I'll remember this summer from hell and I'll keep my mouth shut-and be grateful.
I said that sometimes you have to just know when to walk away-and go, even if you're kicking and screaming, because there is no point in fighting a losing battle.This has been that kind of month.
I helped my neighbors, who were having a terrible problem with drug addicts and dealers doing their business right outside their windows. Terry Two Face, my obnoxious and revolting next door neighbor, kept strutting around (still does, too-like a demented peacock. Or, rather, cockroach), telling everyone that he is in charge, but doing nothing except expelling a lot of hot air. So when these neighbors (his friends, sadly) asked me for help, I couldn't say sod off and make Terry do something. I knew that he's completely incompetent, so I started emailing the people in charge, and less than a week later, those in charge paid us a visit.
Things are happening. A security light was put on the wall outside these neighbors' windows, and it switches on when someone walks by. Yay. Success. It's a beginning, but the beginning of some security that is needed in an area where the residents are disabled. Am I proud of myself? Yes, and I worked hard for eight weeks (nearly nine) to make it happen. But...
I got a repeated thank you from Pete and his girlfriend, but not from anyone else. I didn't expect a thank you, I didn't do anything for thanks. But Pete and Teresa contact me every time they need something. When they ask me to come over for a cup of tea, there's always a motive. Always. Their neighbor is called Sandra, and the drug problem was happening outside her kitchen window. So you would think that she would say thanks-just as a matter of courtesy. No, she didn't acknowledge me at all. But she is good friends with Terry Two Face, and we don't speak at all, so there's no surprise at all. Only-last week I got a text from Pete. Come for a glass of wine (it was Friday evening). And I didn't feel like going over there, because I had a feeling that there was an agenda in place. How right I was.
Pete was very insistent. Please come for just one glass. So I went (if a sucker is born every minute, I must have been born twice). No sooner than I sat down, Teresa poured the last glass of wine from the fourth bottle that was out on the table. Sandra was there, so was her friend Carole, and everyone was pretty wasted. They'd been drinking for hours, they said. Teresa poured the wine and immediately told me that Sandra's friend is constantly battered; could I help get her a place nearby. They all started, singing my praises, saying that if anyone could help, it would be me.
To shorten a long story: Carole has no documentation, no police reports, photos, doctor's reports, or evidence of any kind. And I first met Carole two years ago, and it was the same story then, and hasn't changed in two years.
Well, I said that she needs proof: documentation, witnesses, GP's report, police reports...I said that she has to do things in the proper order, because she also said that if anyone put her in a hostel, she would kill herself. I listened to all this crap for over two hours, and then I made my excuses and left.
The point of the story? My neighbor Ellen, who is 85 and very wise (not wise enough to quit smoking when she has COPD), stopped me the next day and told me that I shouldn't let these people use me. Did I tell her the story? No, I did not. But she knows that several people have come to me, moaning about things that are broken, or don't work, or should be changed...Ellen said that it's the people who are trying to save the world (even a small part of it), who want to help everyone who needs it (if they can), who are used and then thrown away. She pointed out that people don't like the renegades of the world, even though the renegades are the ones who create change in the world. People who push, who forge ahead regardless of opposition, who make things happen-they're the ones people don't want as friends, or to socialize with because they're only useful when they can do something for someone else.
Ellen finished by saying that I'm looking very pale and stressed, and that I need to stop what I'm doing and start doing the things that I enjoy. Let the users take action themselves, she said. And that was that.
So, after nearly nine weeks of being up to my eyeballs in the neighbor situation, I am taking Ellen's good advice and I'm walking away. She is right. I've had quite enough of being used. All these people are old enough to do things themselves. If they're not willing to do that-well, don't come to me and expect me to stop living and help them. They can shove their flattery and platitudes up their asses-not that I didn't realize what was going on, because I can spot an agenda from a mile away. But be honest. Play nice. And fuck off.
So there you go. It's so hot outside, that you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And if you're really either stupid or crazy, you could probably eat it, too.
I'll be back soon. I'm on my way to Starbucks. It's air conditioned.
Friday, 22 June 2018
The Nuns and Me
Yes, you read it right: the nuns and me. Me-and the nuns.
Last week I went to a Benedictine abbey in Kent. One of my yoga acquaintances-Mary-told me about this place a few weeks ago, and I had a free week (what? Wonders will never cease), so I decided to go along. What an experience!
I sang in the church choir (Presbyterian. Not a nun in sight) when I was growing up, and that was about all I wanted when it came to religion. As soon as I got my little backside out the door to go off to college, I stopped the whole Sunday church thing. What a relief that was! I couldn't justify all the things going on in the world with the church teachings-neither could any of my college friends, so everyone rejected Western religion and crossed over to Buddhism.
Then I decided that any kind of religion was just a means of someone trying to control everyone who bought into the dogma, and I rejected Buddhism, too. I decided that when I want to talk to God, I don't need some middle man. I dial direct.
With this in mind, I went to the abbey with Mary. And there they were: the nuns. And here I was: a heathen. It only got a little tricky when it came to going to all the services. There were a lot of services. I went to one, and that was enough. I don't know psalms, or hymns, or when to stand, when to bow, when to sit...so I followed everyone else. Oh, boy, it was really awful. We were in the guest chapel, and all the nuns were around the corner in the main chapel, so I did what the other guests did. And when I left the chapel, I felt like I'd been granted a parole.
The nuns I met were lovely. Honestly, we had tea together, and they wanted to find out a little about us-and I wanted to find out a little about them, too. Some things you just don't ask (like sex, for example), but I was very careful. And no swearing, obviously. I wonder if nuns ever swear? What do they do when they just don't like each other? Nobody likes-or is liked by-everyone. Perhaps next time. This was a missed opportunity for me to find out about a nun's life-if any of them would tell me. We all kept it impersonal.
So that was my week last week. And Mary, whom I now call "motor mouth", never stopped talking. Ever. Even in the guests' lounge, a place where you weren't supposed to talk, she talked non stop. About nothing. Verbal diarrhea-terminal, with her. It drove me around the bend. I had to walk into the little village to get away from her-and spent a lot of time in my room, just for some peace and quiet. The only time she shut up was during prayers; I looked forward to those because I knew I would get some peace.
Am I going back? Yes-in August, but by myself. I'm not telling Mary that I'm going. She did ask if I would be coming back-and I'd already booked, and the booking sister was sitting with us, but what a star: she said nothing when I said that perhaps I'd be back in the autumn.
Still, I recommend going on a retreat-by yourself!- to a place like an abbey, where nobody pushes you to go to prayers, where the grounds are beautiful, the buildings around 400 years old (the guest quarters were renovated around 2 years ago, so that was pretty great), and it's so quiet and peaceful that you can meditate, unwind, relax, and recover from the pace of the city.
And I still don't know one psalm from another. But I do know my Kettle Chips. I got back and knocked back a flat white from Starbucks, and scarfed an entire bag of salt and balsamic vinegar Kettles in one sitting. I'll probably be damned.
Last week I went to a Benedictine abbey in Kent. One of my yoga acquaintances-Mary-told me about this place a few weeks ago, and I had a free week (what? Wonders will never cease), so I decided to go along. What an experience!
I sang in the church choir (Presbyterian. Not a nun in sight) when I was growing up, and that was about all I wanted when it came to religion. As soon as I got my little backside out the door to go off to college, I stopped the whole Sunday church thing. What a relief that was! I couldn't justify all the things going on in the world with the church teachings-neither could any of my college friends, so everyone rejected Western religion and crossed over to Buddhism.
Then I decided that any kind of religion was just a means of someone trying to control everyone who bought into the dogma, and I rejected Buddhism, too. I decided that when I want to talk to God, I don't need some middle man. I dial direct.
With this in mind, I went to the abbey with Mary. And there they were: the nuns. And here I was: a heathen. It only got a little tricky when it came to going to all the services. There were a lot of services. I went to one, and that was enough. I don't know psalms, or hymns, or when to stand, when to bow, when to sit...so I followed everyone else. Oh, boy, it was really awful. We were in the guest chapel, and all the nuns were around the corner in the main chapel, so I did what the other guests did. And when I left the chapel, I felt like I'd been granted a parole.
The nuns I met were lovely. Honestly, we had tea together, and they wanted to find out a little about us-and I wanted to find out a little about them, too. Some things you just don't ask (like sex, for example), but I was very careful. And no swearing, obviously. I wonder if nuns ever swear? What do they do when they just don't like each other? Nobody likes-or is liked by-everyone. Perhaps next time. This was a missed opportunity for me to find out about a nun's life-if any of them would tell me. We all kept it impersonal.
So that was my week last week. And Mary, whom I now call "motor mouth", never stopped talking. Ever. Even in the guests' lounge, a place where you weren't supposed to talk, she talked non stop. About nothing. Verbal diarrhea-terminal, with her. It drove me around the bend. I had to walk into the little village to get away from her-and spent a lot of time in my room, just for some peace and quiet. The only time she shut up was during prayers; I looked forward to those because I knew I would get some peace.
Am I going back? Yes-in August, but by myself. I'm not telling Mary that I'm going. She did ask if I would be coming back-and I'd already booked, and the booking sister was sitting with us, but what a star: she said nothing when I said that perhaps I'd be back in the autumn.
Still, I recommend going on a retreat-by yourself!- to a place like an abbey, where nobody pushes you to go to prayers, where the grounds are beautiful, the buildings around 400 years old (the guest quarters were renovated around 2 years ago, so that was pretty great), and it's so quiet and peaceful that you can meditate, unwind, relax, and recover from the pace of the city.
And I still don't know one psalm from another. But I do know my Kettle Chips. I got back and knocked back a flat white from Starbucks, and scarfed an entire bag of salt and balsamic vinegar Kettles in one sitting. I'll probably be damned.
Wednesday, 6 June 2018
The Curious Case of the Organ Grinder's Monkey-the Dressmaker's Dummy
Ah, the organ grinder's monkey. In this case, I called him the dressmaker's dummy. Same thing, really.
I do remember advising you to always bypass the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder if you want to ever get anything done. Even the middle-aged malady I like to call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) hasn't touched that one- and last week was a prime example.
Some neighbors came up to me and asked for my help. Now, my ex used to call me "Muggins"-meaning that I was always a soft touch for anyone who wanted anything (until I divorced him. Then he called me a lot of names that I won't repeat here). It's possible that I have always been a softie-or, rather, a sucker-for a hard luck story.
I went around to my neighbor's place and heard the most unbelievable story about drug dealing and drug taking just outside their back window. There are two flats with windows facing a fence, and the area is very secluded. So local addicts and dealers jump a low fence and go out there and do their thing. My neighbor has been trying to get a better fence to stop this from happening. And I saw all the documented evidence that showed me how many times both neighbors have contacted the police, the landlord-anyone who would help. But nobody helped. And now comes the good part...
My next door neighbor is called Terry. I call him Two-faced Terry (or, two-faced tattooed Terry), because he kept pestering me to do all his computer work (no please. No thank you. No nothing. Just demands, as if he was entitled to all my work), and when I finally told him that he needed to learn how to do it all himself, he demanded to know why he should, since I would do it all for him. So I stopped. I said no. And then he stopped talking to me, and spent a lot of time saying a lot of very nasty things about me. Now, Terry has a personality disorder, which he tells everyone who will listen is caused by brain damage, which in turn is caused by someone putting an axe in his skull. Ummm...seriously? And he tried it on for years: let's go to the cafe for a cup of tea, or how about a walk in the park..whatever. Eww...he's got no teeth, he's ugly, not very bright, and just-yuck. You know what they say: shit happens. Sometimes it lives next door...
Terry, because he desperately wants attention, and wants everyone to suck up to him, took it upon himself to try to ingratiate himself to everyone in this little community. He decided to go to the housing manager-then to the local councillor-to get this fence for his friends. So he finally got the fence built: a horizontal wooden fence in the wrong place, making it easy for anyone to climb over the thing. Horizontal. Like a climbing frame with wood thick enough for the addicts to rest their drugs on while they shoot up.
Well-Ray and Tanya asked me if there is anything I can do to start the process going; they would carry on afterwards themselves. I said that I would see what I could do, but I would see the whole thing to the end, because I don't start things and not finish them. Activist for life, I guess...
I emailed the CEO of the local authority, and the Director of Properties, and I got a very nice email back. I had suggested that the management come down to the community to see exactly where the problems were. I got a return email several hours later, and we emailed each other a few times to set up a meeting. This was on Monday.
On Friday morning the management-and the police-arrived to see the problems I mentioned. All I had to say was "drugs"-plus "disabled people" and "lawsuit" and they all sprinted down on Friday to have a look. Unfortunately, Two-Face Brain Damage nearly hijacked the meeting, by trying to tell the managers how wonderful he is, and how he trained 30 gardeners (numbers raised exponentially from the two he told me about when I first met him. A baby boom, perhaps. Or delusions-more likely).
I had pre-warned the managers just before Terry burst out of his front door to take over, so they knew what was going on. Long, sad story that I'll just leave you to imagine.
The outcome? The fence will be torn down, the area will be secured by the kind of fence (metal, vertical, hard to climb over) that should have been put there in the first place, and there will be CCTV to ensure the safety of all the residents.
The managers thanked me. Ray (the neighbor) thanked me. Terry cursed at me-as if I care. Terry gets my nomination for dressmaker's dummy-monkeys are too cute and too intelligent for me to insult them, even though they aren't organ grinders.
So that brings you up to date. I was unwell, but I haven't been bone idle. And when the whole thing is settled and all the work has been done, I'm just going to walk away. I didn't do all the work for thanks (good thing, because I didn't get much), I did it to help everyone. I won't be feeling a sense of accomplishment until everything that has been promised has been delivered.
Sometimes you just have to get off your little ass and take a stand, and put up a fight for your rights-and your safety. But you also need to know when to walk away.
I think that this will be my last attack of jumping in and protecting people's rights (and safety). I'll just live my life, and reward myself with Kettle Chips and Starbucks. Speaking of which....
I do remember advising you to always bypass the monkey and go straight to the organ grinder if you want to ever get anything done. Even the middle-aged malady I like to call CRS (Can't Remember Shit) hasn't touched that one- and last week was a prime example.
Some neighbors came up to me and asked for my help. Now, my ex used to call me "Muggins"-meaning that I was always a soft touch for anyone who wanted anything (until I divorced him. Then he called me a lot of names that I won't repeat here). It's possible that I have always been a softie-or, rather, a sucker-for a hard luck story.
I went around to my neighbor's place and heard the most unbelievable story about drug dealing and drug taking just outside their back window. There are two flats with windows facing a fence, and the area is very secluded. So local addicts and dealers jump a low fence and go out there and do their thing. My neighbor has been trying to get a better fence to stop this from happening. And I saw all the documented evidence that showed me how many times both neighbors have contacted the police, the landlord-anyone who would help. But nobody helped. And now comes the good part...
My next door neighbor is called Terry. I call him Two-faced Terry (or, two-faced tattooed Terry), because he kept pestering me to do all his computer work (no please. No thank you. No nothing. Just demands, as if he was entitled to all my work), and when I finally told him that he needed to learn how to do it all himself, he demanded to know why he should, since I would do it all for him. So I stopped. I said no. And then he stopped talking to me, and spent a lot of time saying a lot of very nasty things about me. Now, Terry has a personality disorder, which he tells everyone who will listen is caused by brain damage, which in turn is caused by someone putting an axe in his skull. Ummm...seriously? And he tried it on for years: let's go to the cafe for a cup of tea, or how about a walk in the park..whatever. Eww...he's got no teeth, he's ugly, not very bright, and just-yuck. You know what they say: shit happens. Sometimes it lives next door...
Terry, because he desperately wants attention, and wants everyone to suck up to him, took it upon himself to try to ingratiate himself to everyone in this little community. He decided to go to the housing manager-then to the local councillor-to get this fence for his friends. So he finally got the fence built: a horizontal wooden fence in the wrong place, making it easy for anyone to climb over the thing. Horizontal. Like a climbing frame with wood thick enough for the addicts to rest their drugs on while they shoot up.
Well-Ray and Tanya asked me if there is anything I can do to start the process going; they would carry on afterwards themselves. I said that I would see what I could do, but I would see the whole thing to the end, because I don't start things and not finish them. Activist for life, I guess...
I emailed the CEO of the local authority, and the Director of Properties, and I got a very nice email back. I had suggested that the management come down to the community to see exactly where the problems were. I got a return email several hours later, and we emailed each other a few times to set up a meeting. This was on Monday.
On Friday morning the management-and the police-arrived to see the problems I mentioned. All I had to say was "drugs"-plus "disabled people" and "lawsuit" and they all sprinted down on Friday to have a look. Unfortunately, Two-Face Brain Damage nearly hijacked the meeting, by trying to tell the managers how wonderful he is, and how he trained 30 gardeners (numbers raised exponentially from the two he told me about when I first met him. A baby boom, perhaps. Or delusions-more likely).
I had pre-warned the managers just before Terry burst out of his front door to take over, so they knew what was going on. Long, sad story that I'll just leave you to imagine.
The outcome? The fence will be torn down, the area will be secured by the kind of fence (metal, vertical, hard to climb over) that should have been put there in the first place, and there will be CCTV to ensure the safety of all the residents.
The managers thanked me. Ray (the neighbor) thanked me. Terry cursed at me-as if I care. Terry gets my nomination for dressmaker's dummy-monkeys are too cute and too intelligent for me to insult them, even though they aren't organ grinders.
So that brings you up to date. I was unwell, but I haven't been bone idle. And when the whole thing is settled and all the work has been done, I'm just going to walk away. I didn't do all the work for thanks (good thing, because I didn't get much), I did it to help everyone. I won't be feeling a sense of accomplishment until everything that has been promised has been delivered.
Sometimes you just have to get off your little ass and take a stand, and put up a fight for your rights-and your safety. But you also need to know when to walk away.
I think that this will be my last attack of jumping in and protecting people's rights (and safety). I'll just live my life, and reward myself with Kettle Chips and Starbucks. Speaking of which....
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