One Lovely Blog Award

My thanks to Elizabeth @marriagetroublesite.wordpress.com for the nomination.

RULES:

1.  Thank the person who nominated you.

2.  Share 7 facts about yourself.

3.  Nominate up to 15 people for the award.

4.  Let the people know they have been nominated.

SEVEN FACTS ABOUT ME:

1.  I have the rarest eye color in the world.  So does my youngest daughter.  Only 2% of the entire population have green eyes.  Not only do we have green eyes, we both have central heterochromia iridum.  Our pupils are surrounded by yellow and the outer iris is green.  I also have sectoral heterochromia.  I have a brown spot in one of my eyes.  She does not.
My oldest daughter has the appearance of complete heterochromia, like David Bowie.  Like him, hers is the result of an injury which is technically called aniscoria.  She was hit in the face by a hard kicked soccer ball and one pupil is permanently frozen in a dilated position.

2.  I never had wisdom teeth nor did my mama.  That is a result of a mutation that happens in 35% of the population.  Unfortunately, I didn’t pass that along to any of my children.
There is recent evidence that the suppression of wisdom teeth was a mutation that popped up in China three to four hundred thousand years ago.

3.  My feet are so different, they look like they belong to separate people.  They are also different sizes.  (I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I found out that I was the result of a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong.)

4.  I’ve scared many a neighbor (and still do) by walking down a ladder from my roof, like I walk down stairs.  It never made any sense to me to crawl down a ladder backward.

5.  I can spell complete sentences and have never met but one other person who not only could understand every word I spell, they could respond in kind.

6.  If I care about you and you need me, I would crawl on my hands and knees to the ends of the Earth to help you…but if you fuck me over, you’re on your own.

7.  I really hate to write and I think everything I write is rubbish.

MY NOMINEES:

TenacityT@tenacitygoddess.com

apensiveheart@apensiveheart.wordpress.com

swanriver@swimmingashardasIcanstayingafloat.wordpress.com

ifonlymommy@livinglifeafterdivorceandbetrayal.wordpress.com

Robert Matthew Goldstein@robertmgoldsmith.wordpress.com

watchmesurvive@watchmesurvive.wordpress.com

socialworkerangel@iammyownisland.wordpress.com

shatteredwife@shatteredbyaffair.wordpress.com

lookfabkim@lookfab.wordpress.com

Embeecee@sparksfromacombustiblemind.wordpress.com

thedarkestfairytale@thedarkestfairytale.wordpress.com

geminilver@andtwobecameone.wordpress.com

Pissed Off Doesn’t Describe It

When I was trying to deal with my drunk son, I asked him if he wanted to go back to Florida.  He said he did, so I told him I would ask Loser to buy a ticket for him.

#4 said “dad doesn’t have any money.”  I laughed and said “seriously?”  #4 said “yeah.”  I asked him who the hell told him that.  #4 said “he did.”  I told him that we both know what a liar he is and it just wasn’t true. #4 said “the last time I saw him (which was a couple of months ago) he told me that he didn’t have any money.”

I told him that he may not have as much money as he did before because he was having to pay somebody’s taxes and tuition and bills but for him not to believe for one minute that “poor old Loser” didn’t have any money.

Last week I called #3 and asked if I sent her a message, would she forward it to Loser.  I told her that I was going to ask him if he would buy #4 a bus ticket and wanted her to send it to him.  She said “no, mom.  I am not going to be the mediator between you and dad.”  I was disappointed but I said okay and emailed him.

He did agree to buy #4 a bus ticket.  I explained a bit about what had gone on with #4.

I had to make #4 leave last Tuesday but wrote down Losers’ phone number for him.  It was all I could do to keep from almost breaking as I watched him walk down the street but I just couldn’t allow him to stay anymore.

I expected him to be on my porch the next day but he wasn’t, nor was he there the day after.  I asked #3 if she had heard from him.  I called his AA buddies and asked if they had heard from him.

I would have rather been ripped apart by a pack of wild animals than have to communicate with Loser again, but I finally emailed him and asked him if by any chance #4 had called him about the ticket.  I told him I had called everybody I knew, had gone to all the bars and I couldn’t find him anywhere.  I told him that he had stitches that needed to come out before they grew into his skin and nobody seemed to know anything.  I told him that I was worried to death.

I got a message from Loser through #3.  Loser had been in touch with #4 the whole time.  Apparently #4 has been through detox, is getting medical attention and is staying sober.  Loser says he sees him every day.

When I read that message, I was beyond livid.  I was outraged…for two reasons.  Loser knew that I was scared out of my mind about #4 and never said a word.  A week….A WEEK….went by and he never said a word.

#3 passed on that message from Loser.  SHE DID SOMETHING FOR HIM THAT SHE REFUSED TO DO FOR ME.

She called me the day after she forwarded the message and I let her have it with all fifteen barrels.  I told her that I was sick to death of the double standards that apply to me…and that piece of shit, his trailer trash family and his parasites.

I reminded her that she talks about how much she hates my mama because of the way she treated me.  HIS mama treated me just as bad…but it’s okay. His daddy was a yellow-bellied, lilly-livered coward who allowed that drunk woman and his drunk son to abuse me unmercifully, but again…it was okay.

I said “you forwarded a message from Loser to me but you wouldn’t forward one from me to him.”  I asked her why she didn’t say “no dad.  I’m not going to be the mediator between you and mom.  Why don’t you grow a set and send her the information?”

She didn’t have an answer and it turned into a screaming match with her reminding me that “she has always been on my side.”  A few minutes later, she hung up on me.

She should have refused to be the go-between for both of us…not just one of us.  There was obviously not a second of hesitation on her part when it came to what her precious fucking daddy asked…but there was instant refusal when it came to what her mom asked.

Why is that?  Is it because mom has never been and will never be as important as their fucking “dad?”  Is it because even in their late thirties and early forties, they are still more afraid of Loser?  I think he’d have a hard time getting away with knocking them around now but he can still make them feel like shit with his nasty comments and vile texts.

#4 told me that when he had come up to stay with Loser for a while, he (Loser) slammed him down on the ground and had his hand around his neck.  He said he thought he had given him a concussion.

What a memory for a son to have about his “father.”  In the same conversation, #4 said he remembered when Loser was dragging #3 down the hall by her hair.  He said I wasn’t there but #1 was trying to get him to let go.

I asked #3 if she remembered and she said “vaguely but what I remember most is when dad called me a whore.”

I wonder what the WTC would think if she heard these stories about how he treated his children.  I imagine he would either deny them or tell her that he had “reached the end of his rope” and of course, “would regret it for the rest of his life.”  That’s his go-to response when he cannot deny his barbaric, volatile behavior.

Actually, I don’t think she would care.  She already knows that he’s a liar and a cheater but as long as he keeps writing checks (that don’t bounce like somebody else’s did) she’ll overlook anything.

Or better yet, they would probably collectively blame me for not raising them right.  It would have to be somebody’s….anybody’s fault besides his.

He did tell the court that although he was the “loudest,”  I instigated every fight that was ever had.  (I would laugh at that if it wasn’t so fucking pathetic.)

I guess I started fights when I was drunk…oh, wait.  He was the one who was always drunk…but I guess that’s my fault too.  What a horrible person I am…and don’t forget.  I’m “insane.”

I actually agree with that assessment.  I would have to have been insane to have stayed with a maggot like him for as long as I did.  Guilty as charged.

I hope #4 is in a rehab facility somewhere.  I can’t imagine that he is being allowed to stay at the WTCs’ house.  I hope he will be successful this time but mostly, I hope he isn’t being poisoned by Loser and that WTC.  He wants nothing more than to be close to Loser and if that means believing everything he says, he will and Loser will be triumphant.

Will it be worth having another child believe his (their) lies if #4 can stay sober?  Yes it will.

 

 

 

 

 

Timeline With #4

What a roller coaster ride I have had.  After repeatedly finding my son on my porch, I let him come in.  He spent one night in the bed.  When I finally got him up the next morning, I asked him how he slept.  He said he felt like he was in “fucking prison.”  I told him that I hoped he would say something like “it sure beats sleeping on the street.”

He “tinkered” around for a while…filling up hummingbird feeders and putting the top back on my bird bath.  Then he said he “needed to take a walk.”

I knew what that meant.  It meant he needed a drink.  I told him if he went for a walk, he couldn’t come back.  He went inside for a minute.  Little did I know, he had sneaked a bottle of Vodka in.  He started acting more and more peculiar.  I should have known he was drinking.  I’m such a fool.

He finally said he needed to take a walk.  I told him to go on his walk and to keep walking.  He said “I’ll be back.”  I told him not to come back.  Later that afternoon, there was knock on my door.  It was the same officer who arrested him the first time.  She brought him “home.”  He was standing out in the yard, wobbling.  She said for me to keep him in the house.

Of course, I let him in.  I gave him something to eat and let him put on some clean clothes.  He went outside to smoke and then said he needed to take a walk.  Unbelievable.  I told him he was already drunk and didn’t need anything else to drink.  I got him to come inside and locked all three doors that lead outside.  They have key deadbolts so he had to have the key to get them open.

He was like a caged animal and started growling like a rabid dog.  Then he started yanking on the doors.  He went from one to the other to the other.  Then he started kicking them.  I told him that if he didn’t stop, I was going to call the police.  He said “go ahead…and I will never fucking forgive you.”  Then he slammed his cell phone down and broke it into several pieces.

He decided to open the bathroom window and jump out but he couldn’t figure out how to get it open.  He kept going in there and locking the door.  He finally came out and went into the kitchen.  He put his fist through the glass in the door.

There was blood everywhere.  Then he strong-armed me and cracked a couple of ribs.  I called the police and told them to come get him.  I opened the door and let him go outside.  He grabbed a pair of jeans and wrapped them around his arm.  When I told him the police were going to be here any minute, he went berserk.  He thought I had called an ambulance.  He took off down the street.

The same officer who had brought him home came and I told her he had walked off.  She said she’d find him.  I showed her the door and my side.  She told me not to let him back in if he came back before she found him.  She said “he’s going to jail this time.”

She called me about two hours later and said he was at the hospital, getting stitches.  She said the paramedics wanted to talk to me about “his meds.”  Great.  They told me that he had narcotics on him.  I knew exactly what they were talking about.  My doctor had given me a prescription for Lorazepam because she knew what I was going through with #4.  I had to have my picture taken and sign away my house to get that scrip filled and I wasn’t even sure I was going to take it.  He took the whole bottle.

I think that’s why he was so violent.  He must have taken them with Vodka.  Lethal combination there and he’s lucky he didn’t stroke out.  I rested a little easier that night.  I thought he was in jail and would be safe and sober.  When I got up, he was on my porch.  He walked here from the hospital.  Because I didn’t come down and press charges, they let him go.

He asked me to take the stitches out of his arm.  I took them out of his chest when he was filleted open because they were growing into his skin.  I told him they needed to be in there for a while.  He disappeared and the next day, he called from somebodys’ phone, drunk.  I asked him where he was.  He didn’t have a clue.  The other person got on the phone and said I could pick him up on some street in the next town.  They were walking and should be there by the time I got there.

I got there and waited for a while.  It was some parking lot across from a service station.  As I was getting ready to leave, I saw #4 and this man walking toward the car.  #4 didn’t see me and started walking across the street, saying “I need a drink.”  He only had a dollar on him and it wasn’t enough to buy one of those little bitty bottles of vodka so they turned him away.

I got him in the car and he laid down in the back seat.  I was on the phone with #3 and he heard her talking to me.  It pissed him off and he got out of the car.  I tried to get him back in but he laid down in the parking lot.

The next thing I knew, a sheriff was there and then the city police.  The sheriff was really kind to him and tried to get him to get in the car.  The police officer was a cutie-pie and I mean movie star cutie-pie but he said this was the third time he had been called for #4.  He wanted to take him to jail.

EMS showed up and decided to take him to the hospital because he said he felt sick.  Later that evening, he called me and asked me to come get him.  He knew he had been in the hospital but he had forgotten that I had been there earlier and he had decided to take a nap in the parking lot.  He didn’t have his shoes or his backpack.

Yesterday, he was on my porch again.  He had spent a few nights with the dangerous drug dealer….”his friend.”  He was still a little drunk but I made him get up.  I gave him some water and asked him if he could be sober for just one day.

I asked him if he wanted to go back to Florida.  He said he did so he could see his boy.  I told him he wasn’t going to see his boy while he was still drinking.  He growled “why are you always fucking putting me down?”  I told him I would email Loser and ask him to buy him a bus ticket.

Saints be praised.  I emailed Loser and he said he would.  He even thanked me for trying to help him.  Of course he’s thankful.  If I’m doing everything, it means that he and that WTC don’t have to do anything and I’m sure he won’t tell her that he’s buying a ticket for him.  She’ll get pissed off.  That money could be used for her student loan…or her car payment.

#4 said he really needed a beer because he was weaning himself off of Vodka.  I tried to get him to just talk to me.  After about an hour, he said he needed to take a walk.  I noticed a bottle under the loveseat on the porch.  It had a little Vodka in it.  He found it and said it would do.

I told him if he drank it, he had to leave.  He sat right there, opened the bottle and took a big swig.  (Reminded me of my ex monster-in-law.  She wasn’t allowed to drink her Vodka, so she grabbed Losers’ beer and downed it.)  I told him he had to leave.  He said he’d be back.

I told him he absolutely could not come back.  “This is not a homeless shelter and you are not going to hang out here drunk all the time.”  He said “I don’t have anywhere to go.”  I told him he did have somewhere to go, he just pissed it away for booze.

I have no idea where he is.  As crazy as it sounds, I was hoping he would be on my porch this morning.

He has told me time and time again that I don’t understand.  He’s right.  I don’t and I never will.  I cannot imagine what it’s like to want a drink so bad that you will do anything and give up everything for it.

True Facts About The Town Of Whisper

Pansy Faye’s grandfather and Elwyn Turner were loosely based on my grandpa.  He was an entrepreneur who owned cafes, fillin’ stations and little grocery stores.  He would let people take a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk or a pack of cigarettes, with the promise of repayment on payday.  Most of them returned.  Some of them didn’t.

Pansy Faye, Leroy, Ron Carson, and Billy Ray were all fictional characters.

Lucy Maes’ character was loosely based on a man who owned a tire place in the middle of town.  My friend and I knew the owners of a restaurant next door and we stopped by to grab a bite to eat.  This man was eating a salad for lunch, started laughing and then started choking.  I thought about trying to dislodge whatever was in his mouth but I was told to stay away.
Since it was prior to 1973, EMS had not yet been established.  I remember everybody just standing around, watching this man choke to death.

My daddy was by no means a Baptist preacher but Reverend Smythes’ reading habits were loosely based on him.  He loved to read Earl Stanley Gardner books and was even known to read a Harlequin Romance Novel.

Ron Carson’s sons’ names were based on the husband of a friend of mine when I lived in Philadelphia.  His name was Paul Peter.  He had a brother named Peter Paul.

Leroy’s mama being carried around in the trunk of his car is based on me.  I carry my mama’s ashes in the trunk of my car and have for nine years.

The airplane crash was based on a crash that happened near my hometown. A large jumbo jet collided with a small private plane.  It was the first crash investigated by the NTSB.  None of the passengers survived and the only body in tact was a stewardess found in a tree, still strapped to her jumpseat.  People were combing through the woods, taking jewelry from limbs.

The story about the cats in the well was fictional.

Matt Perkins was a fictional character.

Joshua Beacham was the fictional name of a real person.  The entire story is true.

Chick Larson was a fictional character.

Myrna Brown was the fictional name of a real person.  I did not know her personally but I knew of her through one of my roommates.
She did work at the Whisk A Go-Go in Augusta, Georgia.
Did she really roll one of the most famous golfers of all time while he was there for the Masters?  Yes, she did.
Do I know who it was?  Yes, I do.
Will I divulge his name?  No.

Sherry Plemmons was based on a real person.  The tragic events that I wrote about really happened.

The person telling the story is loosely based on Loser in that he would use any means available, be it charm, lies, hollow flattery or bullying to get information.

His daddy really did tell him to be nice to the ugly girls as well as the pretty ones because the ugly ones would be so grateful for the attention, they would do anything.

Although he fully expected to win a Pulitzer Prize, he never did.

A Town Called Whisper – Chapter Seven

The last name on my list was Sherry Plemmons, a 29-year-old woman from Pawtucket, South Carolina.  Searching her name led to an article written more than seven years earlier.

She had successfully battled and beaten death before but it had been a Pyrrhic victory.

According to the report, she and her eighteen month old daughter were traveling down a winding, mountainous road.  A semi-tractor trailer drifted into her lane, causing her to swerve.  She lost control of her car and it flipped over several times, coming to rest at the bottom of a steep embankment.  Her daughter was thrown from the car.

Sherry suffered serious injures but managed to get out of the car and crawl up the hill.  When she reached the top, she saw her daughter sitting in the middle of the road, apparently okay.  Her daughter saw her, raised her arms and called for her.  Before Sherry could get to her, another car came around the bend and ran over her little girl.

Her subsequent depression took its toll and it would be years before she would recover.  Not only did she have to suffer the loss of her daughter, she had to suffer the loss of her husband.

He could never reconcile in his mind that somehow the loss of their child had not been her fault.  He left her and she plunged into an even deeper depression.

With the help of family, friends and years of physical and mental therapy, she slowly began to recover.  Understanding that the death of her child and the failure of her marriage had not been her fault had been a long, arduous journey but she had persevered and emerged triumphant.

“The light in her eyes,” as her parents said, “was starting to come back.” She began to socialize and had even started to be comfortable riding in a car.  Driving a car again however, was a hurdle she had yet to conquer.

One day while out shopping with friends, on a whim, she bought a raffle ticket from a local high school booster club.  The grand prize was an all expense paid trip to Las Vegas.

When she won, although vehemently denied, it was suspected that the drawing had been rigged in her favor.  It was the first thing she had ever won and she was determined to go and go alone.  He parents begged her to ask a friend to go along but Sherry reassured them by saying she needed to get used to doing things by herself.

As she was ready to board the plane, she laughed and said “don’t worry if you never see me again.  It’ll just mean my ship came in.”

 
Many of us associate death with some sort of Divine intervention or design. I believe we need to, in order to make sense of a loss that simply cannot be understood or readily accepted.  We don’t want it to be final.  We want to know that there is something after.

None of us will escape death but when it comes too soon or by what seems to be unjustifiable means, it calls into question, at least for me, the motives of this so-called merciful God.  It makes us question His motives.  It challenges our faith.

There are five stages of death.  Acceptance is the final stage.  Some people reach that stage, while others never do.  Those who can’t or won’t are left with a gaping wound in their hearts and become frozen in a world of unanswered questions.

As a reporter, it is my job to tell a story and leave the reader with a comprehensive understanding of the basic who, what, where, when and why.  Why has been a question asked by people throughout the ages.  For some, the answer to why is the only road to acceptance.  We ask but sometimes, acceptance is only realized when we understand that there are and never will be any answers.

The remains of Whisper were slowly and methodically put to rest along with the townsfolk.  An entire town was gone, leaving only a footprint of what used to be.  A large granite boulder, bearing the image of an airplane and all the names of the victims was placed in what was once the center of town.

These people are gone but they will be remembered.  They once lived and loved and laughed.  That will be their legacy and it will withstand the test of time.

My stories of just five of the lives lost on that day was reduced to four, as I chose not to include Joshua Beacham.  My stories were meant to put into perspective the fact that these were more than names on a victim list.  I wanted readers to know them intimately.  I wanted readers to question why their lives were extinguished in such a violent manner.  I wanted readers to mourn for them as if they knew them personally.

I put the town of Whisper behind me, along with the souls who met their fate that day.  I have never returned to the site but I have heard stories of visitors who swear they hear chatter where Leroy’s barber shop used to stand and smell fresh-baked cornbread wafting through the air.

My story of “The Town Of Whisper” won the Pulitzer Prize for Journalism and I became the youngest recipient to date.  I now work for a large metropolitan newspaper, where my special interest stories are published weekly.

That event changed my life forever.  I still ask why but now I am a little more at ease with the difference between the burning need for answers and the simple act of acceptance.

 

 

Kaniec.

A Town Called Whisper – Chapter Six

Myrna Brown was a 42-year-old woman from Augusta, Georgia.  For years, she had worked at a local bar in the heart of downtown, called The Whisk-A-Go-Go.  It was a franchised branch of the original Whiskey A Go-Go club on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles, California.

Myrna could hold her own, looks and figure-wise, against any twenty-five year old around and not many people knew her true age.  She had seen many things and done and heard many more.

Since the Masters were held in Augusta every year, she had been privy to the lives of the rich and famous visitors and the even more rich and famous golfers. During the tournament and after the match of each day, those rich and famous folks would pour into the Club and a good time was had by all, especially Myrna.

She was not one to stand on ceremony when around these men.  Their celebrity didn’t elevate them to any sort of superman status but it did afford them a certain je ne sais quoi.

The year before, one of the most famous golfers of all time “strayed” and he paid for it.  After a night of drinking and carousing around, he passed out. Without a second thought, the “courtesan” promptly rolled him.

Everybody knew about it but it was kept out of the local and major newspapers and other outlets for the protection of his reputation and to prevent embarrassing his trusting and unsuspecting wife.  One newspaper, The National Enquirer did not bury it but that paper was considered to be nothing more than a trashy rag.

Nobody paid much attention to what was written about the incident…but I did.  The courtesan was interviewed with the promise of anonymity but through my aforementioned charm, I was able to acquire the name.  It was Myrna Brown.

Myrna must have known that the odds of her ever “consorting” with another golfer were going to be pretty slim.  According to one of her friends at the Whisk A Go-Go, she sold everything she owned and was headed to Las Vegas.  She was hoping to find a job in one of the casinos and knew that her profession was also legal there.  She knew at her age, competition would be stiff so within a week of her arrival, she had an appointment with a plastic surgeon to give her a brand new set of firm twins.

Ms. Brown’s lifestyle may have been questionable, but was she on the plane for atonement?  Was she on the plane to pay for stealing from the golfer?  Reverend Smythe would say “vengeance is mine.  I will repay, says the Lord.”  If that is true and he was repaying Ms. Brown, when will the man she stole from pay his penance?  Where was the justice in this one-sided punishment?  She suffered a violent end and he lives to commit adultery another day.  How could this be fair?  Again, as Reverend Smythe would say, it was not for me to question the decisions of the all-knowing and all-powerful God.•

 

Chick Larson was a good-ole-boy from Asheville, North Carolina.  He had just celebrated his 75th birthday and was on his way to headline at the Las Vegas Sands Hotel.

For years, residents had enjoyed listening to Chick stand in the middle of Pritchard Park and tell his outlandish tales and gut-splitting humorous stories, including how to land a “real mountain wife” and how to “quietly” get rid of her, “if’n she weren’t no good at cookin’.”

Chick had driven a city bus in his early life but he liked to drink a bit and would sometimes doze off while waiting for passengers to board.  He was eventually fired, became homeless and instead of turning his anger outward, he developed a remarkable sense of humor.

He slept under a park bench unless it was raining or snowing.  In inclement weather, he would nestle inside the alcove in front of Gentry’s pharmacy. Chick always marveled at the over-sized mortar and pestle replica in the storefront window and when he was inebriated, it was even more fascinating.

Chicks’ lucky day came when a representative from the North Carolina Film Board, named Ben Sawyer was looking for local talent and caught one of his performances.  Through his connections with a pal in Las Vegas, he arranged for Chick to have a one-time shot at fame.  When Chicks’ age was questioned, Ben said “don’t let his age fool you.  He is hilarious.”

On Ben Sawyer’s word alone, Chick was signed as the opening act for Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin.

Chick had never been on an airplane nor had he ever owned a suit.  When the townsfolk heard the news, they all threw in and bought him a custom-made tuxedo that would have made any highfalutin movie star green with envy.

I smiled when I heard about the suit and the free shave and haircut the local barber gave him.  I imagined that’s what the good people from the town of Whisper would have done.
Chick was leaving nobody behind except the people of Asheville, who he had entertained all those years.  They, like I would be asking the same question.  Why?  What was the reasoning behind letting a man finally get his shot at stardom, only to have it taken away before he ever got the chance to shine?
I was not liking this God that Reverend Smythe defends so staunchly.

 

 

To be continued________________________

What Now?

I have been sicker than a dying dog ever since I took #4 to detox on Saturday afternoon.  I thought I was going to get a good nights’ rest for the first time in a long time and have a sort of “reprieve.”  Not so.  I think I had held on and as my friend Deb said “as soon as I knew he was okay, my body gave out.”

#4 called me yesterday around noon-thirty.  I knew as soon as he got “hey mom” out, he was drunk.  I asked him where he was and he said “outside the detox place.”

Great.  He lasted a whole day and a half.  He said he wanted to “come home.”

I told him he had forfeited his “home” when he decided to leave detox and start drinking.  I suggested that he call Loser and ask if he and the WTC would put him up for a while.  He said “okay.”  Then he asked me to bring him his phone.

Sure.  I’ll get right on that.  I’m so sick, I can hardly move but I’ll get in my car and drive for over an hour to get your fucking phone to you…the phone that has no charger because you left it at some “friends’ house.”

Then, I have #3, my youngest daughter beating the shit out of me via text.  I know she cares and like my RBS, she sometimes needs to kick my ass because I tend to make people wonder if I have anything that even resembles grey matter anymore.

I told her I was too sick to text, so she called me.  She was screaming “go to the doctor…and I know it sounds like I’m yelling at you and I don’t mean to but go to the fucking doctor!”  I told her about the sign on the door of my doctors’ office that says (and I am being absolutely literal here) “if you are sick, have a fever or are coughing, for the protection of the other patients, please do not come in.”

The first time I saw that, I actually asked the receptionist if it was supposed to be a joke.  In her slow Southern drawl she said “no-wa, mayam.”  I’m Southern so I’m not making fun of her accent…just that she seemed to be quite incensed that I thought it was ridiculous.  I really like my doctor but I really don’t like the staff there…and I’m probably being a little pissy right now.

I think I’ve had two Boosts in the last two days.  I know I’m dangerously close to going back below a buck.  It’s taken me four years to get to 105.  Now, I’m at 101.

I have no idea where #4 is.  My neighbor came over and knocked on my door.  I didn’t answer because I was afraid he was going to say something like “I’ve seen your son sleeping on your porch” or maybe even “your son has been sleeping on my porch.”  Hopefully, I’ll hear something.

When he showed up on my porch Saturday morning, having no idea that he had been in jail, or what had happened, I asked him if he realized that by having these “friends” bring him to my house, he was potentially putting me in harms’ way.

He’s done that before.  Not only did he bring drug dealers to my house, he brought them INSIDE my house, while I was asleep.  That’s when I had to meet them in the middle of the woods the next day (per Losers’ orders) to get his computer back.

That rather large man who brought #4 by the other day, watched me like a hawk.  Maybe he was watching to see if I was going to “make a phone call.”  I told #4 that I was sure he had told this man that I lived alone and now he knew where I lived.  I don’t think anything registers with #4…except where he’s going to get his next fifth or pint or whatever it is.

I really, really do believe that #4 is trying to drink himself to death, to punish Loser.  I don’t know what makes that child think Loser will give a shit.  He doesn’t give a shit that he’s alive…and #4 thinks he’ll actually give a shit if he’s dead?

Of course, it would get him some sympathy from the WTC and all of his friends and family, when he cries and pretends to be so saddened over the loss of his only son.  He can get even more sympathy when he reminds everybody that #4 got his alcoholism from MY side of the family.

Whatever helps him sleep at night.