Three weeks...

After I flipped out yesterday, then sat here reading blogs til I went to work, God decided to let me see a light at the end of the tunnel that's, uncharacteristically for Him, not a train.
Maybe.

In three weeks, I get my Fridays back.

Meaning: I get back my Friday morning shift, waitressing.

I also get to keep the Friday NIGHT hostessing, along with Saturdays and the rest of my "normal" schedule.

So, yes.
I'm all happy that in three weeks, I get to work even more than I already do.
Who'd have ever guessed THAT would happen?
Me... excited to work MORE.

Changed much, have I?

In some ways, yeah.
Not s'much in others. (See previous post...)

And, all it took was me, giving God the ol' "Sam Kinnison" treatment for a few.
Man, He pisses me off sometimes.
God, I mean, not Sam.
And, like Sam, I, too, am comforted by the idea that I have a close enough relationship with God to get in His face when He needs it, without fear of it so much as affecting Him, let alone pissin' 'Im off.
(I have an E! True Hollywood Story-thing about Sam, in which he says that very thing about God. I like that and the whole "why miss Heaven by an inch? If yer gonna miss it, MISS IT!!!!" thing.)

Besides... GOD made me. If He doesn't like me or the way I am with Him, it's His own fault, is it not?
He made me the way I am.
He's also the one who keeps pissin' in my Post Toasties, so again... who's He got to blame besides Himself?*

See, this is fun for Him.
I firmly believe He gets His Holy-jollies by fuckin' with me ever' once in a while.
I don't mind that so much as I do the fact that He just doesn't know when to knock. it. da. fuck. OFF. already.

Merely hurting me is NEVER enough.
It's not enough until He's driven me to my knees and the brink of insanity, usually.
He doesn't hear me asking Him to stop, til I'm screaming it at Him and threatening to "quit before He can fire me", as it were.
It seems like, only when I'm seriously wanting the peace of death, that He backs off.
And, I think that's because He knows I'm not scared of death.
Not any more.
I'm scared of living too long.
The fucked up part is that, sometimes, I feel like it's BEEN too long already. That started when I was 9.
Nine years old, wishing that either I, or my rat-bastard mother, was dead.
Lovely, ain't it?
Thanks VIVIAN, you asshole.
(Oh, and by the way, the other half of the "*" thing from earlier is in the EP.)

Anyway....
Three weeks.
Then there'll be a little more money around here.
AND, a little less of me.
Win-win situation, no?

Then, not too awful long after that, the agri-tainment shit starts up, so again, hayrides, pumpkin rides and even more money for a little while.

Then, some day, that cunt (the BC) in Jersey will die and there'll be nothing but good from that.
Starting with more money.
And, NONE of her, so again, win-win.

All I have to do is "survive".
(See the EP to see why that's ironic as hell and making me make a face as I type it...)
Survive.

Yeah.
That's alllll I have to do.

So... when do I get to "live"?
Beuller?
Anyone?

*crickets chirping*

Ayeah.
That's about what I thought.

And, ya wanna know the most maddening thing of all?

I hate the kind of people who worship the Almighty dollar and do nothing but chase after it forever and here I am having to become one AND, the amount of money we need is POCKETLINT to most people.
But, it's gonna take me 49 forevers to get there.
I can't get 5 bucks together at one time yet.
A healthy $5000 or so is gonna be nearly impossible.

Five grand would make all the difference in the WORLD to us.
Five grand is "play" money, it seems, for most everybody else.
People waste that much and more on thee stupidest things. (For one example of what I mean, go read this, though even I have to admit, it IS kinda cool. But JeeZUS. Five point seven MILLION. For THAT. Jesus wept. And, I gritted my teeth.)
See?
Pocket change.
And, it would change our lives, mine and Eric's, in so many wonderful ways....

I wonder if I'll ever really be able to do it.

I hope so.
I want to.
I'm gonna try to.

But, times like these, when I can see so many things that I can't get done yet...
flea collars, horse-fly spray, food stocked up in the freezer a little bit, new socks... little, stupid shit like that that I can't do yet... it just about wears me out.

Two steps forward, one step back.

That's fun when yer on a dance floor, two-steppin' with some tight-jeans-ed cowboy, but when it's your LIFE, it gets taxing, to say the least.
And, ya don't even get to hear the music.

*siiigh*

Oh well.

At least I get a chance to try.
I hope I can do this.
Letting Eric down is NOT an option.
Neither is letting ME down, this time.

I'm scared shitless and I don't even have my Storm to turn to anymore.

This might be easier if I had a fuckin' CLUE as to how to do this, by the way.

I feel like I don't.

'Cause, if I did, I wouldn't be in this (financial) mess, now would I?
And, I also wouldn't be flippin' out about it, right?

Anyway...
Pray for me, if yer of a mind to.
I can use all the help I can get.

Mental, financial... you name it.

Peace, y'all.

"... who's He got to blame, but Himself?*..."

*And, my idiot mother, of course.
(99% of my LIFE is her fault, up to and including losing my Dad like I did. It has to do with her, too, the whole shit-deal with Kim, et al.) (Kim, dad's wife, not Kim-Velociman.)

I was born because of her.
I smoke because of her.
I hate females because of her.
My mother fucked my boyfriends, my Dad and me.
All I ever wanted was for her to go fuck herself.

But, nooooooo.

Well, okay.
Yeah, she did too fuck herself.
In the end.
When she was having a heart attack for 9 HOURS before she "mentioned" it to anyone.
But, still.

She shoulda just left my Dad ALONE from the git-go, kept her scummy legs CLOSED and not inflicted her brand of insanity on me or any other child.
She should have been sterilized at birth, if ya wanna know the truth.

And, by the way, if the "way she was raised" was the golden "excuse" for her behavior (and believe me, it was... still is, in fact), then what she did to me oughta give me license to do just about any daggone thing that pops into my head.

Hell man, the fact that I'm not a mainline drug user, dead, in prison for murder or truly insane beyond all hope is a testament to the Dad I had growing up and my own bent-assed (yet stronger than I even know) mind.

My Dad has told me a million times that "I'm a survivor".

I'd rather have been one of those other kinda kids.
One that didn't hafta be a "survivor".
Ya know?

Posted by: Stevie at 07:21 AM

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Posted by: Mad William Flint at July 31, 2005 10:42 PM (14L/a)

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