Two things today: first off my appointment with the Doc. I didn't tell him about the guy in the park after all. I just figured it was my imagination. Doc seemed like he wanted to talk to me about something, but he didn't mention the blog at all. Maybe he's not actually reading it? (Just in case: Hi, Doc.) For all that this is for therapy, I don't really want to talk about my sessions.
See, the thing about Doc's sessions, is he tries to break me down emotionally. He hasn't said as much, but I can tell. He tries to get me to talk about stuff that I don't want to talk about. When I don't want to do something, I don't. But me not doing anything results in him telling my parole officer that I'm being "hostile." So every other session I have to cry and make a big "breakthrough." I blame everything on my parents, it seems to be working so far. Then I go home and clean. I really hope he doesn't actually read these.
Speaking of parents, Mom called today. She called me her "shiny Penny" like she used to. That was nice, but kind of awkward. I haven't felt very shiny over the past few years. Sometimes I think she named me Penny just so she throw in doofy jokes like that. I guess my sister is doing better, but my dad went to the hospital last night for a a ruptured appendix.
She wants me to move in. It would help a lot, I wouldn't have to worry about paying for room and board, but still. I'm over 30 years old, way too old to be living with my parents again. I do have my pride, after all. Plus, I think she's just asking because she's shaken up by my dad's close call. So, no, that's probably not going to happen any time soon.
In other news, Mrs. K. is sick. Why is everyone I know so sick? Turns out she was diagnosed with aneurysm last week. She can just keel over at a moment's notice. After she told me that, she gave me a key to her apartment. She said I "had a good heart, no matter what sadness I carried."
That's another reason I can't move yet, I have to check up on Mrs. K. I don't want her to be like those sad old women who die and aren't found for days because they had no friends. (Also, I'm pretty sure her cats would eat her. That ginger one was giving me the evil eye last time I came by. When the pregnant one gives birth, I'm not taking in any ginger cats).
I know that my dad and Mrs. K. aren't sick because of the filth, but cleaning still makes me feel better. So I helped Mrs. K. clean her apartment, since there's nothing left to clean in mine. Cat hair gets everywhere. And litterboxes? Phew! I'm still trying to make up my mind on this whole cat thing. They make so much mess...but mess keeps me busy, keeps my mind off other stuff.
Oh, I mentioned work, right? Well! I got a job! Minimum wage plus tips tending bar at a small joint on
the South Side. And the clientele aren't the kind to order some foofy
girly drink that I'd have to look up in a book, it's entirely a Bud Lite
kinda crowd. Did a trial run tonight and it seems like a good job for
me. Even if it's a bit....sticky. Still. Comfort zones. Breaking out of them. I can make progress on my own, thank you very much!
Then when I finally got home, the dude on my floor
was waiting for me. He stood in his doorway and stared me down while I
passed. Remember? The one wearing the scrubs? With the stupid fucking
tattoo on his forehead?
He was testing me. He was waiting to see what I'm made of, who's the top dog here. I refuse to let him win.
You won't win. I can take you.
(That tattoo makes you look like a dumbass, by the way)
Famous last words.
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