I really don’t like being alive anymore.
I’m broken and I cannot get out of this rut I’m in. I need a caped crusader. A knight in shining armor. A Sir Deli Man worth his salt. Save me, please. Your girlfriend is in this castle, sir. She waves a magenta flag out the window.
I can tell the wellspring in my ancient ones’ bank account is burning a hole in the spendaholic’s pocket. That money needs to go to the roof and gutters. These fucking fools have let all the gutters fall off over the past thirty years, acting like they don’t need them. There’s a goddamn hole in the roof I can see from the street as I drive up to the house. But the broken truck, their freedom, is more important, apparently.
I have a perfectly functional vehicle. In fact, I’m expected to take them all over Timbuktu today. No, thank you. One of them tells me, “I need to go to the cigarette shop, the pharmacy, and the post office.” I say okay, and the next one tells me, “I need to go to the bank and go over to the auto shop to tell him I’m serious about fixing that part.” Do you know what a phone is, good sir?
The male one likes to spend all the money, I’ve discovered. Ain’t that some shit? Usually it’s the woman. You know what the woman wants to do? Go to the goddamn library. That’s it. She told me she was going to spend money one month and I convinced her to buy some furniture to spruce up the house. She’s in love with the new piece of furniture, too, by the way. It’s a burst of color amongst drab everything. I’m going to start painting everything bright, kitschy colors. In fact, maybe I’ll start tomorrow. Project chaos engage!
I try to convinced them to pay for a maid once a week to get ahead on scrubbing, but they won’t do that. They push it on me, as if my broken body can take this abuse endlessly. Scrubbing nicotine off the motherfucking walls just because they won’t smoke outside. She has emphysema. I pay for fucking filters to put on box fans to remove the smoke from the air. I’m fucking allergic, but they don’t give a shit about that.
I’m ready to move out. I just don’t want to move out into an apartment complex. It’s abundantly clear to me that nobody wants to take me and my three support animals. They’re old and the worst they do is puke on carpet, honestly. That’s pretty damn easy to clean up, all things considered. They have so much cat furniture that they never scratch anything else.
They love sisal rope cat scratching posts and one of the towers has a sisal rope around the posts. They’ve had these for over a decade and they’re still viable, too. So, you know, if you got cats… you know what to do.
I have three cats and they all have different preferences. One of them is about twenty pounds (yes, he’s overweight a touch) and he likes giant and sturdy, so he uses the one that’s part of his cat tower. The lighter ones use the free-standing posts happily.
Cats are magical. One of mine is in my lap now, snuggling me back into complacency and happiness. Brinx is his name, which led to a former roommate calling him Brinx Security fondly. He misses Chris, I’ll tell you that much. I tried to reduce the number of cats I have once and asked him to take Brinx, but he wasn’t able to. He had a roommate with allergies, sadly, and he himself is actually allergic but he’d be willing to live with that because Brinx is “chill kitty.”
Honestly, the apartment complex is missing out on a gold mine. I’m basically a beacon of healing. It’s the second reason I want to leave. They don’t deserve my healing anymore, if they ever did. I’m ready to live and let live. Natural selection ftw. Get me the fuck outta here!
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Just for reference, normal reiki sessions cost between $50.00 and $100.00. I’m offering it for free. It’s always best to start from the humble approach, if you ask me.
Angel-Sansara 