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My dad just admitted to me that he wants to play matchmaker. To set me up with a guy who won’t treat me terribly. As if he’d know. As if you can know any man’s romantic side without being on the other side of them in a romantic relationship.

Even the quiet, shy ones can be alcoholics that haul off and backhand you for talking lip. I’m not going to sit around and be raped by some man-handling asshole like my father just ‘cuz he’s got a ‘gut feeling’ that one of the guys at his favorite mechanic shop would ‘treat me right.’ He wouldn’t be a looker, but he could treat me right! That’s what he said to me this morning. It made us mad.

In my eyes, this is another expression of his desire to control my life. He ruined my childhood and now I’m back home because of cancer and he wants me to go fuck some dude in the car shop so he can die satisfied that I won’t be alone. As if loneliness was my problem now that God and his menagerie of ass hats are here, talking to me day in and day out. I haven’t been alone for more than three hours in 18 months. It sucks, in a word.

My love life is off limits to the likes of that pedophile, thank you very much. And the rest of all creation, aside from God herself. She likes to be a woman when playing matchmaker. In fact, she steals my name from me when she’s in her match-making mood, using a southern drawl that’s real sophisticated.

She really likes this one specific guy that I laid eyes on about a year ago in the Wegmans deli. I would describe him, but the description fits all the guys in the deli around that time of the pandemic. Now people are starting to cut their long manes off, but then there were five or six men with extremely long hair in the deli. He was one of those. I haven’t seen him in ages, so who knows if he’s still got that gorgeous long hair or not.

In fact, there’s only one guy left out of those six or so men. He tucks his hair up in a bandanna daily, which looks a bit awkward, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I would think that’s why hair nets were invented, but… y’know. I’m not a deli dudette, so I have no idea.

I thought about it… since I need a job. Being a deli dudette. It looks better than being a cashier, but probably being a stocker would be where I’d be happy. Then again… stocking shelves means being where shoppers can speak to me and I’m highly avoidant of human contact.

Which is why I’m ruminating over the sushi deli guy I saw this very evening. I bought some sushi as asshole tax for my parents being unreasonable gits, forcing me to spend time on the shady side of town instead of uptown. It was my dad’s idea because matchmaker extraordinaire: he decided to try to get my mother to play matchmaker with the ‘guys they know’ at the smoke shop. First of all… I’m allergic to cigarette smoke, you stupid bitches. Second of all, I can flirt all on my own, thank you very much. I’m more interested in being healthy again. Until I can eat food in order to go out on a date, I’m not date-worthy, if you ask me. Third of all, what makes you miserable assholes think you can set me up with someone to make me happy when you’ve failed to understand my little autistic brain for… oh… all my fucking life?

My parents aren’t even happy with each other. They’re main focus is not dying lonely at this point, rather than actually achieving health and happiness. They still haven’t realized that being happy is merely a decision you make. One of my cats died on Monday and yet today, I can still smile, because sushi is fucking delicious. (Except when the eel is all rubbery. Sad face!)

I can’t even go out for a coffee; you’d think since it was my favorite thing to consume, I could do something so simple. But no! Coffee is so moldy. Almost all coffee beans house some mold, especially if they’re ground up before they are packaged. And maybe that $6 froufrou drink from Starbucks wouldn’t be as moldy as the run-of-the-mill coffee in the grocery store, but it’s packed with sugar, which makes me beyond miserable. (And really difficult to please because I don’t really like coffee that much without things added unless it’s my specialty coffee that costs a ton per bag.)

I can’t eat rice, bread, turkey, chicken, vinegar, tomatoes, potatoes, paprika — which is in all BBQ sauces, alongside cumin which I’m also allergic to, so that rules out BBQ joints, which is all that’s left once I get to the bottom of my list. Not to mention, smoked meats trigger me, too. It’s impossible! I can’t even eat salad! I can’t eat cheese, I can’t eat tomato, I can’t eat eggs, and cucumbers give me gas, and lettuce is fucking disgusting, bro. When I belch after eating a cucumber — which I do not admire the taste of at all — I can taste the cucumber again. That’s not a good sign, folks!

WTF can she eat?!” one might wonder. Slabs of beef. On the bone. Hello, STEAK! ❤ ❤ ❤ GET IN MY BELLY! Cauliflower, broccoli, onion. Raspberries, blackberries, and strawberries (in moderation, the glycemic index is kinda high thanks to modern farming techniques and selective breeding.) Asparagus, sometimes. Parsley! Spring water!

Le Fin.

Wait, wait. I forgot… I got peaches back this past month. And I’m working on plums. But, still… I need more veggies than fruit, you know? That’s how it works. You can’t exclusively eat dairy, fruit, meat, and pasta like my parents, whom are expiring as we speak. My mom is like a zombie, she’s all fuzzy upstairs and can’t think straight. My dad is like… well, the dip shit he always was. God refuses to be kind to pedophiles. Let that be a warning, Children of Earth.

So, as you can see, the list is so long. I can go ANYWHERE! I can eat ANYTHING!

I should stop lying. I’m bad at it.

Anyway, God’s horse is the deli man. I call him Sir Deli Man because… why not? His soul is so fuckin’ shiny! It rivals my own. I’ve never seen one that rivaled my own! It’s like seeing my favorite celebrity randomly while at the grocery store. (It’s Robin Williams, FYI. I’m sorry he passed alone, in pain. All the love, Mr. Williams. ❤ ❤ ❤ You are sorely missed.)

Other horses include some rando tattoo dude at the mall. A silver fox! He is equally handsome to Sir Deli Man, as far as I can tell. Of course, all men are handsome, so I should throw that out there before I get carried away and hurt feelings somewhere. (Stop being insecure, bro. We all come in different shapes and sizes. You are magnificent. Handsome. Strong. Now I’ma stop, ‘cuz you’re not the deli man. Bye now.)

You know, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I really want to draw a beholder and put the word “Beauty” (backwards) as a reflection in one of the eyes, front and center. I’m a nerd like that. And an artist like that. I even found a reference Beholder to draw from, but I’ve been focusing on my health specifically as of late. And yelling at my dad at 5:00 AM because he decided to disrupt God’s rant that grants telepathy to Sir Deli Man. The yelling isn’t really helping my health, yo.

God was so angry. I didn’t know what to do… he was telling my dad to basically shove his head up his ass. Me, being the mostly demure being that I am now, wanted to run away from the conflict taking place. Partly because that man threatened to kill me three times in my youth and then dared to sit on a couch near me and tell me how he cares most about me and keeping a roof over my head and how he sacrificed his whole life for me!

I remember my childhood much, much differently.

I remember any time he wasn’t working, we were off visiting someone. As often as possible. We were never sitting still. We packed into a station wagon like sardines in a can, fighting with each other as he drove us around to do whatever he felt like, including survivalist camping in the national forest when I was six. It was always his decision, you know. I can’t remember ever going anywhere I wanted to go at my own suggestion, not even the skating rink, which was what kids did back then for fun.

I also remember him being violent and mean. If anyone was angry around him, he’s haul off and smack them in the face. I learned to subdue my anger because of this. If I just skipped being angry, he didn’t have a reason to justify hitting me. But remember: his top priority is me. That’s why he’s got to go to a lawyer and waste however much money (God says 1k) to write a will saying only the daughter and his wife get his “estate.”

There is no estate. There is a crumbling house that is woefully neglected, needing new life breathed into it. I would have done it already if I was well (or if they put me on the deed.) I would have fixed all the windows, gotten the roof replaced, put gutters on, and utterly destroyed the vine threatening the siding. I would have done the yard work, I would have planted tons of flowers for my friends, the bees. (And the butterflies, which are also endangered, I hear.)


I mean, I could inherit the two bee hives under the front porch, I guess. Those ought to be worth 100 times their weight in gold after the rest of you murder the fucking pollinators that keep us alive. I will fight to the death to protect them, you murderers. They’re my friends!

I do suppose I can give my dad props for one thing and one thing only: he taught me how to pet bees. Or maybe that was my mom. I can’t remember now… it’s irrelevant. If you come across bumble bees sitting on top of cone flowers or something of the sort in the chill of a spring dawn, they are docile enough to sit still. If you very, very carefully use your fingertip to brush over the fuzzy part of their thorax, you successfully pet a bee. They won’t move because they’re cold and they’re eating, so just be super duper careful. Name them, if you must, to form a personal connection with your local bees. They need it. They need your attention, they need your love. They need our focus.

What I really don’t need is my dad pushing me into the arms of some dude with dead eyes because he’s a rapist and a murderer who has destroyed a dozen (or five dozen) women in his hay day. I live with spiders, thank you. That’s why I love Elliott in Stardew Valley so hardcore.

Elliott’s cabin is dark and full of spiders.

Also, that long flowing mane of beautiful hair. ❤ But even more so, if you just talk to all the villagers without giving them gifts throughout the first year, you’ll find Elliott is one of the friendliest and most thoughtful characters of all of Stardew Valley. He always tries to put himself into your shoes and I love that about him. Thanks for making such an amazing character, Stardew Valley peeps.

See, all the boys look fairly fetching in Stardew, honestly. Even the taken ones. Maybe not the mayor so much, but I am probably being an ageist here. Or maybe it’s that he clearly has no interest in being seduced by a rabid farmer chick. (The above screenshot is from my Sir Deli Man saved game; I usually play a female. I was going to see if Elliott will marry a dude. I like the skull t-shirt in black and I mix it up with pants/skirts for fun. And funky hair ‘cuz I love wild and bright colors, especially on my own head. Here, I dressed Sir Deli Man in blue jean overalls. It’s the default… I don’t know nothin’ about the actual Sir Deli Man, so I just let it be default.)

Anyone who would murder spiders just because they are in the house is not going to be on my radar at the end of the day. I feed a frickin’ ant colony near the kitchen sink, bro. They’re here and I give them space to live. And so should you. Except the ones that bring disease with them. (Flies, cockroaches, and mosquitoes, specifically.) But my Missouri apartment, I had all kinds of spiders and stink bugs everywhere. I think stink bugs are real cute, actually. They look like little shields with legs!

Photograph of a stink bug by Kristie Graham for

(Why does she describe the embed? Because blind people like it.)

Come on, doesn’t the stink bug almost look like a medieval shield in shape? AGREE WITH ME… or disagree and tell me what it resembles more closely. I can update my opinions with the proper logic.

An artistic rendering of a bunch of medieval coats of arms (shields) to prove my point.

Anyway, they’re harmless unless they carry diseases, so I just live with them. I cannot say that flies bothered me much at all in my apartment… I had too many spiders. In fact, I had an area so prolific that seventeen generations of spider took residence there. It was right behind my front door. They caught all the little stuff that got through the cracks and thrived like nobody’s business. I know it was that many generations because I could see the corpses. (Whoops! I didn’t clean back there much… there was always a spider in its web! I didn’t want to kill it, so I vacuumed around it very carefully.)

I’m sure the apartment complex owners did not care so much after they got into my apartment. I left in the most bizarre manner, really. I was too sick to take care of it properly… so, the items I left behind were big and bulky. I couldn’t move them by myself since my arms and legs were dislocated. This included a like-new mattress. Hopefully someone is enjoying it these days! And, of course, my LEGION of spiders. I had at least three different kinds! I had wolf spiders, little black spiders, and some kind of orb weaver. And then thousands of stink bugs.

The stink bug corpses cluttered the window sills, actually. I cleaned those up before I left because I’m not an asshole. Then, after all was said and done, I left the keys on the kitchen counter and never looked back. I was gone 30 days earlier than my lease was up… I had no choice in the matter, sadly, as I could no longer do my job thanks to God making me CRAZY.

I kind of daydreamed about someone in need having refuge and shelter in the apartment but I doubt anyone even noticed the door was unlatched. My neighbors would have known I was gone because I no longer bothered them by parking my car in front of the apartments.

I had only lived there for nine months before my life went into the crapper. Actually, it was only one month… My health tanked after I moved in because I was eating all the wrong things. *Ahem*dairy*ahem*.

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