My Office is Someone’s Driveway

More accurately, a driveway my parents rent, which the shade from the RV’s awning draped over the concrete slab (previously), mentioned, creates the new indoor-outdoor domicile. This life thing. Boy. Who said it was going to be so fucking random and horrible? I’ve dealt with an unfair amount of calamity, IN MY HUMBLE OPINION. FUCK. I feel crushed flatter than hammered shit, with still more things that need to happen before the dust might actually settle. It’s a truly odd sensation: feeling the breeze blow in a room with no walls. It feels like the wind could carry me off, rip me free from my moorings and cast me deep into the uncertain fray.

I’m on target for a second rescue venture: taking Jax’s stuff out of the apartment and moving it to her storage unit in Old Town. I’m not sure what I think about all this helpfulness. I’ve been given a very limited, rickety platform to stand on, representing only a few planks of genuine gain from these encounters. So far, I can hang my hat on the need to get the apartment clean, with or without her help. THOUGH WITH HELP IS MORE FAVORITE THAN NO HELPS. Even if it hurts me to look at her… even if I still feel the raging burn of her betrayal in my guts. I just have to do what’s right by my life, and everything else will fall into place over the passage of time. HA. HOPEFULLY.

Another furious public ass-fucking is still in the cards for me, but I don’t see my humiliated state being of much interest to anyone. Perhaps the revenge of helping is my best road here: I can hold the high-ground with positive action. At least, for myself, I will know I’m doing the best I can, and that will have to be good enough to satisfy. A snickers bar for my meddling consciousness and other vital self-reinforcing places.

As you can see: its early and my brain is a walnut of destruction.


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