This morning's writing:
I wish good shoes would solve all my problems. They are, the same as TV and chocolate to me in the sense that I seek some cheer, to forget the horrors of life. To ignore them. Same with reading, and even writing. I've surprised myself by pointing out that even writing, even memoir writing, can enable me to ignore horrors, although my memoir will ironically make me focus on the details of some horror.
I like my blue writing thimble. I like my slippers. I like my clothes. I like my nose, though Chris's friend Bruce didn't. I didn't like the way he clutched my thigh. I don't like the way Chris stole my beers and told me "f*** you, bitch!", and shaved my pubic hair while I was in a coma. I don't like the way Chris kept his scooter in my apartment after I told him I wanted it out, and I don't like how he paid a measly $20 to Bill, for dangerous work, and I don't like the way he gave me anger, when I said I wanted time apart, and I don't like that he called me before the time I asked for was up, and I don't like the way he ranted about his hatred of Jews, with the vibe that he was really ranting that he hated ME.
I don't like Chris, in general. The only thing I like about him is he has never stolen money from me, as far as I know. He did steal beer, and he did use foul language at me when I confronted him about it. I don't like the way he hated me for taking Bruce's hand off my thigh. I don't like Bruce. I don't like Chris. I don't like Charlie. I don't like Anne, who started all this, ignoring the horrors of life, in overdrive.
I have her to not thank for having given me a good example of a loved one, to look for in others, instead, looking only for distraction from horror in others, and, finding it in my desperation, in the nooks and crannies of monsters like her. Always making my fears as small as possible, I would focus on things that were fun, or seemed safest, like, the male and female in the car in PEI, desperately trying to get to the city, seizing on the idea I wouldn't be sexually harassed because the male had a female with him. His lucky day, that he had that female decoy with him, he got a duck, me, to shoot with his penis.
Other times I looked to signs of fun, cheer, safety, I went with Carrie, just, to focus in on that cranny of a smile, that was the closest to cheer I could find, in a cold world where the child care system's best on offer were warehouse workers. Carrie trafficked me. I still sought out cheer though...