The Alien Returns

I took a break from scrubbing the carpet in my living room to type this. Alien puke smells worse than human puke. Robert, who on a whim decides s/he’s Roberta, is asleep in his (?her?) S-10 pickup at the curb outside my house. I have a hard time telling the difference between Robert and Robert(a). They seem to dress from the same racks at Fantastic Thrift. It’s a rather Goth look using a lot of deep greens and splashes of pink. Roberta assures me that if I were an alien it would be obvious to me that s/he was a she. Noted. I’m not an alien, so . . .

It’s sunny and wintery warm outside my window. The recycling truck came by an hour ago. I’m hungry, broke (again), with no job since 12/9/2015 and the usual pile of bills I can’t pay. Our vaunted Affordable Healthcare Act so profusely promoted as a better way has resulted in my appearing to not have health insurance even though I’ve done everything asked of me. Yay! I’m scheduled to see my doctor for the first time tomorrow and though I’ve paid for insurance and my insurance company has recorded my payment the Health Insurance Exchange in Virginia thinks that (a) I have not applied and (b) I haven’t paid. Can I punch Obama in the face? No? Damn.

I offered to volunteer at the jails with prisoners who need help finding a job once they are released. The pastor who runs the program suggested I take the class myself, since I am an unemployed ex-offender. The “Therapeeved” post is one I still have to repost because it was lost along with everything else when I tried with good intentions to upgrade the MySQL instance that runs this site. The too oft offered answer for almost half a century has been, “do some therapy.” I’ve done my share of therapy. I am incorrigible. One thing this this site is for me is a narrative on what it’s like to be a hot mess and maintain a quiet, stable personal life.

At least in church people know this and know that what works for me is to learn how to behave appropriately in a given circumstance. Which, I’d say, I’ve done ok with in the last decade or so. Another class to teach me how to apply for jobs and keep a job doesn’t excite me. It kind of pisses me off.

My living room still stinks. With all my therapy and martial arts and reading and Boaz & Ruth and Sunday School and counseling and long teary conversations with friends you would think I’d just not let Robert in the door. I’d get the locks changed. I’d call the cops and have him (?her?) trespassed. I’d get a restraining order. He’s there, on the curb in his truck, snoring loud enough to be heard here in the spare bedroom. “Anxiety is a choice, just get over it.” Right. Were it that easy.

Yah Yah. It’ll be fine. It always is. Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you . . .” The usual cavalry has arrived and is helping out. But the habit of worrying is a hard one to break. Robert now says I should call him, “Bob”. I can’t help but think of the original “AA” Bob of many moons ago. The tract listing meetings I put on his windshield is gone. Maybe this time.

1 Comment

  1. Robert sounds like my brother.

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