Hello, neighbors! I look like like shit right now. I’ll own it.
Well, technically that was on Halloween, when we got a snowstorm here in Chicago. HO HO HO. In any case, I’m gonna launch into Whiny Adolescent Mode, because I need to vent, and that’s the easy way to do it. This is why I write songs like “I Don’t Wanna Be In Jail,” [sorry, one of my two batshit roommates is speaking ALOUD to Jesus (allegedly) right now…ok.] “I’m Gonna Kill My Fucking Neighbors” and “I’m Tearing My Fucking Hair Out.” For examples.
So a little more about Nursing Home Life, which can’t end soon enough, but that’s up to the state of Illinois (oy). I didn’t sleep for shit last night because roommate my roommate Ted (name changed; not the one talking to Jesus, but proceed) was yelling at his voices last night. Loudly. Worse than usual, and for hours on end. Yeesh. And it was driving me nuts but I also feel bad for the guy, but I need my fucking sleep some time, anytime I can get it. And nobody does anything about it. Well one day last week they gave him some thorazine, and that helped the voices (I mean it helped Ted) but then I was reading and it was nice and quiet and I heard a CRASH.
He’d fallen down, into the wall, by the bathroom, which he was staggering toward, rather then using his wheelchair for transport, as he’s medically advised to do. So I got a nurse for him. But nine times out of ten, they don’t do anything.
So then in the morning I overhear a CNA, who was changed Ted’s diaper (he’s not elderly, just infirm) (I may be changing tenses and give so little of a shit) the CNA says “Ok Ted, they’re Deep Cleaning today, so you gonna have to be out the room.”
I’d just caught an hour or so or sleep and sat bolt upright. “WHAT?!” I know what Deep Cleaning is; the fact that I’d been up pretty much all night and had gotten NO FUCKING NOTICE of the cleaning as is customary, this is what grilled my onions. (Not sure that’s a real saying. It is now.)
I appreciate Deep Cleaning, because it does prevent bug infestation (though I’ve gotten good at cockroaches sneaking past the gate) (what gate) but it’s a pain in the ass, especially with no notice, because you have to pack up all your shit and get out of your room for several hours. It was nine o’clock; I had to be out from 11-2. I didn’t have enough time to try to sleep more, and was too pissy anyway. It took a half hour to get my stuff packed, and then I was out in the wild of The Home.
On the one hand it was nice socializing more; there are a few cool people here. But it was nice for the first hour. Then the anxiety just grew and grew like the Grinch’s heart. I knew the day was a wash. I would have tried to read, write, listen to music, but it just wasn’t happening. There would have been constant interruptions. (Most people here aren’t elderly, just mentally ill like myself, to a greater or lesser extent.) So I fucked around on Facebook the whole time. I practiced guitar for a tiny bit. But I was just tired and panicked.
Finally I had my room back. But I’m not unpacked and I DON’T WANNA unpack. I felt like shit, physically and mentally, worst than I have in a few weeks, maybe even months. I did some guitar and bass exercises, then an hour or two before dinner I tried to catch a nap. I did so with my headphones blasting The Brokedowns, which, why aren’t you listening to the fucking Brokedowns right now? This was to shut out Ted AND Larry, the roommate I first mentioned, who dial hops on a blasting boombox radio most of the day. I did doze off.
Then the nurse wakes me. Any time they wake me up here, they kinda give my leg a little gentle shake, and every time I wake up in a PANIC, and I scare the shit out of them in turn. HA!
So, dinner, anxiety running high. A smoke afterward, a small cup of mud. A little more guitar, but then Larry is blasting the radio and Ted is yelling at the voices again (FYI, there’s about four or five feet between our beds, and he’s always in his, and I’m always ON mine whether I’m practicing the strings, writing, eating, etc.)
More Facebook. I’m posting so much I use Twitter for a couple thoughts; then I figure I’ll get a blog in about it. But FUCK. I don’t feel ANY better, and worst of all I feel that what you’ve been reading (which I wrote in 10-15 minutes) is just fucking DULL. So I vomited DULLNESS, and I still feel like puking more, MUCH more (metaphorically, I hope you’re minding), but I don’t know right now. I haven’t gotten in enough musical exercise; I’d planned on at least one review today and while it’s inside the realm of possibility the prospect seems GRUELING.
It would be different if I were under a deadline. I like having deadlines. But I have none right now.
Did I mention depression?
Shut the fuck up, Jonas.
I’m hesitant about posting this, but the one quality it does have is honesty, so I’ll let it fly.
Be…all that you can be. Til next time…
I’m always accepting donations. This is until I get assistance and/or start making a little money off writing (I’m submitting poems and writing for/look for other websites to write for.) (Ten bucks can change my whole day. More than that changes my life.)
Love.
THE PUNK ROCK NEIGHBORHOOD 