Wolf Heart UPDATE 6.44 P.M CT

Dear Hearts,

I am hurt. Deeply and profoundly hurt. And sad.

God knows that I have been through enough therapy to know about “validated” emotions. Whether the emotion is justified or not, a person still feels that emotion.

I am hurt. Betrayed. Sad. Mad. So mother-fucking-sweet-mother-of-fuck tired. Mostly, I just feel bad.

I may have no reason to feel this way. But, I still feel it. It’s real for me. It’s my Truth. And I could be over-reacting, overly-sensitive, melodramatic…(Aunt Faerie I know that is not a parallel sentence).

I don’t want to go home to G-Pa tonight. I will when it’s time to make his dinner—he’ll eat something light because of the pie. . .I don’t even want to go meet him at The Café with Dr. Swede for pie today. I want to go somewhere else for a while. I want to hand him to Aunt Faerie tomorrrow, lock myself in my room, and say “you deal with him.” I need a break.

Maybe I am being selfish and none of these feelings are even legitimate, but since it’s my blog, I can write what I want.

G-Pa is still somewhat confused after his UTI, although he is getting better. I realize his whole routine was upset twice: Aunt Faerie went on a vacation she deserved and then he was in the hospital. 

When I came home last Wednesday night with my, quite frankly bloody tattoo, G-Pa said it was a work of art. Well, the Body Snatchers threw the real G-Pa back.

On the way to G-Pa’s urologist (leaving half an hour early for an appointment that is five minutes away is necessary)---

That sounds like some Absurdist play: “On the way to G-Pa’s urologist.”

There is this face he can make. He doesn’t do it often. But it’s like when Nan could just look at me and make me cry. He crinkles his face together in disgust—like he just stepped in shit. Or saw a woman without proper stockings.

Do you know that my mother actually used to not wear jeans when she would come out here in the summer, because he doesn’t approve of jeans. She was like my age then.

It’s a look that not only conveys disgust, but also superiority. The SLIGHTLY over-cooked pizza got The Look last Friday. I let it go—he had a bad UTI, he was confused.

On the way to urologist, he turned to me in the car (as I was driving five miles below the speed limit) and said, “I wish you would cover up that tattoo, Linnea. I am ashamed to be seen with you.” I felt a stab in my gut. Like, I really felt it. I pulled up my cardigan and then I thought for a moment.

Oh, and his tone of voice totally matches his face. It’s like a pure-bred Pointer talking to a mutt-sized chihuahua.

(I am not meeting G-Pa and Dr. Swede for pie. I got my own. I am just gonna go straight to Aunt Faerie’s and enjoy her roof covered [from rain] deck and get a hug. Aunt Faerie is being magnanimous enough to offer to cook for G-Pa and I. Maybe she is afraid G-Pa hasn’t had anything healthy to eat after he gave her my raving over-heating-pizza review.)

I digress. I am so tired I could cry. I was actually falling asleep at the desk this morning and saying things out loud that made no sense---I have to be mother fucking tired to do that.

So G-Pa and I going to the urologist. I thought for a moment.

No. No. I am not going to cover my tattoo. I am 40 years old and tired of being told what to do and how to do to please people. I tried that. Where the fuck did that get me?

Before, we went into the doctor’s office, I had him look at me (so deaf).

“I love you and I respect you, but I am not going to cover my tattoo. My bosses at work approve of it. No one else is going to think badly of it. You’re the only one who will be ashamed. I love you.”

He was pissed. I could test fucking tell. He turned down pie—which might have been because he went for pie the day before with Dr. Swede. Or, there are actually two posters in the doctors’ exam room showing pictures of the “Worst” and “Best” food to eat. Pie, ice cream, cookies, butter…all the worst. The man uses bacteria attracting Brita filters because city water cause Alzheimer’s. He is worried about eating pizza and pie. And he doesn’t need cholesterol medication because Aunt Faerie cooks so healthy.

Well, G-Pa…what about the chips you eat from morning till night? Or the sugar-laden Gatorade? Or canned peaches in heavy syrup? YOU ARE TOO FUCKING OLD TO GET ALZHEIMER’S! At very much almost 97—cholesterol, sugar, my e-cigarettes are not going to kill you. So I went to therapy, made him soup for dinner—it was all good.

Then.

He sat down to write a letter. I knew he was writing to Mom about me. I did stop him from going to the post office at 8.30 p.m., because I didn’t think it was necessary for him to drive. He actually gave it to me to mail in the morning.

I opened it. You have to understand his letter writing history. He gets a burr in his saddle and then writes nasty letters to people. Aunt Faerie and I mitigate that a much as possible. I thought the letter is either about me—or the charges he had threatened to bring against the hospital staff for an incident that did not happen. I did not want the nurses to get any hassle from hospital administration. They were good to us.

I won’t bury the lead:

“Daughter

I am disturbed by Linnea’s tatoo the way se expose it too the public. When we went to the doctor today I asked her to cover up but she did not. I was so embarrased to have a granddaughter like that to mar up her body It was just drunken sailors that that had tatoos. Please ask her to cover up in public. If she does not, I can’t take it and will have to ask her to leave. A person cannot live the New York way in P’Town.

Papa”

I know he wasn’t cognitively sound when he wrote this letter. But that shit fucking hurt. Where the fuck does my “New York” lifestyle come from? Where? I lived in the fucking boonies with a troll as a neighbor, no cell service, and no convinces for at least 10 or more miles. Mar my body? He should fucking see what I do with my epilator on my legs and bikini line.

Ask me to leave? What?

I can’t even express…my whole life is just getting settled here and then I have to uproot again and leave Burning Bed...

Aunt Faerie—I know what you would have done and what I think I know what you’d tell me to do.

But. No. I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup when I was married. There are so many PTSD triggers in that letter I can’t count…

Mom and Dad stood behind me.

Mom got him to back down on the phone the next day. By the next day he couldn’t really remember writing or mailing the letter and he did not bring up my leaving.

I love him. I respect him. But I am so fucking enraged at him.

I responded with a letter of my own this morning and left it on a military-themed puzzle I ordered for him.

“Dear Papa,

First, I love and respect you. I am so very grateful to be living here in The Holy City with you.

I know that the last week has been tough because of your bladder infection and being in the hospital. But, you are getting better!

You asked me to cover my tattoo when I am in public with you because you are ashamed.

I am sorry you are ashamed. But, I will not cover my tattoo.

I thought about getting this tattoo for a very long time. Tattoos have come a long way in the last 80 years. I chose to get a wolf above my heart to remind myself to never give up. They are considered works of art. 70% of the women I work with have tattoos. The majority of my generation has tattoos—it’s like wearing jeans. My supervisor at work loves my tattoo. She took a picture of it—because she wants the same one. There is no shame in tattoos anymore.

Since my divorce things in my life have not been right. I wanted to give up a lot. I did give up when I tried to kill myself over two years ago. I don’t say that to make you feel sorry for me. But to let you know that I gave up on life. The time I have spent here in Princeton with you and Aunt Faerie has made a huge difference. Especially, since I have permanently moved here. I still struggle with depression and of course, my shaking episodes. My panic attacks. But, I am not giving up.

This is Act II of my life. This is my second chance. I want to make a life for myself here, in The Holy City, with you and Aunt Faerie. I love our drives, pie days, time with Dr. Swede, and McDonald’s coffee. I am grateful to be here for you when you need help. You deserve that. You took care of people your whole life—now it’s time for us to help you. Not that you need much of it!

Every time I look down at my tattoo I am reminded that I have a Norseman/Kennedy heart—a wolf heart. A wolf never gives up. He fights to the death. He leaves it all of the field. I think that description fits a Norseman and a Kennedy too.

You may never understand, but my tattoo GIVES me strength. I will not give up. I will fight and live this life fully. The feathers symbolize the 12 Apostles and the Bible quote: Isaiah 40:31 “But they that wait up one the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

Whenever I look at or see my tattoo I remind myself of all the fire I have come through, but that I made it out on the other side—in The Holy City. I did not get my tattoo to show off or be popular. I got it above my heart as a reminder to myself.

You don’t have to be ashamed of being seen with a granddaughter with a tattoo. I have gotten so many compliments on it in the last week. There is nothing to be ashamed of.

Throughout my whole life and my marriage, I did what I was told. I followed all the rules and did all the right things and I still ended up having a nervous breakdown. I have to live my life for me, not other people. My ex-husband told me how to wear my hair, that I couldn’t wear make-up, what TV shows I couldn’t watch. T did the same thing. I AM NOT COMPARING YOU TO ARTHUR OR T. Nan told me what to do as I grew up and I did what I was told. Bully bosses told me what to do.

When I turned 40 years-old, I promised myself that I was not going to just do what I was told anymore.

I am proud of my tattoo and it means so much to me. It is a covenant with God that I will not give up.

I do not want to make you angry or disrespect you. But, I will stand firm on this. I will not cover up my tattoo. I hope you can accept and love me anyway.

Ever Faithful,

Kate

(Then in my own handwriting)

I LOVE YOU

You don’t have to like it. That’s your right. I’m just asking for [you] to accept my tattoo as part of me.”

The day is almost done at Burning Bed. I know even know what I need to do to feel any sense of restoration. Next week is eye doctor, check engine light, work, license, residency, vet…

I just want to the carousel to stop or even slow down a little.

I “please” G-Pa in so many ways: driving 10-15 miles below the speed limit…it’s not about tit for tat…

But, Goddamnit. See me and love me as is.

I don’t want to live with you out of pity. Like the reject daughter that the family “has to put up with.” I don’t want to worry about being told to get out. G-Pa, if you want me out, then do it now. Not two months from now. I will not live under an ultimatum. I will not be “the good granddaughter” just so I have a place to live.

Just remember that my decision or your decision for me to leave would impact a whole lot more than you think.

G-Pa, you are almost 97. Yes, you are not going to change your ways—but, you are gonna hafta accept this one if you want me here. I won’t live here on the condition of worrying about getting trouble. I lived most of life that way. And it earned me two nut-house stays

Gram, I wish you were alive. I wish you were here. If you were here, I probably wouldn’t be…I wish my life, as in-authentic as it was, had never shattered like that marble ashtray. I hear him from bed at night and in the morning calling with absolute desperation in his voice…

“God, send someone! God, I need you! I need someone! I need help! God, I need someone! I need help.”

Love is not about liking every part of a person—it’s about “fierce indifference” to the parts of that person that you don’t like.

A lot of the time I do what I told. But, I don’t want to live according to someone else’s whims. Again. Even my saying that I want to live is a miracle. I am not trying to be a rebel. Just me.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Café pie

Chilled coffee

Aunt Faerie back

Health

Family

Awesome church supper brownie

Cigarettes

Aunt Faerie’s deck

Sleep

Faith

PS: Thank you so much, Bertha—the founder of Burning Bed--for seeing my tattoo, telling me you loved it and after I told you what it meant, saying that I ought to show it off more. Thank you for the hug and kiss on the cheek

PPS: I may need to just feel sad and hurt for a while. I'm hit. By many things.

PPPS: Senior Priest. You should be old enough to know how to put a communion wafer in my mouth without your thumb going with it. Eww. New Priest--you passed your first vetting process. He talked about God love, Grace, and plan. Happiness, Fulfillment, and Peace. I didn't have to  go "middle fingers up, put them hands high"

Philippians 4:6King James Version (KJV)

6 Be careful [anxious] for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.

If G-Pa has physically hit me in his confusion, (which happens frequently in that mental state) I wouldn't hold that against him. As long as he didn't break my $10,000 nose that caused me so much pain and from a deviated septum and blocked sinus. Then I'd be pissed. But, I could easily forgive being smacked. But, the words...that hurts more. I pray to God to let me make peace with all of this with G-Pa--assuming it's over. Words cut like a knife...mightier than a sword. 

Crisis Line...How Can I Not Help You?

Dear Hearts,

I am alone! I am fucking alone! Dr. Swede took G-Pa out for coffee. Halle-fucking-julah

I reached my limit.

I can’t do this one more day. I cannot be responsible for G-Pa for one more day. I can’t deal with eye doctors, dentists, urologists, mechanics, appointments for one more day. But, I will. And, I can. Why? Because I have to.

I actually turned my phone off this afternoon to take a nap. I have never turned my phone off for at least three years. I slept well and peacefully.

When G-Pa gets back from coffee with Dr. Swede I will make up some excuse as to why I didn’t join them. The coffee fucking sucks and I get to be alone!

Mom says I am putting this on myself. I feel 100% responsible for G-Pa. What he is doing, when he’s doing it, his medication, his comfort, his being bored or entertained.

I still have not unpacked my room. I have a pile of clean laundry growing like some petri dish experiment out of control. My room is in no particular order and I can’t summon the energy to put “nest” and display all my things the way I do. I don’t know how I want stuff to set up. I started setting my things out in their orderly, lovely fashion and stopped because I was just re-creating where everything was in the Albatross. I don’t know how I want my room to be set up.

Your house, or your room is a reflection of your inner psyche to an extent. I don’t know what my inner psyche wants. I want to be Kate with the Wolf Heart who howls, not Kate who wants to kill herself and cry. I just haven’t figured out what that looks like yet.

I am not running today. Fuck it. Just fuck it. It’s humid and I felt light-headed/dizzy this morning. It’s hot and humid out. I have my coffee chilling in the freezer. I will say my prayers and have my sacred Coffee Hour in the backyard.

I just went into G-Pa’s room to give him an antibiotic I forgot to give him earlier. He got back maybe half an hour ago. We talked briefly—about dinner and my just not wanting to go out for coffee. He has no recollection of that conversation. He thought I was gone. That disturbs me. That scares me.

But dinner is done. I cooked the special microwavable potato wrapped in some kind of special plastic wrap. The beans are done. And I have thawed meatloaf or I can do eggs. Or soup. That is the extent of my cooking. Thank God for Auntie Faerie and her meatloaf.

Note to Self: when cooking/drying out food in the microwave, if you put a little bit of butter on everything including the meatloaf—it makes G-Pa like it.

He is fucking mowing the lawn. Dr. Blane, this morning, said he could do what he felt up to and I guess the neighbor (the one that likes to check out my tits when I smoke outside at night) left lots of fallen leaves on G-Pa’s lawn. There is some dispute as to who lawn that little swath belongs to…but God forbid anyone sees leaves on the ground in October!

I have not vacuumed this house since I got back. There is spilled sugar next to my purse and I just put a shoe over it. Seriously. I keep the bathroom and kitchen clean. Well, not so much the floors.

It has been a rough re-entry here. Working, like really working, two days a week is something I have to get used to even though that sounds pathetic. And, they are going to give up on me if I don’t learn how to handle crisis calls during 1^st Shift.

“Good afternoon. Burning Bed. Kate speaking. How may I help you?”

“I need an order of protection now even though it is 4.30 p.m on Friday…My son, who is an adult, was raped and it’s all my wife’s fault. Can you stop her?...I am in Florida, but I used to live in Illinois and Burning Bed helped me out—I need money and legal help now…My daughter is being abused by her boyfriend, fix it…I am scared of my husband but I don’t know what to do.”

I am supposed to answer these questions intelligently. Compassionately. Efficiently. But there is always more to the story and I just don’t have the knowledge yet to help a battered woman put together a safety plan…tell a father that if his son is an adult, we can’t do anything unless he himself calls…

I have been up and down so many mother cock fucking times! G-Pa has a Club meeting tonight. I forgot. He is out mowing the lawn. He was discharged from the hospital yesterday. And he is mowing and I can’t stop him.

SSSSSCCCCCRRRRREEEEEAAAAAMMMMM

That would have been a perfect break for me tonight.

I digressed. I don’t know what to say to these people who call in crisis. There is no amount of pre-made scripts, or role-playing, or training that can give that to you. It’s like teaching. But I feel incompetent.

I always felt like a “not good enough” teacher. But, in my heart, in truth, I was a good teacher, but I didn’t get there overnight. It took years. But, I expect myself to just know what to say to an abusive mother who is lying and has foster kids with DCFS involved, and wants her daughter, who is not only being abused by her mother, but also her own husband to get the fuck out of her house and come to BB for the night.

I want to get good at this stuff…I just can’t do it yet.

What if BB fires me or gives up on me...

I feel like a fraud. I feel emotionally, spiritually, mentally beaten.

I haven’t drawn. I cross stitch. I haven’t put my things away. My clean laundry is piling up. My CHECK ENGINE light is on. G-Pa will want dinner while I am having my SCH (Sacred Coffee Hour). I am selfish. I don’t think Angel loves me anymore.

Aunt Faerie—get the fuck home! Please?

You need to go with G-Pa to see Chung tomorrow. I have therapy. I have to pick up chicken n’ biscuits from a trough at some church for G-Pa. And, Dr. Chung, who told G-Pa a day before he was admitted to the hospital, and said his problems were not urological, is gonna get Jersey Kate tomorrow.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Coffee

Health

All my blessings

Ice cream

My tattoo (on which I will write a blog post)
Family
Cigarettes

PS: I de-friended T on Facbook. Boy, bye.

PPS: I ordered a cheap metal ashtray with a wolf on it to use outside. Let's see G-Pa break that!

God, please forgive the shortened prayers. 

Ashtrays Can Break In A Second

Dear Hearts,

I bought the five-inch diameter round, regal, black marble ashtray about twenty years ago when we were at a family reunion. It was some kind of silent auction. I remember competing with someone for it. There was a set—two Romanesque relief vases, and a three-inch tall oval cigarette holder with a lid.

I smoked my peace pipe out it. I used it as an ashtray. I smoked my peace pipe with it.The is ashtray survived the divorce. It moved from my parents’, to the rental, to the Albatross, to The Holy City. I was using it as my outside ashtray. Because believe it or not ashtrays are a rare commodity these days.

Like cigarette lighters and ashtrays in cars. Oh! There is no ashtray! I won’t smoke then! No. I will just throw my butt out the window. Oh, I can’t find a stylish ashtray for my home! I quit. Nope. I go to Amazon or eBay. Or make do. Not smoking because I can’t find an ashtray…is kind of like saying Trump will stop being such an asshole because he has realized how important compassion it.

I digress.

So, when I MOVED here—I brought my good ashtrays with me. I don’t break ashtrays. I just don’t. But I have broken like three here.. WTF? I ordered these cheap plastic ashtrays—I didn’t realize they were bright red and blue and PARTY size. 1970s in a box. Good Lord, they are ugly. So since the spring, my marble ashtray has been my outside ashtray. I appreciate a nice ashtray. The other day the chair and table (on which the ashtray sits) were behind my car and I was in a hurry and backed over them.

I fucking backed over my marble ashtray. A small chip on the bottom. Amazing.

Why was I in a hurry so much that I backed over my ashtray, table, and chair? G-Pa has not been well. Monday night Aunt Faerie and I were in the ER with him. The next day the urologist. The next day his GP. The next day the ER. It wasn’t until Thursday that it was decided that he had a raging bladder infection.

I am overly sensitive or hyper-aware of dementia or cognitive decline in G-Pa because of what I lived through with Pop, who had Alzheimer's. But I knew something wasn’t right. And you don’t have two bladders worth of pea that has to be catheterized out if there is not a bladder issue. Yeah, Dr. P.—his problem wasn’t urological? Fuck you and the degree you got in the Cracker Jack Box.

Initially, in getting G-Pa to the ER from Aunt Faerie’s house I showed him some old-fashioned Jersey driving. 75 in a 55. Tailgating. Flashing brights. Excruciating pain in his lower left quadrant. I knew I would be faster than an ambulance.

ER DOC: “Why did you speed?”

15 minutes earlier…Aunt Faerie: “There is an emergency and Papa needs to go to the ER.” Now, Debby can remain calm and unaffected on the outside (although her insides are mirroring Dante’s seven layers of Hell) during Armageddon. So when she says it’s an emergency—I fucking move.

ME TO ER DOC: “Why are you a fucking idiot?”

I didn’t say that, but WTF?!

“Um, because I didn’t know what was wrong and I wanted to get him here as fast as possible,” I said incredulously. Gotta be nice to the hospital staff. I had one gun blazin’,’cuz they was not workin’ fast enough.

I knew. A UTI.

And with a UTI comes severe confusion. Aunt Faerie and Bugsy (who has been kidnapped by the Pod People) were to leave on vacation Tuesday and I was to

FUCKING FINALLY GET MY TATTOO WEDNESDAY!

Bugsy said, “go with the flow” (yeah, the old Bugsy is definitely taken away by Rod and Co.—but whomever they replaced Bugsy with is not even close to the old Bugsy—so the Martians are slipping in their technique). He said, “go with the flow” like four fucking times. Anyway, Aunt Faerie and Bugsy put off vacation for two days and it was down to the hour of like if I can still get my tattoo.

Was God trying to tell me something?

G-Pa got up and took himself to the GP an hour early. I was up. I was there. I told him Aunt Faerie had delayed vacation a second day. His appointment was at 11.30. At 11.10 (yes, there are precise time people) Aunt Faerie showed up while I am on the phone telling Mom that her dad disappeared. Aunt Faerie and I were dumb-fucking-founded.

G “It’s acid reflux.” Fuck you. I know the digestive system and you do NOT get acid reflux pain in the lower left quadrant. Gas---maybe, but not heartburn. Aunt Faerie and I just looked at each other. This man could not pee the night before. He was in pain.

Mercifully! Aunt Faerie offered to take him for pie and a drive. I could make my tattoo! Woot!

I’ll leave the tattoo story for a different post. I love it. Compliments: beautiful, powerful, restorative, amazing, incredible, it suits you, Oh My God that is a work of art. Yes, it hurt like a motherfucking bitch.

“I am going to Chenna and you are going with Aunt Faerie for pie.”

“Why are you going to Chenna?”

“To get a tattoo.”

“I don’t like tattoos on women, I do not approve.”

“Well, it was Mom and Dad’s birthday gift to me.”

“I think they are wrong.”

“Well, I’m 40. I am fairly responsible and I don’t drink, so you’ll get used to it.”

“I will be ashamed to go out with you if you have a tattoo.”

“Okay. You’ll learn to deal.”

Aunt Faerie snickered. Now, I don’t know if she talked to him or not, but he fucking told me it was beautiful when I got home. Rod Serling and his Martians again. My supervisor at work took a picture of it, so she get the same kind.

Boom. Drop the mic.

Yesterday, Aunt Faerie and Bugsy left for vacation and G-Pa took himself to the ER. I had to be at BB. I am here now. I didn’t get a lunch today. But, I didn’t really want to go home.

All I wanted last night after picking up drugs for G-Pa and stocking up at Walmart was coffee and a cigarette. For an hour I tried to explain the antibiotic. I was on the verge of tears.

But, no episode. Huh.

I had seen this before. He was cognitively not okay. Thank God, he trusts me and I am now doling out his pills. I took all the drugs in the house and put them in my underwear drawer. After I had finally gotten him some soup and got him settled with the TV I could have my coffee and cigarette. Except it was near 7.30 and I had to work today. Oh, and my warm weather has gone away. It was basically dark.

G-Pa had to water the flowers. So I moved close to the steps and out of the way of the flowers.

“Oh, I broke your ashtray.”

He had dropped and broken my marble ashtray. The very one that I ran over—he broke.

“Do you have all the pieces?”

I was too tired to be devastated. The 1970s are back. Now keep in mind that ashtray stood in the same place for the ENTIRE TWO MONTHS I WAS GONE. But, last night, he broke it. It was in the exact same place.

That first cigarette will still… Then I was sprayed by his hose. I gave up. I was in bed at 10 after 10 with a bag of peas on my tattoo. Promotes healing.

He was absolutely amazed that I was going to work this morning and when Mom talked to him on the phone, he could not understand why the Sunday sermon was not on and she was not in Church.

Oh, also. I lost my glasses.

Tonight I gotta get ice cream and drugs for myself from Walmart and I am bringing home pizza which will make him happy.

I will also buy myself a coffee.

That’s all I want. Coffee, a cigarette, and to read.

Sometimes glasses get lost, ashtrays break, and infections fuck with old people’s minds. Huh, maybe that’s Bugsy’s problem…well, if it is he needs to stay infected.

But, I helped save a dog, gave out as much compassion as I could today and yesterday, got an incredi-fucking-able tattoo, and an old, old man is safe, warm, and taken care of.

“You can’t always get what you want…But if you try sometimes you just might find…you get what you need.”

Luke 8:9

“And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and he shall find; knock, and it shad be opened unto to.”

In the verses before that—Christ says to be persistent. Don’t stop knocking.

I am askin’, seekin’, and knockin’…My Lord.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Health

G-Pa being not confused as much

My tattoo

Faith

Family

Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

Good coffee

Warmer weather

Hope

My time at the Garden yesterday--thanks for putting one aside

PS: The people whose dog I helped save. You will have a reckoning.

PPS: I typed this Friday then a whole bunch of shit happened like G-Pa in the ER and being admitted. Fuck. I have had it. Four Xanax yesterday. I was gonna blog properly today. But, I’m not. Instead, I am going to go for a run and then have my coffee and cigarette. It can all change in a second. All of it.