Rob-world

I’d been saving them, but not publishing them.  Oy. Now, they’re posted.   YAY.   I just straightened out many of my password problems.  YAY; again. Maybe I may finally make this a conscious, daily, habit. YAY.

I really don’t see the point to having money if you’re not going to use it.    I  don’t travel, my hang-out friends all live elsewhere , my tv is a tube set from the  last millennium; the weather here sucks in winter, trapping me inside for, oh, we’re going on 6 weeks now, pretty much.   It’s been this way, or worse, for the past 5 years.  I don’t kill myself, honestly, because of my cat. And I’m not even a lesbian. I’m also gutless, which fills me with so much self-disgust….  I am too depressed to go to Meeting, and haven’t been for the past several weeks; I think 1x this year, so far. All I do is therapy, which I don’t see the point of, anymore.  I’ve given up  on ever walking again, so why bother?  I’m miserable 24x7 and gutless.  Butch repeatedly tells me I’m getting worse, and, finally, I’m ready  to agree with him.  I have to include him in all my travel plans, or else the $-people won’t approve my travel plans, & he gets pissy when I ask him to help me get ready for a trip...

The further along I get in my recovery,  the less hope  I have of ever being autonomous again.   It’s like, “Oh, we left you in charge 1x, and look how you fucked THAT up.  So, it’s best NOT  to try that again.  Don’t you agree?” Um, no. People,  you’re discrediting my ability to learn from the vast wealth of life experience I’m  gathering,   AND, denying  me the chance to act upon lessons learned.

I'm writing to you, directly, because this has been on my mind for a long time. I'm fucking miserable. and have been for a long time. I wanna move to the St. James because it was designed by an architect in a wheelchair, so EVERYTHING takes that into consideration. It also has a pool with a wheelchair lift in it. The only residential one in the area, outside of a rehab setting. I need to do some cardio; despite 2 trainers, I get and have gotten no or minimal cardio for over a decade, & the St. James was designed by an architect in a wheelchair so EVERYTHING takes that into consideration. The interior of the units too. I have made my peace, quite happily, with living in Philadelphia, even to the point of buying a funeral plot from my Quaker Meeting. I need to get over my reticence of talking to Peter. It is all of my own fabrication. I hope to buy Giovanni's Room, too; because I could get for a song and because, it is a recognized national landmark who should not be allo...

& have been, for years, actually. 

My acupuncturist quit,  after over a decade of service.  My physical therapist quit months ago and  has yet to be replaced.  My new Quaker friend was murdered. My employee isn’t being treated well, and says he  hasn’t gotten a holiday bonus in 2 years.   I’m sure there  are  acceptable reasons to y'all for 4 of these, but you know what:  I don’t careHappy effing new year.FIX IT.NOW. TIRED,SAD, AND FRUSTRATED,Robert Drake

I’m listening to  the Pet Shop Boys through my new, Beats headphones, all my tv shows tonight are set to record on  my tv, but  creatively, I’m dry as a bone. Why?

This increasing lack of control over the direction of my own life, leads me, with increasing resolve, to the decision to take my own life, after Grendel and my father die.  It’s just, increasingly I become aware of my increasing inability to self-direct my own  life.  That’s all gone,  now.    And  I just can’t take it anymore.

Crudely put, I have way more money than any non-bestselling author should.  But  it’s all in a trust that, ideally should operate in such a manner  as to allow  me to get back to the level of creative proficiency I would be making the  most of, had I not been bashed.  Sadly for me, it  all operates with goal of saving my money  for a life I may  never live to see.  Right now, I’ve  given up  all hope of leading even a semi-self directed life.   If my life continues on it’s empty path, I’m killing myself after Grendel and my father die.  I take full responsibility  for  the events  leading up  to  my assault, but  none for after,  except for staying alive & working so hard at my recovery for so long.  Most of that,  the 4th & Arch Quaker Meeting lovingly gets the credit for.  When I got my  award from  Ireland’s Injury Tribunal is is when the neutering of my free will  happened.

Arguing for my independence with my trust lords  has gotten really old, really fast.  See, I’m like a poor man’s Brittany Spears:  all my money is in a  special needs trust, dispensed as need be by my Trustees:  Gil Roth and Peter Johnson.  Gil, I’ve been friends  with since St. John’s.  Peter does this for a living, & cuts me a world of always legal and ethical slack. More tomorrow.  Nighty-night.

My autonomy was my most highly prized and effective personal feature. Whatever happened in my life, even the bashing,  I could be held culpable for. And should be. Now?   Not so much.

Up late, trying to put everything in order. Order lets me FOCUS. FOCUS. ;-)

…with Republican extremists in their hatred of Queers.

In fact, it seems to be my  secondary default state. I haven’t feared death, since the assault.

and haven’t been, for such a long time.  But everything I  name as a cause, is often symptomatic, rather  than causal. SO…

My Friend Amanda,who I know from 4th & Arch, died last week. Heat stroke. I found out on Sat., when I went shopping.  A clerk at the grocery store goes to my Meeting and told me.  We’d just agreed to start hanging out after Meeting sometimes, or through the week, as part of my effort to try and develop new friendships. It’s same as my friend-to-be, whose name,  other than “Joe”, escapes me now.  But we were all set to begin hanging out, then he was shot and killed the weekend before.  I’m the only common denominator between them both.  Well, me and the Meeting. And Wendy Hewland-Drake died a few weeks ago. Again: me;  I’m the common denominator. I know it makes no  logical sense, but there it is:  a clear, simple, fact-based observation.

The Pet Shop Boys are doing this thing where they re-release new versions of older lps with some new material; of course, I’m lapping it all up like pablum. I can’t stop thinking of Wendy’s wake, from a personal point of view.  Of course.  IT’S ALL ABOUT ME. fOR FUCK’S SAKE.  I’m going to bed.