It's odd how I miss Wendy. so much, so vitally. Maybe because we were each other’s backup-plans. We’d get old, and maybe go live out our final days, in a place we called 1 Walton’s Mountain. Now where am I supposed to go now; what am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to grow old with and die? The Trust is not set up to allow me to seek out, and live, my best life possible. So I haven’t; and don’t. Perhaps oddly, my life is only given purpose by Jaime. I saved her; they were gonna put her down because she’d already been adopted 2x, but returned each time, probably because when she’s nervous, she gets incredibly fluid shits. I’d like the Trust, or somebody who could & would do something about it, to notice how unproductive and sad my life has, frankly, become. And allow me to concretely invest my money in making myself, my life more resolute and productive.
a blog that is also meant to serve as a recovery journal, for this gay, Quaker, writer dealing with t.b.i., from surviving a hate crime in Sligo, Ireland, on 1.31.99.