26
Aug
19

I can’t even, today

I meant to work some more on “Dr. Gale.” I did. I had my coffee and Strawberry Jam Monster at the ready, my chair lifted to its maximum elevation (the pump is busted, so it sinks to uncomfortable levels after sitting in it for about half an hour, or if left unattended for two hours or so), my salt lamp burning and Mista GG’s Predator Chronicles playlist on the iPad (I need noise, and given that I’ve watched them a hundred times and know them by heart, plus it’s long and not often interrupted by ads, it works well for this purpose.)

I was prepared. But my brain decided not to cooperate, especially when it got crapped on by all the layers of the “real world” that I get to deal with.

My apartment, as I mentioned previously, is infested with bedbugs. We’ve set off multiple bug bombs, hosed the place down with Raid. They keep coming back. We had notified the complex owners, also pointing out that the damned things appeared after a new neighbor moved in downstairs, one who likes to stand naked or nearly so by his window and make whale sounds at passersby, one who brings a stench of rotten meat and garbage juice that wafts constantly from his open window, and who sounds as though he’s boxing with the walls at any time of day where he isn’t blaring “music.” On Friday, they informed us the exterminator was coming on Tuesday.

Great, cool. We’re supposed to rearrange the whole house for the exterminator (or face a fine), and I get to try to meet these demands in my condition and then figure out where to hide for several hours while they do the job (accompanied by a deaf-but-very-vocal cat who dislikes me at the best of times) and the apartment returns to livable conditions for a severe asthmatic with allergies and other respiratory or pulmonary issues. I don’t mind all that; if I can stop being eaten alive at night, I’m happy.

Went to call the exterminator to find out what else they need, find out they’re actually coming to spray for roaches and don’t know anything about bedbugs. Apparently, they’re doing this because two other tenants have moved out recently, leaving behind a roach infestation. So I get to continue to be eaten alive, and they’re thrashing the place for bugs I don’t have, and both incidents boil down to the fact that my neighbors are fucking disgusting.

Add in small claims court, fighting with disability and doctors, my depression deciding it wants to bludgeon me extra hard today, my schizophrenia keeping me up all night, arguing back and forth with different doctors over who’s supposed to poke me next and who’s going to sign off on my inability to work for the last several months (if anyone) and scheduling my visit to the Giant Rotating Coffin of Doom (aka, a CAT scan) and my mind is just not able to deal with the idea of writing fiction.

I actually was sitting there staring at the keys for a long time before typing this. Was tempted to say “fuck it” and not post anything at all. But I said I’d do every day in August, and by God, I meant it. It’s still August. I’m at 25 days in a row. I can’t – and won’t – quit now.

So, sorry, for anyone who was waiting on “Dr. Gale.” Hopefully things are a bit better tomorrow.

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