Re: A Personal Note

David Friedman wrote:

...[..]

At a tangent ... . Does anyone else find that VeeJay reminds him
somewhat of a certain feline poster we unfortunately haven't seen for a
long time?

<Chuckle>..I'd like to know who this kitty-poster is; my curiosity is
piqued, you could say.

Okay, OT then, with my issue. Here we go. And this might turn out to
be rather long, but it's mostly serious. And no, I'm not
deceased...<checking pulse, waiting for that welcoming syncopated
thrum-thrum>...well, not *yet*...

See, I happen to be physically disabled, in an *official*,
governmentally-approvable sense of the word. It's my heart and
kidneys, see...apparently, they happen to be so utterly filigreed with,
well, unhealthiness that the only procedure the docs say will set
things aright is if I somehow get *new* ones. Id est...transplants.
Which quite frankly scares the bejezus outta me...for several reasons.
But this isn't what I wanted to discuss; it's just a starting point.
And I don't mention it to tug however unceremoniously on collective
heartstrings of sympathy of all concerned like Quasimodo on the ole
bellropes; just setting the scene here. In fact, I could argue here
that my health, and the consequential disability status its garnered
me, was one of the best things that ever happened to me...and to fully
explain that position would require another thread in its own right.

Enter me, then, as MC of this narrative, about...oh, say, a few months
back, January-ish. Getting in excess of a grand in governmental
disability money, gratis, per month. Girlfriend decides to change her
personal status with me to...*ex*-girlfriend (well, the progression
went thus: Girlfriend...Confused Girlfriend...Potential Friend
w/Benefits...Ex-Girlfriend...Ex-Regular Friend Distancing
Herself...Apathetic Persona Non Grata, in that general order). Now
then, me and (ex) were originally planning to renew our lease on our
townhouse apartment, back in that paleolithic era when we engaged in
extended spit-swapping matches...but then, with her newly-chosen status
vis-a-vis me, she decided that perhaps it would be better for her to
move elsewhere after our lease expires on July 31. This announcement
she made to me back in February. I, who had originally felt
comfortable with the idea of renewing our lease where we were, didn't
bother to save any money for a security deposit for moving in
elsewhere. And in this particular locale-of-concern, living standards
are a mite pricey. So, it was time for me to start saving, since I had
a few months to come up with something like, oh, perhaps, somewhere in
the neighborhood of eight hundred dollars, easy. At least.

But put a dunce cap the size of the Eiffel Tower on Van here now, since
Van didn't decode to save *anything*. Since I felt so bloody
uncomfortable spending any time in the apartment while Girl was there
(in the process of getting back with her old boyfriend, which was her
actual motivation for saying adios to moi), I often would awaken out of
bed, get dressed, attend to cursory hygeine then make like a hellion
bat for the hills, escaping onto campus, hanging out at libraries,
writing-writing away on what was then my (lessee here now, counting
mentally) fifth novel/novel attempt, which was a ficiotnalized,
absurdist, burlesque-ified, slipstreamy account of---guess!---my
relationship with Girl (a bad idea <shiver>). And when you aren't at
home, not cooking for yourself, addicted to Snapple and coffee besides
(with no ready access to facilities other than local convenience
stores), the relative amount of money spent on food and sundries shoots
skyward like a Saturn V. So Van saved precious little during this
period. This overspending phase lasted well up until, oh, May-ish. It
was all my fault and I claim to be deserving of no sympathy on this
score. One positive aspect/result of all of this was that I finally
started work on this obscure sci fi novel idea that was spinning about
in my headspace like a malfunctioning gyro, tugging on a pants leg like
an ornery two-year-old hungry for attention, his mouth smeary with
chocolate, wanting to be taken to the park. But I spent money all
during this period like generals signing contracts for every
wonder-weapon Hughes Aircraft or Martin Marietta happens to dream up on
the fly (hmm, sorry, my analogies sometimes get a mite *obscure*).

It all came to a head at the end of last month. Some time way way
back, my mother had resolutely *begged* me for my debit card number,
just to buy this one piddling collectible item off eBay. I was
hesitant, instinctively, but eventually I gave in, after having to
withstand a two-hour long tirade revolving around the subject and
subtext of "I condescended to carry your fetal a$$ in my uterus for
nine months running (or thereabouts), and I ask you for this one
pissant favor, and you turn your back on me, and no one appreciates me
or wishes to talk to me anymore and I'm so lonely here, my hubby does
nothing but watch professional wrestling and drool on his Dukes of
Hazzard t-shirt on his recliner---" and basically walloping me with an
anvil-heavy talon of guilt the relative size of Saskatchewan, dense as
positronium. So I coughed up the goods and gave her my debit card
number for her online order.

Much to my fiscal demise. For you see, last month, dearest, loving,
adorable-as-peaches-and-fuzzy-Beatrix-Potter-bunnies Mother-Unit
decides to take Van's debit card number and treat herself to an online
spending spree the likes of which can't even be matched by a Saudi oil
magnate, relatively speaking. My balance went so low, in the negative,
that you need one of those Jacques Cousteau-style deep-sea bathyspheres
to reach anywhere near it. So low, for so long, in fact, that the bank
in its infinite wisdom decided to 'charge off' my bank account...which
means, literally closing it out, writing me off then as a loss.
Persona non grata. I didn't find this out until too late. June 2nd,
to be specific, or thereabouts.

Now then...my disabilty checks are directly deposited. But in the case
of June's checks, at least two of them in specific...the electrons sent
by the Treasury Department whizzed their happy way to my local bank,
searched around for my bank account confusingly like hapless Kansas
hicks finding themselves somehow teleported right in the middle of
downtown Tokyo in the middle of rush hour....and then, seeing as my
account didn't seem to do anything like *exist* in any real sense, did
a one-eighty and beamed themselves right back to the Treasury
Department, returning to the cozy relative safety of their native
habitat. So I never got the money. One check, however, *did* make it
through, since I had to beg the branch manager of the bank (no less)
who was eyeing me sternly the whole while like a vice principal of my
high school who had just found out that I had made a scatalogical
reference to my beloved second-period biology teacher. But the bank
manager reopened my account so that the one check safely slid its
electrons in...so, I had enough to pay rent, pay off the negative
balance, with a pittance left over that didn't even keep me in burlap
and Ramen noodles for twelve days. I entertained fantasies of
developing time travel, just so I could visit myself three or four
months prior to all of this Dickensian melodrama, armed with a
humongously-overpowered taser rifle used by SWAT teams, and give my
former self a few good amp-surges right in the left gluteal: (This is
for giving Ma the card number! This is for eating Mickey-Dee's twice a
day for two months running just so you could avoid Ms. Ex! This is for
not checking with the bank to ensure that they would keep the account
open!) This is how you're cursed with a sci-fi writer's imagination.

Then, darker times set in. And here is where my abyss yawned open to
envelop me.

(Oh man, this epistle is getting Brobdignagian! I'll post this so far
and return later)....<twirling mustache venomously..."muahaha!
cliffhanger, no less!">

V

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