The prison of winter

January 29, 2019

I sat in the dark in my office, watching basketball, avoiding my roommate.  It’s too cold to go out.  Winter is definitely here.  My root beer is hidden in my bedroom closest.  My jam and ice cream are in the garage.  Cookies are tucked away in the cabinets.  I woke up one day, wanting a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch but there was no bread.  I had a loaf of bread the day before.  My roommate ate it!  Now she is not allowed in the kitchen and sometimes she gets mad at the staff for wanting to eat my food.  I’m “married” to her.  I can’t have meetings with my counselor without being interrupted.  “I love you, Steve,” sickens me.  I have lost my privacy.  What woman wants to visit me with my roommate around.  Should I have to be living a hermit in my home?

January 21, 2019

My autistic roommate attacked a care attendant over a phone.  He cornered her in the bathroom and hit her until she gave him the phone.  He doesn’t like living here and wants to move back to live with his parents.  He turned thirty one on Friday.  His mother came to take him home after the incident for the weekend.  The attendant will move to another house. The attendant was a good worker and I liked her.  His mother told me once that he was here to get him ready for the day when they pass away.  Of course he doesn’t understand that.  Today he will return home.  He needs to grow up.  Last night the bus drove by the condo where mom and I used to live.  “Hi, Mom,” I said, coming home from my bar.  Mom would have killed me if she knew that I was drinking.  But I’m independent now and she is proud me.


January 10, 2019

“Steve, your house passed inspection,” the manager said.  “Isn’t that great?” I don’t care!  I’m a bachelor and an author. I make messes.  That’s what authors do.  Come in April then you’ll see a mess.  The state doesn’t read that stuff anyway.  It’s like getting published no one buys or reads my books.  I’m a failure according to the State.  Just another statistic, costing money.  I want to apologize to the manager for sending her a nasty email.  I was wrong again.  The author disagrees with all the rules and it is my job to write it.  That’s my life.

Saturday is my fifty first birthday.  It will be my last.  Why bother to live.  The State regulations rule my life, including having a clean desk.   God forbid an author having papers on their desk.  !Spedih with her list!   I quit.  You will come today to do your list locking up my cat and not talking to me. I’m just a number to the State having to live with a bipolar person who threatens the staff and my cat.  That’s okay.  The owner of my care agency can’t reply to an email.  He is too busy making money to talk to clients.  I have seen him only once in three years.  He owns forty houses but never visit them.  Some normal people do live in your houses.  Visit them, Tom.  It doesn’t matter most clients are animals waiting to die like cattle.  I will hide in my office and room from my roommate with the doors locked.  I will yell at her and quit.  Death is my only option.  I can’t be an author with a messy office.