What I know, what I don’t …

Another roommate moves in next week.  All that I know is he is a Packer fan, according to my manager who doesn’t know anything about me.  I’m not allowed to know anything, but I have to live with him.  Regular people interview potential roommates before living with them, but when you are disabled you have no rights.  Just a number.  Being an author doesn’t matter. Roommates and managers will come and go.  The author will be here for the next twenty years. When my time comes, Clove will be a historic monument for years to come.  You laugh, but I will guarantee it.   The agency has to make money. 

Let’s see if I have this right.  An author lives in a group home during a pandemic, writing a manuscript about a boy with cerebral palsy for his agent while he does publicity for his newest book.  My manager doesn’t know what I’m doing.  Figures.  No alcohol, sex, visitors, can’t be inside of a building, or shop. The author had to ask permission to have cold duck for New Year’s Eve.  My managers don’t know what cold duck is.  And I can’t know anything about the house.  Pish.  Here’s to 2021 when maybe I’ll have my independence back and I won’t be here much.  I will be at the bar, drinking with Busy.  And my hooker can visit while I write the second manuscript for my New York publisher.  Maybe I will find her and not have to pay for it.  Ha! At the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve I will toast to Misty with my cold duck.  The last time I saw her was two years ago on New Year’s Eve and she kissed me on the forehead.  That was the last kiss of any female.  I shall not forget it.  She is waiting for me.  Until we meet again, Misty

Isolation

Life is funny these days.  There was a house meeting on Thursday that didn’t happen. These meetings are stupid — telling the staff what they should be doing. They should know what to do but don’t.

My cousin emailed me, saying, “I’m bringing you Christmas presents in the morning.” I told him, “To not come.” It hurt.  My autism roommate gets to go to home every weekend and goes inside buildings.  He touches things when he is out.  That’s what autistic people do.  I’m physically unable to touch things.  He could bring the virus here and I could die.  Rules need to apply to all consumers.  His parents spoil him and believe he needs to be entertained all day.  He has to encourage and see others.  His life goes on as usual.  Sometimes you have to say no.  I know that he doesn’t understand but he needs to make sacrifices.   I won’t see my sister until next Thanksgiving.  That’s two years!  Other consumers are in the same boat.   Emails, Facebook, Christmas cards, presents, Zoom meetings, and a Christmas Google party is how I stay connected with people.  Loneliness kills.  I’m loved by many.  I will get my life back soon and I won’t be here much.

Scofflaw

I missed the Packers game Sunday taking my cat to the veterinarian.  She was sneezing and her fur was coming out, so I took her to the veterinarian like an adult would.  She has a virus, but she will be okay.  I have spent the evening arranging the payment of the bill with the veterinarian and my beneficial agent.  I published a book last week and ordered a new Morse code input device.  I didn’t ask for permission, but I have to ask permission to go to Busy’ home to watch the Packers outside. I can’t be inside a building, but the veterinarian let me inside.  Oh, I broke a rule.  My staff and roommate go inside restaurants and stores.  I have to be out in the cold freezing my ass off!  Then my consultant wants to know how many hours I work at my job.  I don’t care.  Writers write until the job is done.  Everything that I do is written but the State doesn’t know what I write.  I’m just a child to the State.  I have realized that I don’t matter.  Just a number.