Moving on?

A manuscript goes to New York this week.  Do I deserve to be a New York author?  I’m a racist and don’t respect people.  It makes me wonder what I’m doing.  I’m guilty of running over an attendant twice.  The irony is I don’t remember the real reason why I did that.  I don’t have behavior issues.  It is a combination of bad care and expecting too much out of attendants, making the minimum wage.  I can’t move on from what I did.  Going hungry often and taking a shower was a luxury.  You don’t forget that.  Am I a bad person?  This bothers me.  I’m hurt by this.  It makes me feel awful.  Maybe I should quit?  I’m writing a manuscript about this to show poor care ruins when attendants can destroy people.  Also, I’m afraid of doing it again.  This is why I’m writing a manuscript about this?  I’m sorry about what I did.  In the manuscript, I commit suicide to show what bad care can do to talented people.  Suicide isn’t in my mind.  I have an apartment, a female friend, a manuscript going to New York, and my own staff.  Life is good but I won’t ever forget what Rachel did to me.  Treated me like an animal, trying to bring me into my roommates. 

Man of the House

“Who are these people,” my autistic roommate asks.  They are Steve’s new staff,” my former case manager said.  “Why,” my autistic roommate asks.  “They are caring for Steve.  We’re caring for you and Mark.  We don’t care for Steve anymore.  He switched companies,” the manager replies.  “Why,” he asks.  “It is how it is,” the manager answers.  “Are they going away,” my roommate asks.  “No, they’ll be here caring for Steve every day,” the manager says.  “Oh, what time is Steve getting up, what is he eating for lunch, is he going out,” he asks.  “I don’t know I don’t work with Steve,” the manager says.  “Why,” he asks.  “He did something wrong,” the manager answers.  “What,” he asks.  “Nothing that concerns you,” the manager answers.  “Oh,” he says.  That’s my life until I move in April.  Half of the time, he is home with Mom and Dad.  When he is here, he is a know-it-all and I’m stupid.  I understand and he doesn’t know I protect him.  That hurts.  He is 35 this week.  He is always the same.  My new manager used to manage this house.  He believes she is here for him.  When I move in April, I’ll move in front of him and say goodbye.  I can hear a thousand questions already.  When I’m gone, he will say to people, “I’m evil.”  He will be the man of the house.  I will be a New York author with a girlfriend.  That’s the reality.  I will always remember Michael.

“Hold on, Steve”

Seven years ago I hired a care agency after Mom died.  Three roommates have passed away.  Another roommate is in a nursing home or passed.  She called my autistic roommate “a nigger,” and sexually harassed me for two years.  My autistic roommate is innocent.  He will be here in this house for the next forty years.  Care attendants come and go like the wind.  The other day an attendant filled in for the exhausted case manager doing double shifts.  She knew who I was but I didn’t know her.  I forget people except for my best attendant who wasn’t allowed to bring her baby to work.  Two attendants have abandoned the house in seven years.  I have been called, “rude,” “selfish,” etc., etc. I had sex for the first time in my life in this house.  I will always remember it.  Rules took that away.  I turn 55 on Thursday.  I look at women when I’m out and I have been talking to a woman online for two weeks now.  I can look but I can’t have a woman in the house.  Two books have been published and two plays have been produced here.  Two manuscripts are going to New York soon.  A third manuscript is being written.  I’m told to wait for everything.  Praying and cleaning are more important than caring for an author.  My computer screen and new electric wheelchair have food on them.  Cat poop is sometimes on the floor.  Personal calls are always happening.  I’m now respectfully not saying anything.  “Hold on, Steve,” when I haven’t said a word.  I know who I am and will be.  An author never forgets.  One day soon Integrity will congratulate me on a New York book deal.  I always have the last word. 

Happy New Year … sort of

She sat in my lap.  I could feel her butt against my penis.  It felt good.  It has been a long time since I felt that way.  A man needs a woman’s touch and compassion.  Misty knew that, but every stripper does.  I went to Silk, spending $160 and $160 in cab coupons.  It was expensive but I don’t care.  It was my Christmas present to myself.  Drinking champagne at midnight and at the Bartell.  Before I left the theater the producer gave me a cup of champagne, saying, “Let’s get Steve’s party started.” Everyone knew where I was going.  The producer said to me before The Blitz, “You should be able to have women over if you want.  That’s fricking ridiculous.”  I live in two different worlds. I’m independent and an author.  I can do anything and write a manuscript or a script.  On the other hand, I can’t respect people or have sex in my room.  Soon I will be a New York author.  Doing interviews, signing a contract, and doing publicity while writing another manuscript.  And still, I look but I can’t touch.  That’s life in a group home.  How many authors live in a resident home?  In April I’m moving to my apartment and I’m doing what I want.  I’m done living in a group home.