Nineteen years ago.
I remarked on Instagram today that probably one of the biggest reasons my daughter has shut me out is I have her entire childhood between my ears and I know what and who she actually is, up to a point (I don’t “own” everything she is — she owns herself, and she also operates under her own power and initiative), and therefore I am inconvenient to have around because she wants to pretend none of that happened. I did not also mention there that that is a common tactic of young people who think they’re trans, and that sort of thinking is also why they call it “deadnaming” when you refer to them by their birth names. They literally believe they have become a different person, which is odd when you consider that they also claim to have finally uncovered their true selves. Well, kiddos, that would mean you were the same person all along. You can’t uncover what isn’t there. Make up your fucking minds?
Being in a support group on Facebook for parents who’ve gone through this has been illuminating. I had read enough accounts of rapid-onset gender-dysphoria girls up til I joined to understand some of what was going on, but I had no idea how textbook these kids are all being. Of course, each individual kid fancies they are being original. If they only fucking knew.
…
I have been running into some right rotten bullshit on Uber lately. First off, Uber can’t take “no” for an answer when they offer me some bullshit job and I refuse it. I thought I was a contractor? Then I have a right to say no. I cannot fathom what they are thinking, other than maybe they want to inflate my refusal percentage. It wouldn’t surprise me. Then there was the guy who accused me of having someone else do my deliveries when he ordered from inside a secured facility that I could not get into and a security officer offered to bring it to him. Yesterday, I got a customer who ordered a trunkful (as in my car trunk — and the car is a Hyundai Sonata, so that is not a small trunk) of groceries, including heavy items containing liquid, and I didn’t know what I was getting when I went to pick it up, and she lives on the second floor and was home and did not offer to help, and neither did whatever man was talking with her behind her door as I labored back and forth. She at least had the good grace to top up my tip. Then today, I had one who didn’t like how long I took, even though it was the restaurant’s fault for not being ready when I got there, and who didn’t like how they filled her drink, even though they filled her drink and I had nothing to do with it. So she downvoted me and took three bucks off my tip. Probably killed the whole thing, actually, but she couldn’t take what Uber paid me. And that was a twofer call, and the other customer had to wait longer than she did and he gave me five extra dollars. It is really hard knowing that you are good at your job and that most of your customers like or love you (at least for ten seconds at a go) and then having to contend with assholes like this and having zero recourse. I can’t block them even when they lie. I can’t downvote the delivery experience anymore — and from my end the delivery experience was fine, anyway. But I can stop picking up from Shawarma Bites, because this was not the first time they made me wait and I’m not going to leave myself wide open for more problems. I’ll get problems anyway, but when there’s a known vector, why not rule it out from step one. So, thus far, I have blacklisted Café Istanbul, Dave’s Hot Chicken (oh let me tell you about Dave… I’ll tell you about Dave some fucking time), Walmart, and now Shawarma Bites. Who’s fucking next? I hope no one, but believe me, there’s lots more where you came from. Bring it.
…
Additional Uber gripe. Was dropping off at the Extended Stay America on Tuttle Crossing and there were a couple guys loitering outside the front door when I went in, and when I came back out and speed-walked past them towards my car, one of them called out to me like, “Hey.” Fucking really? No. Keep that bullshit to yourself. Even if I were up for getting attention from a guy — and if your initials are not RFM I’m fucking not, thank you very much — I’m not gonna decide that on the basis of some fool on a Thursday night with nothing better to do than stand around talking about whatever with some random other guy outside an extended-stay hotel. Because we all know why you are here, and it’s not travel.
But I have to be philosophical for a sec — thanks to my looks being gone, I guess, because my age really isn’t all that obvious, I could count the number of times this has happened on one hand. Probably actually one finger. In two years. Not too shabby really. It just threw me because it’s been so long since it last happened.
But I’m not full of myself, no. These assholes are never actually interested in me. Even Matt wasn’t, and Matt wasted two whole decades of my life. (So did I, but they were my decades. They were fucking well not his to waste.) Men who pretend interest where there is none are fucking trash. End of story. At this point if you pretend interest I assume you’re out to ruin my life. Again. Go home — or to your ratty little weekly suite — and wank. Asshole.
…
So we thought Dad had had a brain bleed again this second time in the hospital, but turns out they might have been seeing old blood from the original bleed, and I’m not sure how the fuck that happened if they suctioned it out like I thought they were supposed to? I dunno, but I rather thought they’d do that. Maybe I’m mental. (Shaddup.) And I found out in all the back-and-forth that he’s had a Life Alert subscription for a while now, so that’s good. But he was offered the veterans home and Doug’s place in Oregon after this mishap and turned them both down. We all know why. The veterans home wouldn’t let him drink and he’s got reason to suspect Doug wouldn’t either. (I think Doug said he’d go along with Dad’s requests, but I could have misunderstood him. Nevertheless, who knows how that would turn out. Dad doesn’t know either, and that’s the problem.) So it comes down to Dad caring more about the bourbon than about his kids, which is no surprise because it’s been like that all along.
I mean, I get it. I have health issues I could have gotten on top of at least 10 years ago and I still haven’t. If I don’t rein this shit in I’m going to be the helpless old person kept alive only by pharmaceuticals and unpleasant medical things, but have I changed my ways? No. Am I proud of that? Also no. So I can empathize, up to a point. I’m not 100% sure Dad even cares. Like, does he comprehend the situation he is in, or does he have his own weird little spin on it? Because I heard about his shenanigans with “quitting smoking.” I’ve seen the way he talks about various situations and issues. Dude not only marches to his own drummer, he’s got a fucking accordion instead. He’s on his own wavelength. I am not sure he understands the problem. I think he believes he understands the situation and that it is not actually a problem but everyone around him is calling it a problem so they can pick on him. I am not sure anyone is going to be able to get through to him. I do not know why someone obviously intelligent would think like that, but there it is. I have long suspected the man is autistic, actually, and Mom probably is too, and I got a double dose which is why I was such a weird little kid. Are any of us going to get help for it? Also fucking no. How do you set up an IEP for a grown-ass adult? Where would you even begin?
So there aren’t any good answers, so my dad’s probably going to be dead in the next five years and I’ll be dead shocked if it isn’t in the next five months, and I’ll still be the bad guy for talking about all this out where everyone can see it, because making me into the sacrificial goat is sure gonna fix Dad’s health or raise him from the dead, uh-huh. You bet.
…
I got the books sold. Talked about that several entries ago. With everything I’ve made so far that I was able to keep, I’m $100 short and tomorrow’s the last day of the grace period. But! I have a $35 Spot Me on my Chime account. I need a couple bucks for a postal money order or a couple more bucks for two Meijer money orders. Either way, I only need $70 tomorrow to get it done. If I can’t start early and make $70 on a Friday, I might as well throw in the towel.
[knocks on head]
So it’s get to $70, stop, buy the money order, take it over there, text Elizabeth to let her know it’s there, then get my ass back out there because I’ll need food money ’cause I’ll be muthafucked if I’m gonna have fucking canned pasta for supper again. I’m thinking that hibachi place I picked up from on Henderson the other day. The place smells AMAZING and that shit will feed me for at least two days. Oh my GOD. YES. And maybe bubble tea. I think I’d really like that too. If I can’t get them tomorrow because I left it too late, I’ll get them this weekend. It will be amazing. You just wait.
Okay. Bed. Shit to do tomorrow, lawds yes.