I think I’d make Grade A Coyote Meat, or at least Grade B…(Part 3 of 3)

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Don’t cry for me Susana

So about a month after the email fiasco, Inn sister and I are shooting the shit in the backyard.  I bring up social media, one of the many suggestions I had proposed to increase occupancy.  Her response?  “I think facebook is just a fad.” –Verbatim.  I make her another business pitch, get no response and decide to shut off my business mind for this place. 

I just rent here and get paid $0.80 an hour to answer phones.  Whatever.  It’s what I agreed to and I never asked for more.  However, I did tell her what she paid me actually calculates out too an hour.  She wrote back “as permission to live on this ground you will: not think of this as an hourly job, blah, blah,” –Sort of verbatim, but the very first condition she had was how I perceived the use of my time for other people.  I usually call it work and it usually comes with fair compensation.  I didn’t say any of this.  In fact, I think I just said nothing to that email as it was 2 months after the fact of me living here.  It just seemed…childish? 

So, now we come to a few days ago, been living here 17 weeks now.  On the phone, “working” with a prospective guest, I say, “well, they’ve been saying they need to redo the website since before I moved in, maybe it’s done?”  So I jump online with said prospective guest on the phone and sure enough, it was!  It looked great!  Some real time had been put into it.  There were pictures of the rooms by a professional; very flattering pictures. 

For some reason or another Inn sister calls the Inn and I answer.  Normally the store girl is still there but when it’s slow they leave early…adding more “work” time for me.  So I tell Inn sister how beautiful the website is, what a great job.  They take reservations on line there now and I spoke with her about how she was going to manage that with our, ahem, THEIR old fashioned book THEY write everything in.  No plan in place. 

So here I am, financially struggling so much that I decided to kill myself over a speeding ticket.  I tell her I’d be happy to help.  I’d work for half what I normally would because I just needed work.  There’s a blog section on the new site and I love this local area!  It’s heaven on earth to me!  I used to be a paying guest at this Inn. 

We had been in contact about my interest in buying the property until I heard what a ridiculously inflated value land has in this area.  30 miles away, big drug place.  20 miles away 2 guys were killed execution style in a trailer.  Does that show the disparity?  But I still fucking love it here.  So being the dumb ass that I am, I offered to do work for Inn sister. 

She comes out and accuses me of telling a disgruntled guest what to say because it “sounded like something I would say”.  –Verbatim.  She also says, “I don’t like you.” -Verbatim. And then “I don’t trust you.” – Verbatim.  After the “don’t like” statement I gave her a chance setting her up to say, “well, I didn’t mean to say that” but nope, she just kept right on.  

But funny how life works out.  This was a few days after I wanted to kill myself but now I had my pot so I feel like a whole different person.  I spoke with someone else about how this was a bit like 2nd grade where you tell the kid you don’t like them.  I mean, seriously, there’s a lot of people I don’t like,  I would never say so.  But I’m her tenant/“employee”. 

So now, I’m moving out.  But you know the most magical part of it all?  Everyone around me is being supportive.  Usually when I move, it’s because I’ve messed everything up around me and I’ve got nothing left.  I’m doing fine.  I was a little depressed, obviously, but I’m better.  I’ve got work to do, and thus money to make, I just was too depressed to do it and was depressed about being broke, caught in a vicious cycle.  Coyote bait, pot and 60 year old 2nd graders all gave me a good wake up call.   Goooood Morning!!!

Do I have to pay you now, cause damn that was therapeutic to get out!!  

Thanks for being you Blogville,

-B. Wright

 

 

 

 

I think I’d make Grade A Coyote Meat, or at least Grade B…(Part 1 of(already published)3)

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All right all ready buddy, we get it.
It’s grub time…

I thought I published Part 1, but,um, it looks like it was just still in draft form. I’m going to still run with I’m new to this shit. Ok…Sooooo Part 1 of my 3 part rant…

Stress is a killing factor for a bipolar person.  It can drive you so close to the edge, well, over it for some people.  It just weighs heavier on us compared with other people.  Not many people would decide the best way to deal with the speeding ticket you just got is to drag yourself out to the desert, slit your wrists and feed the wildlife. 

Then no one would have to deal with your cold, soulless body in what would surely be a traumatizing experience to said handlers.  I had it figured out how to feed the dog enough food so that she had to find the other food over time.  She’d probably just start eating it all up if I fed her enough to survive until someone noticed I wasn’t taking care of business. 

 

But I’m here, obviously, taking care of business.  I bought some pot and honestly, I feel like I don’t even know who that person was.  Seriously.  Like it was a dream or something.  But that’s what stress does.  I just melt into a pool of myself.  Useless.  Irrational.  And crying hysterically.  Truly a pathetic site. 

 

But it’s rare these days and that’s the beauty of it.   The past month, the doc has been changing my meds and I know it’s been a rough transition.  Serious withdraws like never before from the one, citalopram.  I’m still nibbling a small morsel off of a pill because I’m afraid to get sick again.  Only once before in the 13 or so years of my adult life have I wanted (and did) go to the ER for pain.  This time, it passed because there was no way I was driving myself 30 minutes to the hospital and it didn’t last too long.  But that was some rough shit. 

 

Years ago, pre-prescribed legal drugs, I was a mess all the time.  I had a lot of issues and would black out, oh I don’t know, maybe monthly, for a few years.  And just because I didn’t black out more than that doesn’t mean I wasn’t shit face wasted most of that month as well.  It’s the blacking out that scared me. 

 

At 110 lbs and cute, not being conscious is not good.  I’m lucky.  I’ve remained fairly unscathed.  No one’s unscathed.  That’s fucking life.  You’re going to get scathed over time, no two ways about it. 

 

Ahh, but why I’ve drifted there, couldn’t tell you.  I’ve got the “bipolar barfious” going on lately.  Sounds more official then, right?  If you add –ious to it…Again, I’ve been delighted to hear from others out there in blogville about the barfing condition that happens to all of us.  We often say wayyyyy more than we probably should have.  Shhhhit, I’m actually dealing with the consequences of my fucking mouth right now. 

 

I moved on to the grounds of an Inn.  I rent an apartment in the back and answer the phones in the evening for a discount on my rent.  It technically works out to like $0.80/ hr but I’m home anyways and the phone rings maybe once a night.  I also can go eat breakfast for free when there are guests and I get my sorry ass out of bed in time.  I go about once a week.  

 

It’s kind of like working because I grew up in the service industry.  It’s like a disease.  I can’t help but be hospitable.  “How was your stay?” “Where are you from?”  I just want to eat, shoot the shit with the cook and roll out, but it’s a disease.  I’ve got Server Disorder as well.  Damn, I’m fucked up.