A lap dance is always better when the stripper is crying.

The other night I misplaced my gym membership card. I guess it fell out of my pocket when I was exercising. I realized it was missing when I got home. The idea that it was missing threw me into a panic - I called the gym and asked them to look for it - they said they would, and call me back if it was found.

In the meantime, I started to feel kind of strange. I was anxious, so I took a big slug of hot damn. then I got a beer. Next thing I knew I was remembering this one time when I misplaced my ID card in Nogales, when I was living with * and the cats in one bedroom with S and her three kids. Oh boy - it was bad. I was shaking and crying and * was really really mad at me - like freaking out and telling me I was careless and irresponsible and that it was such a bad thing I had done.

I don't know if it's worth mentioning that I was working at Denny's (a job I would quit after working for approximately three to four weeks) at the time - I'd gotten the job while living in a fleabag hotel with Big Gay Al and * and the cats (who had to go to the humane society during this time)

this is the worst runon sentence ever - but I'll clean it up later. The point is that I'd been working, but I was stressed out, and I tried not to freak out, I'm pretty sure I cried and apologized and said I'd get a new one, then a while later I found it - jammed into the notepad holder I used at Denny's to take down customer orders. I do remember crying and looking for it furiously, and then after it was found, I remember there was another talk about how I had to be responsible, take care of things, and keep track of my stuff.

Is it even worth mentioning that it was my fault we were there? that I wanted to go back to greyhound, back to work - because there was no work in Nogales? That I was afraid of living in our car again and I didn't know what to do, since Sonia had gotten the apartment from Crossroads mission and there was no money?

I have no idea where I'm going with this. I just know that the other night this seemingly random thing caused me to remember all this bad stuff, and it felt like I was really there, and I barely remember it happening, but it was horrible.

I spent a while - I don't even know how long, in bed with K, crying and he held me and I kept saying I was sorry, and that I didn't mean to freak out, that I didn't want to be broken, and that I was sorry. Lots and lots of apologizing and crying. Oh - and something else that scares the hell out of me. I was afraid that I was abusing K. I try not to think about this. I mean, we split the bills, and I have a job, and we are very happy together - but sometimes when I feel sad, I wonder if I am hurting him by being here - by existing. I am pretty sure this is irrational.

Speaking of apologizing and crying:

I was a stripper for exactly two days. This was in 2001 - nearly 7 years ago. I was pretty and thin - I wore a size 10, had maybe a 30 inch waist, and wore a 36C - I looked great.
Sadly, being thin doesn't necessarily equal "good at stripping" I did not make much money. I mean, any money is better than working in the alfalfa sprout factory, right?

Two days. On the second day I was tired, my knees still hurt from landing on them hard the night before, and the other girls kind of made me nervous - they were bitchy. Perhaps they were on drugs. I might have liked stripping better if I were high. Bet you can't guess who smuggled a half pound of weed across three states so they could be high every day!
But enough about that for now. Don't worry, Mary Jane plays a prominent role in the rest of the story. After all, if it wasn't for her, I would not have been able to pack up my belongings so efficiently for my escape. We'll come back to that later.

Oh, there are so many bright spots along the path - but I'll try to stay on the subject.
Apologizing and crying.
I decided I didn't want to be a stripper anymore. Keep in mind, I hadn't bought any new stripper clothes - I had what was left over from my term as an Angel's Escort, as "Charity" - wonder why I picked that name? I thought it might inspire chastity - purity - and that maybe I wouldn't get propositioned as often. Yeah, whatever.

Should I get into being an escort? Talk about what it feels like to dash off to a hotel room, collect two hundred dollars, strip to no music, and try to ignore what's happening behind me?
Sure, why not? I can't seem to keep my mind focused - there's too much that has to come out.
Taking off to a motel, with * in the car - to entertain someone for an hour - that same someone who thinks they're getting some sort of happy ending, rather than just a private dance. It was not fun. Not fun. Not fun.

Then back to stripping. I decided I didn't wanna be a stripper anymore when I saw one girl chuck a hairbrush at another girl in the dressing room and I was afraid I could get hurt. I called * and told him I didn't wanna do it anymore. And yes, it was my idea to do it in the first place, if you're curious.

So * picks me up, and boy was he mad. He glared at me, then he started his serious voice that's real quiet, the one that always made me think he was one step away from hurting me. He said something like, if you ever mention stripping again, I am going to go off. Of course, I was already crying at this point, because my response to anxiety is to cry and apologize. I wonder if it even means I'm actually sorry or aware of what is happening anymore?

I don't know. Anyway, I'm upset. He's upset. The ride home is a blur, something about how it was a waste of gas to pick me up, that I'd made more money standing on the corner panhandling, real confidence boosting stuff. Also that I'm selfish, that talking to me is like talking to a wall, and that if what he's saying is upsetting me, maybe he won't tell me how he feels anymore.

oh. right. now i remember - there was definitely one of "the talks" that night - the ones where he said I needed to be responsible, because he would not be around forever. you know, he thought he would die. this scared me. maybe that was the desired result. i didn't wanna be alone. hell, I still don't.

Why am I remembering all this now? It hurts really bad and I don't want to. I don't want to remember it. But I don't want anyone else to go through it, either.

We got home and he was silent. I don't remember what happened. More crying and apologizing, then - oh I remember he left me alone for a long time, then he got mad later because I didn't come talk to him.

That happened a few times over the years - he'd stomp off like a two year old with a tantrum and I'd leave him alone because I'd be tired from the crying and apologizing, then he'd come back and get mad. Oh, and this one was one of his favorite things to tell me. He would say something like you know this is one of my tweaks. you know that when I get mad I let it all out and then it's over

but it wasn't over.
he'd get mad and yell at me
he'd get mad and be silent and give me dirty looks across the room with his arms crossed
he'd get mad and say he was on a hunger strike - I would offer to cook anything - but of course nothing in the house was what he wanted to eat

i can't look at a box of cocoa puffs without wanting to kill, kill, kill.

so then it was sometime around this time that I started working for West teleservices out of their office - I think.
yes, that must be it - because for a long time I said I worked at West, but I was really taking phone sex calls for a few months.

Phone sex is a lot of stories - and some of them are comedy gold.

after the phone sex (which ended because our phone was cut off) I went for a walk one day just after we'd been robbed and went to a church and pounded on the door because I wanted help. I wanted salvation, I wanted to join the convent so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone ever again. if you never speak, nobody can tell you you're not a good listener, right?
you think i am kidding. thank god nobody came to the door.

So it's here that I realize my writing is still very fragmented - each thing reminds me of something else, and it takes me a very long time to get back to my original point.

The point is that even though it's almost been two years, I still feel damaged.
I still feel like I'm not good enough, even though I'm trying to get it right.

I still worry about * reading this site and saying bad things. I should not have to think about him anymore - and I am trying my hardest not to. My mom is handling things from here on out, but it's not fair to her to have to handle my problem for me.

What is my problem? Ultimately, it's that I'm still afraid - I am afraid of him, I see creepy guys at the gym that resemble him or talk like him and it disturbs me greatly.

Then of course I worry that I was abusing him the whole time, that I was abusing him, and so of course I worry about abusing K.

Standing on the corner, watching all the cars go by.

You haven't lived until you've stood on a corner holding a sign begging for money. Really, it's not a bad thing at all - you get to work on your tan, you don't have to talk much, or smile, or make eye contact - in fact, it helps if you look rather ashamed of yourself.

We got evicted. We took the cats to the kennel, told them our apartment was being fumigated, and that we'd be back for them in a couple of days. We spent the night in the car in Wal Mart's parking lot. I went into the store to pee, bought a magic marker and some poster board, and made a sign that said "Stranded Please Help" and spent the night slumped over in the front passenger seat (all our belongings were in the back seat and trunk) trying to ignore the rain that was falling on me, and thinking about how I would try to get people to give me money so that I didn't have to spend the night in the car.

How on earth did we get evicted?

Well, I must admit, this one is all my fault - we were working at Greyhound, and I don't remember which one of us got tired of working, but somehow we got the idea that it would be better if I was a stripper instead. So we quit our jobs and I devoted my time to exercising nearly non stop, doing a hundred sit ups or more per day, and practicing how to strip.

I swear to god, I was not on drugs at this time. Bet you can guess who was!

So... apparently in Arizona you have to have this license to strip, it costs like $300 and it has your photo on it. I could not get hired to strip - not because I wasn't pretty enough or small enough, but because I didn't have this license. It was around this time that I wanted to go back to work at Greyhound to get the $300 - I made $231 a week there - so yeah.

Anyway - back to standing on the corner with a sign. This is, without a doubt, the most humiliating thing I have ever done - ever. Worse than trading food stamps for drugs, worse than lying to everyone for nearly approximately a decade, worse than smoking and lying about it, worse than stealing from the Electric Cowboy.

All I could think about was how the cats would be euthanized if we didn't pick them up.
I thanked everyone for the money. One lady gave us a tank of gas and a bunch of sandwiches from the gas station (she owned the place) and twenty dollars, too.

If you've ever wondered what it takes to make me snap, for me to absolutely lose my shit, this is it.
Being evacuated from my home, losing my pets, spending the night in the rain, and then standing out in the sun begging for loose change while breathing exhaust.
I was still okay when we had enough money to get the hotel room.
I was still okay.
I called the motel, they said they had a room.
We drove down to south Tucson and pulled into the motel - and the manager said we could not stay there.
And there was something in the parking lot that had caused our front right tire to go flat.

...wait for it...

at this point I lost it.
I absolutely lost it. I took off down the street - did not care what happened to the car, any of my stuff, my ex husband sitting in the car - I did not fucking care. the sound around me was fading
I took my fistful of crumpled money and stalked toward the nearest payphone and called motherfucking 911 for help.
ex husband came over all worried so I gave him some money and he took off to see about getting a used tire.

no help from the police.
I think I went back to the car and stood there and waited for ex husband to come back with the tire.
I dont remember. I was so tired - writing about this has tired me out all over.
I'll finish this later.

Food or toilet paper. You can only buy one.

Okay, this one is not as easy as it looks. If you buy food, you will need toilet paper. But if you don't buy food, you may not have to use the toilet paper. What to do?

This is for informational purposes only, I am not advocating theft here.
If you try this and get caught, it is not my fault.

1. Put on the biggest coat you own, the one that makes you resemble the michelin man.
2. Walk to the nearest convenience store. Take someone with you.
3. Walk to the bathroom. The person who came with you should find the smallest, least expensive thing in the store, and buy it. hint: atomic fire balls or a blow pop. If they sell loose cigarettes, I suppose you could buy one of those, but if you're this broke, you're better off selecting something that you can EAT. Besides, smoking is bad for you. Then again, if you're living this way, you may have stopped giving a fuck about your health altogether. If that's the case, smoke 'em if you got 'em.
4. While in the bathroom, take advantage of the hot water and wash your hands and face. You may not have hot water or soap at home, so this is really a fabulous opportunity. Before you leave, steal as much toilet paper as you can fit under your coat.
5. Emerge from the bathroom, victorious. Notice what your friend bought, and go pick out a similar item for yourself. Now's the time for your friend to use the facilities, if you left any toilet paper in there at all. Make sure to leave some.
6. Pay for your two items, and leave the store.
7. Walk to the grocery store and buy something to eat.

Utility bills? What are those?

Today my thoughts turned to utility bills.

How does someone too poor to afford food pay for utilities, like gas and electricity? Simple: they don't. They bargain, lie, and beg not to be disconnected. They wheedle and plead and grovel. They let the bills pile up, and try not to think about what it's doing to their credit rating. When the utilities get cut off, they move. No, I'm not kidding. It's cheaper for a (near) homeless person to move than to pay 3 months of back utility bills. It's an even better financial decision if you can time your eviction to coincide with the electricity being cut off. Got a high gas bill? What better excuse to quit paying the rent entirely! Start saving up for that fleabag motel with kitchenettes downtown, baby, 'cause we're movin' on up!


In our first apartment, on Texas Street in the warzone, our landlord would not give us a key to the mailbox. He said we would have to go to the post office and pay for one, because the previous tenants had not given it back. The bastard didn't tell us which post office. There are a lot of post offices in Albuquerque. We went to one, it was the closest to where we lived, in an absolutely stellar location. The bus didn't go there. It was the wrong one. They didn't know which one we had to go to. We tried another. Keep in mind, it was winter, it was fucking cold all the time, and I was sick. We didn't look for another post office until the ice melted off the street. During that time, we got bills for the electricity, the gas, and the phone. You know, to this day, I still have no idea what a PNM bill looks like. I never saw one. My mom sent me some info so I could apply to college. I never got it. I hope there wasn't money in that envelope. She said there wasn't, but I'll never know.

Living in motels is good because there's never a utility bill. The bad thing about this is that it's kind of expensive, so you have to share with other impoverished folks. But that's a story for another time.

I have a different perspective on utility bills now. They still suck, but I don't cry or scream when I open the bills anymore. Of course, now I have enough money to eat every day, not to mention all the money I "waste" on piddly stuff like video games and concert tickets. But, even with my newfound abundance, I wonder what it's like for all the people out there who are living in dire conditions (or god forbid, worse) just like I used to. Then again, I don't have to wonder, do I? I know damn well what it's like for them.

Satan likes his coffee HOT!

Image credits: engrish.com

Okay. I was visiting engrish.com and this picture reminded me of a story.

Back in the late summer of 1996, when P. Kitty and I were living with Zack and Carmen, we went to Circle K in the middle of the night. P. Kitty and I were getting coffee, and there was a crazy lady walking around in there, she had some styrofoam cups and a lighter. She looked like she was seriously on a bender. She would fill a cup with coffee, then set the cup on fire, toss it on the floor while it was still burning,, and then she would screech "Satan likes his coffee HOT!" and then she would walk some more, and light another cup, and yell some nonsense. We got some coffee and got the hell out of her way (if you'll pardon the pun.) We walked up to the counter and the cashier told us he had tried to get the woman to leave, but she had tried to hit him and stuff, so he called the police. We didn't hang around to see what happened after that.

Every once in a while, when P. Kitty and I get coffee at a conventience store, he looks at me and goes "Satan likes his coffee HOT" and I laugh like a hyena on nitrous.
It's good that we can laugh about this shit. Laughter is healing, I guess.

Meeting P. Kitty's parents for the first time.

Thanksgiving 1996

Yeah, this one's a real easy, happy story. I'm just not in the mood to write about easy happy stuff.

Bring on the misery. I'll come back to this one.

Meet Mike Thompson, and his seven other personalities.

One of which was Satan. No I'm not kidding.
This story's a doozy. I'll get to it when I've got an entire day to focus on it.

Robin attempted to perform an exorcism on him. Yes, he did.

Mike had multiple personalities. Robin thought he was posessed by Satan. Which is kind of forgiveable, because one of his personalities was the prince of darkness himself, in all his bellowing, spitting, wild-eyed scary as fuck glory.
Yeah. This one will take a while.

Commemorative Cokes taste the best!

This was in November 1996, at Tina and Robin's house. They were gone; off to California with Mike Thompson and his psycho girlfriend to find Tina's baby's daddy. No, really. They just took off, and left us in the apartment with Cindy and Jave. Oh, and they left us in charge of taking care of their kid, Leviathan. Leviathan was about one year old, I think.

Carol (Tina's mom the Burger King prostitute) had the food stamp cards. We had run out of money, because we had been buying diapers and baby food, trying to make sure that Leviathan was okay. There was nothing for us to eat. There had only been enough food to last a week when they left, and between the four of us, we had tried to make it last, but after the second week, there was nothing left. No, really. There was no food left. Except baby food. We were getting hungry and bitchy.

We took a vote about what to do, and decided to ransack the house and look for shit to sell because none of us had eaten in a whole day, and we couldn't just sit around and starve. We had tried to reason with Carol, but she simply would not listen. She was convinced that there was plenty to eat in the house, but she would not come over and look in the cabinets. She was afraid that once we got her over there, we would do something asinine like lock her in a closet or something. I don't remember why the dumb bitch wouldn't come over, but she wouldn't.


While we were cleaning out the closet in the living room, we unearthed several six-packs of Coke, in glass bottles. Now, these were obviously bought as an investmentThey were specially designed, to commemorate the Albuquerque balloon fiesta. Very pretty. Very cool. Coke has 100 calories per serving, you know? And it's caffeinated. The bottles were all sealed. I think they were from 1993, but I honestly don't remember. You could see the carbonation, though, so they weren't stale at all.

I mentioned none of us had eaten in a whole day, right? You can guess what happened next, can't you?


We put all the Cokes in the fridge, except for four, and opened those bad boys up right there!
It was so delicious. We all had a toast, and clinked our bottles together. We cursed Tina and Robin for leaving us in such a horrendous situation.

That coke was so good, oh my god. It was like manna from heaven. We felt fortified enough to continue our search.

I feel I should point out something here, just for the sake of clarity.
We had no idea if or when they were coming back. They said they were coming back, but they had been gone for 3 weeks at this point, and we were all starting to get nervous. They hadn't called. We were taking care of their kid. None of us had a job, the only money coming in was from P. Kitty and I donating plasma twice a week, and that stupid bitch Carol was holding the food stamps hostage because she didn't believe we were out of food, and "forgot" that she was supposed to give us the cards as soon as there was money on them. It was not a good situation.

Okay so I'll finish up later. Right now I've got a craving for a commemorative Coke.

Christmas in the warzone

I remember my mom sent me $100 and some makeup, and dishes, and a diary for each of us.
It was a fun day. We took a taxi to the movie theater, and saw Beavis and Butthead do America.

Why am I doing this?

P. Kitty and I spent the first five years of our marriage living in staggering poverty, being homeless, and surviving things that would destroy most people. We were trapped in a cycle of poverty and it took relocating across the country to break the cycle we were in. You wonder why I hate "The land of Enchantment"? After my book's finished, you'll understand.

Here's a list of all the different places we've lived in, broken down by approximate time, and geographical location. Enjoy. There is at least one hilarious and/or heartbreaking story associated behind each one of these. This is why I am writing a book. Partially to get all of these things out of me so I can finish healing, and partially because I feel we should try to profit from all those years of misery/adventure. The world deserves to hear my stories, just as I deserve the chance to tell them. Okay, here we go. You might want to get a drink, this could take a while...

Las Cruces, NM February-May 1996
*Married student housing, on NMSU campus. We stayed with a friend of mine and 6 other couch surfers in a 2 bedroom apartment.
*Coed dormitory (we weren't students) NMSU campus, with another friend of mine.
*Fifth wheel camper in someone's mom's backyard.
*The same mom's utility shed on the other side of the yard, after we were caught.
*a roach motel (the Imperial Roach)
*a slightly nicer motel (Daze End)
*a storage locker
*another storage locker (just P. Kitty, I was in Job Corps)
total: 8 moves in 3 months

Albuquerque NM May 1996- December 1997
*job corps center (just chicabel. P. kitty lived in a storage locker in Las Cruces at this time)
*Shared an apartment with a strip-o-gram girl until she started using cocaine and became unstable.
*slept on the floor of a garage/photo studio with Zack and Carmen
*UNM campus, under a tree
*Joy Junction (what an inappropriate name) homeless shelter
*The Krishna house on Cornell street
*Some guy's apartment during a freak blizzard
*sleeping on the cupcake crew's floor after "some guy"s landlord said we had to leave
*Denny's (we pretended to study to avoid freezing outside)
*Gary's house with his drug dealing roommates
*Tina and Robin's apartment on Dallas St. in the warzone
*the Zia motel on the really bad end of Central Ave.
*Our own apartment on Texas St. in the warzone
*The zia motor lodge on the slightly less dangerous part of Central Ave.
*a really nice house on Coal Ave. with Gary. Too bad he couldn't afford the rent and we fled before they could evict us. This may sound like a shitty thing to do, but it was self preservation. Winter was coming and
*the zia motel on the bad part of Central again, while we hid from everyone while plotting our escape from Albuquerque
total: 16 moves

Truth or Consequences, NM
December 1997- August 1998
*some motel for 2 days while we looked at apartments
*a cute little apartment
*a bigger, cuter little apartment
*a 13 foot long travel trailertotal: 4 moves

Tucson, AZ
August 1998- August 1999

*a motel for 2 days while we looked for an apartment
*a small efficiency in South Tucson. We were warned about the local prostitutes, but never saw a single one. This place had roaches the size of coasters.
*a fairly normal apartment on Craycroft Avenue.
*our permanent convertible automobile. (car with the roof sawed off for a movie. we needed a car and this one was only $500)
*crap motel (no phone)
*another crap motel (no phone)
*the crossroads mission. It was run by a very nice gay man, he let us keep our cats and he fed us total: 7 movesNogales AZ August 1999- Jan. 2000
*crap motel (no phone)*another crap motel (no phone.)
*the apartment we shared with Blanca (aka the woman who got taken to prison 2 weeks after we moved in, and somehow managed to leave me with legal custody of her kids until one of them turned 18. Oh yeah. )
*the trailer (actually a flat train car that someone put a trailer on top of)we shared with Blanca's kids because the chihuahua bitch evicted us and we didn't know what to do
*another crap motel while we plotted our escape (no telephone)
total: 5 moves

Las Cruces NM January 1- January 15, 2000
*my grandmother's house

Deming NM January 2000-January 2001
*a tent in an RV park
*a halfway decent motel. They had a phone! Wow! I was starting to think there had been a law passed to ban phones from motel rooms.
*an efficiency apartment
3 moves

Springdale AR January2001-February 2001
*P. Kitty's parent's house

Fayetteville AR February 2001-August 2001
*A decent little apartment

Springdale AR August 2001- April 2004
*a little apartment surrounded by lots of other apartments. the neighbors were horrible
*a little duplex. this is the first place we lived where the neighbors didn't screw with us. we're still friends, actually.

Prairie Grove AR April 2004- the present
*where we live now, in our very own little house on the Prairie Grove

Just think, it only took 9 years, 46 moves, and 26 career changes to get here. Writing this list was exhausting. There may be some places I missed, but I think they're all there. As I work on my book, I'll go through and add the different jobs we've both had in various places, and make more notes on different funny things that happened along the way.

Life with Cindy and Jave in the warzone

Another place holder. These aren't in order. Cindy and Jave moved into the apartment after our second set of roommates abandoned us without paying any rent. By this time we had been paying our portion of the rent ($175 a month) for two months, but that wasn't keeping the landlord happy. We didn't really want Cindy and Jave to live with us, after our experience living with them at Tina and Robin's, but we didn't want to get evicted either, so they moved in. Unfortunately, they ended up getting us evicted after we moved into the Zia with Clay and Jamie (and ruining my credit to this very day)
I've got a lot of stories about Cindy and Jave. Probably the best one is "I'll pay the rent tomorrow"
Where Cindy would get dressed in her McDonalds uniform, and leave the house, presumably to work. I don't know if she actually worked or not. I do know that P. Kitty and I had to take turns leaving the house in shifts around this time, because if both of us left the house, we would come home and discover that our hard earned food was eaten, more of our stuff was gone, and the cats were upset. It was around this same time that she brought home a dog. I don't like dogs that much. I am learning to tolerate them now, but it has taken me the better part of 8 9 years to get over all of this crap. Okay, let me tell you about the dog before I forget. The inconsiderate brat brought home a dog. The cats didn't like the dog. Somehow they intuited that I didn't like the dog, (probably because they saw what I did to the last dog they knew) and my two sweet babies, who were probably all of six months old, attacked the dog tag-team midget wrestling style. It makes me almost want to cry thinking about it now. The dog was about twice the size of Norma and Sadie put together, but they gave it a good pounding. Then, just because they're passive aggressive like me, they would crap in the dog's bed. They had a perfectly fine litterbox in the hallway, but they would each go out of their way to poo where the dog slept every few days.

The other reasons I didn't like the dog:
She spent money on the dog. She bought the dog food, toys, a dog bed, and I don't know what else. We still had not seen a dime of rent money, or money for anything else.

The dog chewed through the cord to my alarm clock. No big, right? No, not really. Except that my grandfather had given it to me for Valentine's Day when I was 10. It was just a plain alarm clock from J C Penney, but it meant something to me because he had given it to me and he was dead, and it pissed me off because... well, I just hated it.

I'll finish this later. Believe me, there's lots more.

Stealing the old fart's newspaper.

Another placeholder. I never stole the newspaper. January 2000. P. Kitty and I lived in a tent in an RV park in Deming New Mexico for about 6 weeks. First the lady who ran the place said we could not use the kitchen in their recreation room because it was not intended for people to cook in there for their own personal use. Then she decided I was stealing there newspapers.

The food bank in Las Cruces is a horrible sick joke.

While we were living in the Imperial roach motel, I figured out that I could go to the food bank. Just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should.
I went over there, and told them we were living at the Imperial Roach motel. First they said I made too much money because I was donating plasma twice a week. I think that was the month that I had a job for about 5 days. I was rolling in cash. Yeah, 'cause everyone knows a single girl can really live it up on $50 a week for donating plasma. They turned me away, and said I could come back in two weeks, because it would be a new month and I would not have too much income. I tell you what, working for those 5 dayse really fucked me up! I don't know how the hell they figured that. Believe me, I didn't make the mistake of telling them (or anyone else) about donating plasma as a "source of income" ever again. In New Mexico, the poverty line is really really low......

Two weeks passed. I don't know what the hell we ate in the meantime. We survived. P. Kitty was still bringing in money from his job (I'll write about that later, guys) and we both donated plasma twice a week, no matter what.

Food bank day! Oh joy! I took the bus to the food bank. I sat and waited forever to get food. Finally it was my turn. The ladies brought out bags of stuff. I saw a coconut cake. Wow, what a haul, I thought! We're gonna eat like kings!
Soon, I had about a dozen grocery bags of stuff spread out around my feet. Everything except for the cake and donuts and bread was wrapped in white butcher paper. I had no idea what was in there. And since I had never been to a food bank before, or lived in a motel before, I had no idea what was about to happen next.
I had a logistical problem. How would I ever get this stuff to the motel?
We had no car. P. Kitty was working, so he wasn't with me. There was no money to spend on a pay phone. The people at the food bank had told me to hurry up and get out of there, that I could not hang around outside. So what did I do? I carried as much of the stuff as I could to the street corner. I set it down and ran like hell to get another armful. I don't know how many times I did that. I'm guessing three trips. After I had moved all the food I walked to the vaccuum repair store that was kind of close to the corner and asked if I could use their phone. Thank god the guy let me. I called my friend Andrea and told her I would give her half the food if she would help me. I begged her because there was no way I could get all the food to the bus stop, it was another half mile away at least, and then how would I get it on the bus? I needed help.
She said she'd do it.
I thanked her about a million times. Then I walked back to the corner and sat down and started looking in the bags. There was a coconut cake, a dozen glazed donuts, and a loaf of french bread in one of the bags. I was glad there was something we could eat. And there were a lot of bags, which were supposed to last us two weeks. They had given me their "two person family" portion of food.
I remember what was in the other bags. I will never forget, because at first, I said "oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me." and then I cried. Then I screamed some obscenities while I cried, then I screamed.
This is what was in the bags:
ten pounds of flour, five pounds of sugar, ten pounds of dried pinto beans, a ziplock bag of fucking salt, a pound of coffee, four cans of tomato paste, a box of crackers, five pounds of rice, several bags of spaghetti, a bag of fucking baking soda, a block of government cheese, a carton of eggs, a bag of fucking onions, several pound blocks of fucking lard, and a whole bunch of raw meat.
Fucking great. So I sit there, contemplating my bounty of food.
And I think: We live in a hotel. We have no hot water, no stove, no cooking pots, no can opener, no refrigerator, no way to cook any of this shit.
And I cried. I was surrounded by food, but I couldn't eat any of it. The entire day had been a complete waste of time.

Andrea showed up, and I loaded all the food into the back of her car. I told her that I wanted her to have it. I asked her if maybe she would trade me some of the food for a little money so I could buy something we could eat, to supplement the cake, loaf of bread, and dozen donuts for the next two weeks? She didn't have any money, either. I gave her most of the food. I took the cans of tomato paste, thinking maybe P. Kitty had a knife we could use to open the cans. I took the government cheese, because I figured maybe we could eat a little of it before it spoiled. I gave her everything else.

Andrea drove me to Nabe's. I thanked her for the help and got out of the car. I took my cake, dozen donuts, loaf of bread, four cans of tomato paste, and government cheese and set them down on the sidewalk. Andrea drove off. I think that may have been the last time I saw her. I don't remember.
P. Kitty came outside and asked how it went at the food bank. I showed him what I had. I don't remember much else about that day. I remember it was bad. We had stayed at Nabes until midnight trying to earn a little money so we could buy some food.

Around midnight we started walking to the Imperial Roach motel. It was probably a five mile walk. I don't remember. We got "home" probably around 3:00am.
The next morning, we ate some donuts and walked to the plasma center.
Then we walked to burger king. Oh, now I remember. We were eating .99 whoppers every day. That must be why we didn't starve. Long live the king.

Manny's been married 13 times.

And he tried to feel me up while I was asleep in the hotel. Nasty bastard.
Later, Manny gave P. Kitty a moped, which was exciting. Until Manny decided to be a dick and report it stolen. What a worthless fucktard.
Another placeholder. March 1996, Imperial Roach hotel, and then again in May 1996 while we were living in the camper in the backyard.

Staying at the Imperial Roach Motel.

Again, another placeholder. Las Cruces, motel row, April 1996. I think we lived there for a month? Good stories about this place. Oh my god was it a roach trap.

Come on baby, light my fire.

I have a couple of stories involving Jeff and fire.
They all took place in Las Cruces, between March and May 1996. P. Kitty and I were living in a very small camper with Jeff in Mike's mother's backyard. I think it was on California street, but I'm not positive.

1. Jeff drawing smiley faces and writing obscenities all over the underside of the bunk bed with his lighter because he was stoned and bored. I guess I should mention that we never saw Jeff when he wasn't stoned. And he almost always had a candle or something burning. Always. Fuckin' pyromaniac motherfucker!

2. Jeff making ramen noodles in the camper, then wandering off and forgetting about them, and almost burning down the place we lived in. Half of the interior of the camper was black and sooty from smoke damage.

3. Jeff cleaning car parts with alcohol and then setting them on fire right next to the camper. I mean, right next to the camper. I bet you can guess what happened. Yep, he lit the side of our "home" ablaze. The funny part? P. Kitty and I were inside being "intimate", saw the flames licking up the side of the window, and started screaming. Jeff claimed he was "just trying to enhance her pleasure, man."
Yeah. Nothing turns me on like being trapped in a burning structure. Whatever.