I Don’t Need to Live At 432 Park Avenue


My friend Mary is on the phone with me right now

Not saying anything

Just being with me so I don’t have to be alone while I write

Isn’t that silly?

Maybe not.

Today, I have had moments where I didn’t feel so great

I sought out two different meetings where people were Talking about spiritual matters

It helped

It always helps.

I’m reading a book about Complex PTSD

I think it’s really going to help me

I’m not so much into the part of the book where it tells What I’m supposed to do with it

But I’m learning about what it is so far

I thought about adding another picture to my vision board

(Which is actually a file on iPhoto that I play on slide show)

I thought about putting a picture of one of those new apartments

In that new apartment building tower on Park Avenue

Did you know it’s taller than the World Trade Center?

(If you don’t count the spire. And I don’t think you should count the spire when measuring the height of buildings

I think it’s sort of cheating

I think you should only be allowed to measure the building proper, not any shit they put on top to make it taller

Even if that taller is the exact number of feet that is our nations “birthday year”

No wait. I’m full of shit. It’s only 1300 and something feet.

Maybe they said higher than the Empire State.

Fuck, I don’t know.

Taking one’s emotional temperature every five minutes is counterproductive.

It’s natural to feel some heavy-duty distress sometimes

Especially if you’re trying to make big changes in your life.

I found an apartment I want

It’s on Post Avenue at 207th street.

Oh! I didn’t finish telling you about the Park Avenue thing.

So I went on the Interweb to see if I could find a picture of an apartment in that new tower on Park Avenue.

What I found out is that I don’t want to live there.

Even if I had the money.

The penthouse on that motherfucker costs 100 million dollars.

And there are people on the sidewalk right outside of it begging for food.

This country is going to hell.

And it ain’t gay marriage that’s sending it there.

I’m so sleepy I feel like I’m actually going to fall asleep while typing.

I’m so ready for this apartment hunting to be done.

I found one I want on Post Avenue.

I’ve put in an application with a veterans support organization acting as guarantor.

I fucking hate that I have to have one.

I don’t want anyone to give me anything but a job.

And I don’t want just any fucking job but a job doing what I’m good at– what I’m called to do.

I can just feeeeeeeel the judgment coming at me when I type that.

I have to be out of the place I’m staying on Saturday at noon.

That’s day after tomorrow.

Okay, Mr. God. You said ask and I’ve asked.

You said believe and I believe.

Let’s see you shit me an apartment Mister.

I’ve done my part. Now you do yours.

I’m scheduled to fly back to Alabama on Tuesday to pick up the dogs and the furniture I’ll need in New York.
The apartment has to be secured before that can happen.

And I don’t know where the money for the Uhaul and fuel is coming from.

I thought I was going to get to haul some shit from Atlanta for somebody and that was going to pay for the Uhaul and fuel.

That feel through.
Okay, Mr. God,

You said whatsoever ye ask for believing…

I’ve asked believing. It’s time for you step up

If I get down in Alabama without the means to get back up here with the fur babies, Ima lose my mind.

I think about that faggot Marine that wrote to me a couple weeks ago.

I think about him every day.

The one who said he “stopped following me” because I’m such a victim.
I think bad thoughts about him.

That’s bad.

I don’t need to do that.

That’s not good for me.

That causes physical illnesses.

Thanks Mary.

I didn’t know if I could write with you just sitting there listening to the pigeons tap dancing on the keyboard.

But apparently I can.

See y’all tomorrow.

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