PlazaJen: Passion Knit

Really. I mean truly and really and this is the end and who keeps throwing the dice on my game? Weren't we done, when the light bill charge of $1600 was attempted? And wasn't the icing getting the Pizza Hut collection notice? And then, then! I thought I'd discovered the silver dragees on my Dung Heap Cupcake, that was Saturday night, when my bank called to ask if I'd been buying things all day on the Internet. From various newspapers around the country. Ah, no.

Apparently someone got hold of my Visa check card numbers, and had a heyday, placing online classified ads. But I am SLEUTHY. I have someone in the accounting department at one of these newspapers checking INTO it, you cockaroacha from hell! So I will know exactly what your thieving ass is peddling! (However, sadly, you are not related to the Bastard Burglars. They are going to get acid enemas in hell if I have any say in the matter.) But we got the card shut down, and so on and so forth and the waves on the shore and we beat on against the current, and yes, it's all very F.Scott Fitzgerald except with loads more cursing and not enough gin, and we (the Royal We) thought, "Sigh! Life has served me a very bad Dung Heap Cupcake." But I at least thought we were done.

And now today, I got a statement from Discover, chiding me for being so late and asking me to pay the money the Bastard Burglars spent on gas right after they left my (emptied) home that afternoon back in June. And the Super Duper Crackerjack Fraud Investigation department wasn't open when I called and I got some damp-behind-the-ears representative who stammered and apologized and gave me a number to call tomorrow, and told me two conjectured reasons why I would now suddenly be getting this bill, one of which is that they've decided I indeed DO owe the charges and of course that set my hair on fire, and now I have to go knit myself some boxing gloves, perhaps out of Noro, because it is truly so beautiful, but I'd sure hate to get blood on hand-knit boxing gloves. And I don't have time to knit a pair of boxing gloves overnight, despite the rumors I keep illegal workers in the attic, and I am tired of fighting and battling these horrid distractions that pull me away from healing up the things inside I NEED to cope with, and I do not want to eat Dung Heap Cupcakes anymore. Apparently mine also have edible glitter on them, and within a week I expect to discover some marzipan figurines that sit on top. I hate marzipan.

And I'm mean when I'm out of patience and I don't edit my tongue and I'm angry at having to fight large companies and police departments and collection agencies and have to stand in government lines to get replacement paperwork and being vigilant is tiring, and I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG. I didn't steal anyone's worldly possessions, I didn't run up fraudulent charges, and yet it is all my mess to clean up, but we know how I do fight for justice and righting wrongs, and attempting to keep things fair, whatever that might mean, and that, my friends, is the only thing that keeps me pushing forward, but it still makes me angry. And tired. And sick of this fucking cupcake. And yes, I still give the mean old lady across the street the finger, every day, when I go out to get the paper. I do it subtley, and it's essentially at her house, not her in particular, but in the end, it's the small victories that carry us through the darkest of times.

"So we beat on, boats against the current, born back ceaselessly into the past."