Fuck, fuck, fuck! Well, that’s what I get for eavesdropping and not asking questions, isn’t it? I breathlessly counted down the days until 03 October, then asked P last night what time (today) Dog Boy was supposed to come and get Stink Pig. He said, “I thought they were getting married on the fifth of November”, and my heart just sank. I’d heard the stinkpig tell P, “…coming up on the third and we’re getting married and moving to Houston…”, but that’s all I heard. Since it was nearing the end of September, I logically assumed that meant the third of October, but obviously one cannot apply logic to a creature possessed only of a burnt out husk filled with dead cells in place of an actual brain. Christ. Another four-plus weeks of this–I’ll DIE! I made plain popcorn last night to share with the hermies while I watched TDS and TCR, and when I went to toss out the unpopped kernels for P’s fluffy-tailed rats, I turned on the porch light and opened the door. Fucking near had a heart attack because right in the fucking doorway was the stinkpig. Hair greasy and unkempt, mouth hanging open, drooling, glasses crooked on its face, making some weird grunting noise and apparently incapable of speech because it didn’t say anything even though I’d let out a helluva screech (I REALLY didn’t need that staring me in the face from the semi-darkness of the front porch). I didn’t even attempt to talk to it, and it shuffled off to its malodourous lair, where I later heard something crash, but didn’t go look because as long as it doesn’t damage the house, I don’t care what falls in there. I know it isn’t dead, though, because there was fucking pipe tobacco all over the floor in the kitchen and the bathroom, so that means it (yet again) didn’t have sense enough to brush off its clothes after getting off its worthless arse.

P says I should give DB and SP the benefit of the doubt–that there were certainly people who thought our marriage would fail and that I was insane for making the choice to come down here. There were–I know that–but it’s not the same thing at all because other than a tendency to descend to the depths of despair when left on his own with no one who deserves his heart of gold (and too much to drink), P is a perfectly normal, intelligent man. Give him someone who treats him like he matters, a job that doesn’t make him feel like a failure, a few golf discs to toss on the weekend, and he’s absolutely fine. I’m much the same, except I don’t descend to the depths of despair, I react with anger, so I’m bitter and hate everyone and everything (and I don’t have a heart of gold for anyone but P and small aquatic animals, either :lol:) That’s why P and I work–he adores me and I adore him, and that is the only problem either one of us has ever had (none worthy of adoration). Also, we’re both actually sane. The stinkpig is an absolute write-off–barely even qualifies as humanoid. It can’t hold a conversation (not even an unintelligent one–trails off in the middle of even inane statements), can’t walk like a human, can’t ride a bike anymore without falling off (finally figured it out after the third time it fell off and sliced its hand open), can’t cook, won’t keep a house clean (were it not for me, this house would be full of mangy cats and smelling of shit like hers was with B), can’t think in anything remotely resembling logical terms. It’s like a mumbling, shambling, stringy-haired lump of shit, only (barely) recognisable as human, and then only by physical form. It’s really to the point where it belongs in an institution (and I’m all for crazies living in the community if they can function well enough and take their medications), doing the Haldol shuffle in a hospital-issue sweatsuit and paper slippers, escorted by orderlies to group where she colours with crayons and makes plastic “stained glass” suncatchers. Yeah, been there, seen it doing that–more than once.

Dog Boy is called that because “the more you kick a dog’s arse, the better he likes you for it”, and because he is not a man. He qualifies as human (I suppose–heh) and has a job until the end of October (after what–over a year unemployed, living with “friends”? Jeezus), but hasn’t one single shred of common sense. He truly believes that he will live to the age of 120. I know because he told me on several occasions, even when I burst into gales of laughter the second time. Why does he say that? Well, because he truly believes he will, just because he wants to. He also believes that all the stinkpig needs to make it normal is….(wait for it)….love. I shit you not, he thinks that love conquers all, including a brain burnt extra-crispy by thirty-some years of high-dose mind-altering chemicals. Even if they do manage to get her psychotropic soup (what passes for a brain in that worthless skull) balanced enough that she can actually mumble the words, “I do” and sign the certificate with something more literate than a wobbly X, it isn’t going to stay that way for long. She’s already taking enough Seroquel to drop a Percheron to its knees, and I can personally attest to the fact that it’s not doing its job. When they first put her on it, it worked fairly well, but they’ve had to keep raising the dose, and now it’s not working well at all. She’s gone the same route with Depakote (taken WITH Risperdal, Paxil and Ambien), and in time, that stopped working and just made her a fat zombie. She’s a zombie now, too, and getting fat again. Ho-hum, here we go again.

Dog Boy may be a sucker for punishment, he may be spineless, he may be a wuss (the more rude and impatient I am to him, the harder he tries to make me like him–hence, the “dog”), he may be a gimp and he’s definitely a loser, but sooner or later, it’s going to dawn on him that he isn’t a husband, he’s an unpaid mental health care worker, and that isn’t how he thinks it’s going to be. He’s soooo not ready for it. When she goes nuts, she needs firm commands to get her to behave; if you fuck around with huggy-lovey shit, you’ll be there all night. She’ll milk it for every scrap of sympathy she can get, and she’ll STILL be telling you that she’s going out to the Interstate to stomp on cars and crush them (because she’s big and everything else is ant-sized), or that she’s going to kill herself, and you won’t be able to let her out of your sight. Been there, tried the patient, helpful approach, and it plain doesn’t fucking work. You don’t ask her to do something, you TELL her what she’s going to do and when, and mean it or she’ll walk all over you. DB can’t do that–just doesn’t have the balls. I can’t fucking WAIT for him to discover what he’s got himself into; he’s been with her (in person) for a grand total of two weeks, one of which was spent here back when she was still something resembling human. The second week was a year later, she was a little nuts and he learned the hard way not to let her drink ANY alcohol (no sympathy–I’d warned him), but he hasn’t seen the full effect, and she’s worse than ever now. Otherwise, their contact has been phone and email only. Christ only knows what he’ll see in another month, but whatever it is, he’s taking it back with him.

I tried to explain to him, but he’s convinced that love conquers all. Maybe I should’ve given him her ex-husband’s phone number; that poor bastard certainly knows that the soft touch doesn’t work with a burnt-out nutcase. She put him over $10,000 in debt with credit cards he didn’t even know he had (she had no credit of her own, so she used her name and his credit rating), and she did that after he supported her worthless arse for 25 years by working in a sweatshop, AND supported her (equally worthless) spawn until it was well into its 20s even though it refused to attend college or get a job. The poor slob even cleaned the house and cooked his own supper when he got home from work because she wouldn’t do it, AND lived with four fleabitten cats shitting all over the floor even though he was allergic. B is definitely a stupid (as in double-digit IQ) man, but even he figured it out eventually. Too fuckin’ bad, though–DB wanted her and he’s TAKING her if I have to shove the pair of them out the door with a fuckin’ broom. All sales final, returns will not be accepted. I cannot WAIT for the day (and I know it will come) when he calls in a panic because the stinkpig has either disappeared, got chucked in the drunk tank for public intoxication and resisting arrest, or is threatening (yet again *yawn*) to kill herself. I abso-fucking-lutely look forward to the day I get to tell him, “Look, dumbass. You married her even though I TOLD you what you were getting into. You wanted her, you got her, and she’s yours. YOU live with the stench, sweep up the pipe tobacco and clean up after her. YOU scrub the dried-on sprays of liquid shit off the toilet and clean the pubic hair from the shower drain because I’ve done it for the last fucking time. Just tell her you love her and everything will be hearts and flowers, right?” AMFYOYO. Muahahahahaha! That is, I’ll get to say it if the next four weeks don’t actually kill me. 😉

P.S. If P wasn’t the jealous type, I’d ask JD to sit for some pictures. He’s got a good look (nice facial bones), but I think that P would confuse “he’s got a good look” with “he’s good-looking and I want to take pictures of him so I can salivate later”. That isn’t it, of course–JD’s just a natural model and doesn’t even realise it–but it would never fly with P. I’d like to shoot him in B&W against a building made of sandstone (or relatively smooth concrete). Plain black T-shirt and those scruffy jeans he wears to the park, and I’d pose him in the same unaffected grace with which he moves.