Pettycoat Junktion

Ok. No piss-poor excuses for my not posting lately. No claims of semi-working for Birdie, EFL, and Annie; nor whinging about having to run errands forMaternal Unit What is Still Down Souf; nor Dim running away from his brand-spanking-new group home.

Nope!! None of it.

I plead procrastinating fucktard.

But an ENDEARING procrastinating fucktard. Ahem.

Anyhoo. I don’t recall if I’d mentioned this or not in passing, but quite a few months back Trash morphed from a Caveman into a Modern Technology Minion we all knew lurked beneath. To wit: he purchased a cell phone.

With this phone he can take pictures, send and receive texts, listen to music. And what’s that other thing cell phones are for??

Hang on, let me think.

Ah yes!! He can even make phone calls on it!!

Amazin’ this newfangled technology, innit??

So eventually word of his number got all around town. Including towns Down Souf. There is only one person Down Souf with a cell phone. Now I’ve been trying to NOT mention a Certain Party here on the blog for reasons which we all know. Reasons which I am also fairly sure make the lot of you think I’m the biggest paranoiac on the planet. I can justify my insanity quite well, thanks very much. Hey!! You all saw that happened back in 2006. Tell me I’m wrong!!

That’s what I thought.

Now, do not, for one tiny moment, think that just because Ma is down there again helping out with certain matters that this whittles a Certain Party’s fun-loving and completely ridiculous thought processes down to ‘Mildly Clinical’ from, say, ‘Completely Fucking Bizarre and in Need of Medication’ As we all know, such a thing cannot occur. It would be like asking Richard Simmons to act manly and wear shorts that are not A) sparkly B) far too short and C) vaguely reminiscent of something an 70’s roller derby girl would wear.

With me so far??

Yay!!

So. Certain Party eventually got wind of Trash’s number. Which is all well and good and fine because hey!! Um, well, there’s no big whoop about Certain Partyand Trash texting.

Or: SO ONE WOULD THINK!!

First Certain Party told Ma to stop making light of the fact that Certain Partywas texting Trash for one reason or another. Then informed Ma that she has NO idea what her son is like; certain person knows FAR more than Ma. Or something. I know Ma was told to Stop Mentioning It.

(also: Felix. If you are reading this and mention ONE FUCKING WORD to said party you will be pissing through your nostrils for the next 6.7 years. Capish??)

This is kind of like how Certain Party knew, and subsequently told me, that my epilepsy–the cause of which is unknown to any neuroin the Greater NYC Area beyond the phrase ‘Well, the clinical picture is that your frontal lobe is fooked, Babs, you spaz and we don’t know why’–that I am the way I am because my father dropped me on my head as a baby.

They know this, seemingly, in spite of the fact that not only were they born a year after me, but lived a good 2000 miles away at the time, too. Roight!! I wish *I* had these kinds of ESP-esque/Reverse Prognosticatory Powers.

Anyway.

{God. GOD, Babs, the point already, the fucking POINT!!}

Certain Party was speaking to me today. And posed the following query:

‘Say, Babs. What are you going to do if Trash decides to get his own place?? Where would you go?? He IS 28 you know. And he’s not going to want to take care of/help out his sister forever. What about when he gets a GF and wants to get married??’

Now let me preface this by saying myself and Trash have already discussed this issue (or similar). Ages back. I had thought of this very thing in this questionable time of upheaval and disarray. To wit: What if Ma actually decided to move Down Souf?? (Ma says this is still definitely Not Happening, but you know, best to be prepared in advance for a sudden change in events). Were Ma to do this I would DEFINITELY not join her unless I had NO OTHER CHOICE. I wanted Trash to know that, IN NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM, should he feel any need to say, stay here because he feels obliged to help me etc. Or feel guilty were he to get his own place. I was adamant, ADAMANT, that he let me know. And I told him of the many things I could do as an alternative while/after I get the Govn’t Leech Spazzy Disability Decision (also, Trash was one of the most ardent supporters of the ‘Invoke the Leech Disabilty Plan’). His reply to me, after my assuring him repeatedly that he was not to feel bad/guilty/like a fucktard in any way shape or form was: ‘Don’t be a dick, Babs. If I move, you move with me. It’ll be fine and I’m not about to chuck you on the street’

{Another thing, and I think I ought to point this out, Trash does not ‘take care of me’ per se. Sure he and Ma chip in the major portions with regards to groceries, bills and such. But anything I need I either get myself with Birdie/EFL/Annie earnings or I simply go without til I’ve saved enough. And any of MY money gets thrown into the kitty for groceries etc, too. In return I cook dinner, try to make the apartment halfway liveable, do the shopping etc. I don’t just sit around fucking loafing. And I do not for one moment assume or believe that I’ll need Ma/Manson/ or Trash to help me out forever. This is temporary. In caseanyone was thinking otherwise. Ahem}

Call me crazy, but I, for whatever reasons, trust BOTH of my brothers (and Ma) implicitly. Sure they have their faults, foibles and bouts of fucktardery. As do I. When push comes to shove, though, I pretty much think they have my back. And I have theirs and do my best to help. I think.

I explained all of the above to Certain Party. Who retorted ‘Well. I think you should be very worried about this. You can’t trust everything’ I volleyed back with an answer of ‘Even if Trash WERE contemplating striking out on his own (which, for the record, is near on impossible at the mo, thus a moot point) he would CERTAINLY let me know well in advance’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I know a lot more about Trash than you think I do–I’ve been talking to him. And I wouldn’t be surprised if something was in the works already. I’m just letting you know’

(Something to that effect)

‘Well, I happen to think otherwise. Oog!! Knock at the door. I’m going to have to go now’

If Certain Party thinks I am stupid enough to believe this tripe in an attempt to (what I think is possibly) scare me into moving Down Souf and talking Ma into doing so they are SORELY mistaken.

For, when it comes right down to it, who do I trust more??

The person who has told me I’m fat in weird way/would be a bad, abusive mother so it’s better that I don’t have kids/my family is low-class white trash/that I’m an idiot for many and varied reasons/my father dropped me on my head as a baby and caused my every woe??

Or my brother who has NEVER accused me of any of the above and only steals my socks and conditioner??

I’m thinking trust the sock thief.

Just a hunch, mind.