The power in our building survived the windstorm last night. I was worried up until I went to bed. I did talk to a man on the bus home from the gym, whose power did go down in the late evening and did not come back on until the wee hours of the morning.

No more flooding as of yet in the storage area of the basement. I came over to the CP coffee shop, just to get out of the house last night. I was not expecting the live entertainment. Usually I like the music here, but I am not a fan of this particular musician. For one thing, his fan base is older than me. He does 50s bebop (badly, in my opinion), and he attempted to jolly me out of my tense mood.

I don't do perky, especially when I have legitimate worries. He came over to the couch where I was sitting, writing in my journal, obviously not in the same jolly mood as the rest of the crowd, simply wanting to be left alone.

some people simply cannot leave well enough alone. I was civil. That's an improvement.

He asked me about my mood, or something like that. I asked if he'd been outside recently, he didn't get it. I guess some people never will until a tree branch falls on or near them.

"You're spunky, " said Edward Asner's character Lou Grant to Mary Tyler Moore on her show in the 70s". "I hate spunky", he said, which she was obviously not expecting.

I am waiting for JP at the C & P, just killing time on the laptop. I am glad to be our of the apartment it's a mess and there's so much to do to get my life back on track that I dcan't seems to decide what to do first. Michael is coming over after work to help me work out how to deal with this phone company situation.
But he cannot not relate everything back to my bipolar, which just infuriates me. When i lose it and break down, it's never because I am overwhelmed, the way a rational person would be, it's my medication. I am sick of that, so so sick of that

I wish just once he would own his own part in our relationship. I am looking forward to seeing JP. He makes me feel so different. He has his own issues, but they're not my fault. Everything with Michael is my fault.

My uptight, pinch-faced, mealy-mouthed witch of a neighbor downstairs finally went too far. She called the police on me for playing my stereo at what in most places is a reasonable level, on a Saturday night at 8:30 pm. i was listening to U2's War album and having a quiet conversation with a friend on the couch.
I answer the knock on my door and find two uniformed cops, only to find that they had been sent by mealy-mouth herself, who has yet to ever face me like an adult, although we have exchanged heated notes.

I hate notes as a ckicken form of communication. If anyone has something to say to me, say it to my face for once. I considered serving her papers, once I cooled down and thought about it, but I am sick of these chickensh*t women, like Blogit, who trashtalk me behind my back, write dirt and deny they did it when I confront them.

I am leaving this apartment, I'll give me notice on Monday. This is bullsh*t.