I seem to be writing a post every 12 hours or so at the moment, I will not be doing this for long but it is interesting watching the analytics.
This week has been enormously stressful for me, but when I look at the posts I don’t seem nearly as crazy as it felt.
The bottom line seems to be that I cannot cope with being a human, and very small things can set me off on a massive tangent.
This is no good. I need to focus on one thing and do it.
I have stuff to read, and very serious stuff to write. I also have to come up with a proper shooting schedule before we tour.
If it wasn’t for the recurring panic of being in the proximity of SB, I would be a bit more settled I think. I am in that horrible state of ‘cannot bear to be there, cannot bear not to be.’ I feel about twelve years old. It really isn’t cool.
I also have a massive responsibility to this place, and a lot of work to do.
Also, thinking about last night’s post, I wonder if I really should rely on the compulsion as much as I do? Sixteen hours a day hammering at a carpet is not really a substitute for an adult life.
I do like making beautiful things out of bad situations though. It makes life worthwhile.
Anyway, I will ask about the name issue if I feel brave and am far away enough, and take my written request in to work. It is probably safer for all concerned if I am not near enough for the little sex rockets to take over and decide for me, which they seem very inclined to do.
I daresay there will be another story this week. Sigh.
Well, it looks as if SB is getting a whole book, so I will have to actually ask if I can use his whole name when it is finished. It is a lot more difficult with private individuals.
I have finalised the plans for the artwork for him, and it is very elaborate, but a distinct development of the Ina Disguise brand, moving a step on from a combination of the Wolfe and Boris work with a heavy dash of Maroc. I have got it down to a six to twelve month job so far, but I will not be starting it until the shoes are out and the toby jugs for Boris are done, so a few months down the track. I do not want to be using initials when I put stuff on the website. This is going to be incredibly awkward, given that the situation I am in at work means that I would rather not speak to him about anything other than work. I suppose asking this question is about work really.
I have no idea how people manage to make things so complicated. I have had the sense from him more than once that he would quite enjoy a direct argument, and I am not at all interested. I take my fury out as Ina, so by the time I get to work I am defused and usually rather miserable about the whole thing. It is not good for your self-image to constantly be in the wrong about shit that is nothing to do with you really.
I will also ideally have to change shifts now, to avoid upsetting him and a third party and as a side-benefit for the benefit of the Boris project. This will not stop the flow of the work at all, but it is going to cause a few problems for other people, who apparently have enormous problems doing it.
Don’t ask me why I seem to be so prolific with SB, because I have no idea. I am guessing it is something to do with stress but the creative links are coming very fast indeed. Looking at how I was with Wolfe from the blog, I see that anger plays a part, but things kicked off with Wolfe because Wolfe and I were so under one another’s skin from the beginning that it was very easy for us to push each other’s buttons and see what happened. It is difficult to describe, but by the time we had four words typed a whole year or five of communication had gone by. I am used to big characters, so I am guessing it was unusual for him to have someone engage the way I did. One of my many odd features is that I could not care less how much fame or money you have.
With Boris, I have very structured ideas in comparison. I have a firm idea of what picture I want to paint and why I want to do it. I genuinely have huge affection for Boris, but there is none of the irrationality there is with Wolfe or SB, although I am very much aware that Boris has strong shark qualities just as Wolfe does.
I am getting close to the physical state required for intense sewing, which is repressed lust-rage. It is not very healthy at all, but it does involve a lot of 16 hour days crouched over whatever I happen to be making and it does get things done.
Woke up this morning and could not go anywhere until I got Life without Shame done. This means that SB has somehow managed to induce an escalation of my creative flow to the point that it is almost entirely compulsive. I am impressed with the improved linking in the story, but rather confused as to why it had to be a Catholic story. It made its point very neatly however, so I am quite pleased with it.
No idea where this is headed at all, so stay tuned to find out what happens in story 4 I guess? We shall see how SB manages to make my life less pleasant this week. (honestly, try not to – I know you read these. Please try not to.)
To my beloved Wolfe, who I still cannot mention without weeping, and to SB, the gift that just keeps on giving. (pause for more weeping)
“What are you giving up for lent, Sonia?” the old priest smiled at the little woman. Sonia was considered an old spinster in the small Italian town they lived in. Small, fat, grey-haired. Ordinary, in that invisible way where she had never been a threat or amounted to anything.
“Shame, father. I thought I would give up shame for lent. Forty days of not feeling bad about anything.”
“Now you know that probably won’t work well, don’t you? Would you like me to explain why God might not like that?”
“No, father. If I do something wrong, I will confess. I want to try this.” Sonia was determined. “I might give up cured meat too.” she tried to appease him with this offering.
“Well, I cannot say this is a good decision, Sonia. Let me know if you get into trouble.” the priest shook his head. Really, he thought, at her age. Perhaps it would be quite funny?
Sonia returned home to prepare for work at the bakery she worked in, feeling that she had made a good decision. God couldn’t possibly want her to go through life invisible, could he? Surely God liked happiness?
Looking through her wardrobe, she saw a sea of dowdy clothing. She looked at her frizzy, dry grey hair and thought this looked dull too. God, she felt, was probably bored looking at her anyway. She went next door to the chemist and bought a red hair dye. She figured she had time to do something before she went to work to express her month of freedom.
Half an hour later, Sonia was impressed by the change. She wasn’t young, she thought, but she certainly looked more cheerful. She selected her least comfortable brassiere from the dresser, and pushed her breasts into a showy cleavage by adjusting the straps. Yes, that was better, she thought.
Digging throught the wardrobe, the best she could come up with at short notice was a rather sheer black blouse, which she really just had to wear over a sturdy vest at funerals but which allowed her to show her new cleavage, and a pencil skirt, which she had not worn for some time. She was a little saggier than she remembered, but she remedied this by shaving her legs and wearing tights.
Standing for several hours at work would not be fun in heels, she thought, so she used her fluffy black mules, which simply looked rather more frivolous than her usual slippers at work.
Feeling rather daring, she applied some lipstick and a little mascara. Her mother would say she looked like an old tart, God rest her soul. Sonia was thrilled by her transformation.
She picked up her handbag, put the required items in it to maintain her new look, and went to work. No cakes for her today, she thought, she did not feel like eating today.
The baker did not recognise her at first. “Sonia?” he was aghast. Younger than her, and yet set in his ways, he did not like change.
“Yes! I am celebrating Lent!” Sonia put her handbag in its customary place under the counter and started work. The mules were not all that comfortable, but she was aware that he was staring at her ankles, which pleased her enormously.
Maria was her first customer of the day, in to buy the bread for her enormous extended family. She was suitably shocked.
“Ah, how are you Sonia?” Maria thought this was clearly some sort of mid-life crisis. “Feeling OK?”
“It is a beautiful day to celebrate Jesus! How are you, Maria!” Sonia smiled at her, revealing excellent white teeth.
“Well, you know, Brigitta is expecting again. You know how these things are…” Maria felt she was on safer ground now, talking about herself was always limitless with Sonia, since Sonia had a dull and lonely life on her own.
“No! I have no children! I have no idea!” Sonia did not feel the need to be sensitive, since Maria had never been particularly nice to her. “Have a nice day!”
Next, a beautiful young man came in to purchase a cake for his workplace. Spying her cleavage, he took his time over picking, making her bend into the cake cabinet for some time. She stood upright after a few minutes of this. She smiled at him. He smiled back.
“You are very beautiful, young man, but I have not time for this.” she shook her head. “Life is too short, beauty.”
He laughed “I’ll take the strawberry one.”
“Huh! Furthest away! You are very cheeky too!” She leaned in again and picked up the cake, struggling slightly.
“I will see you tomorrow?” The young man blushed slightly as he asked her. “You work here now?”
Sonia felt it was probably unnecessary to tell him she had been there for years. “Yes! I will be delighted to serve you again!” she hummed a happy tune as she tidied the counter.
Sonia’s mood further improved as the day wore on. She wasn’t invisible any more. Word of her transformation spread around the town remarkably quickly, and towards the end of the day her old ‘friends,’ who had never bothered with her in the past, suddenly started asking her how she was. She revelled in the fact none of them actually asked her what had caused this change.
After work, she went to the market and bought some brighter clothing. She was enjoying herself for the first time in years. She almost danced as she picked brightly coloured skirts and shoes for work. A lively man of her own age waltzed her around the square briefly as she made her way out, buying herself some flowers for her house. She supposed this was vanity, yet another sin.
She put the flowers in her front window, clearly visible to the people passing her house. She put on a yellow skirt and green blouse, and giggled at the combination of this and her new hair colour. She sang to herself as she considered new paint colours. Soon, there was a knock at the door. Her neighbour, having been gossiping with the local women, had come to see the apparition of Sonia without shame. She stood at the door, staring at her balefully.
“Anita! How nice to see you. Would you and Franco like to come for drinks? I have some Wine and olives from the market? You can come before your dinner!”
“Eh, sure. I will go get him.” Anita returned to fetch her tired husband.
As they entered, Sonia kissed them both hello, “You are so handsome Franco, you need to get more sleep!”
This was too much for Anita “What on earth is going on?” She was outraged. “What are you doing?”
Franco felt the trickle of male hormone, the colour returning to his tired face “What do you mean, Anita? The lady is paying me a compliment, no? She doesn’t mean anything by it?”
“Sonia has never been like this before, look at the breasts, the hair, the teeth! What is going on?” Anita demanded. She looked angrily at Sonia.
“Life is beautiful. We should celebrate!” Sonia stepped back and did a little twirl before breaking into song. She had a fine operatic voice that nobody had previously heard. “Let us drink!” She broke open the wine. Franco smiled.
Anita tried redirecting the conversation to gossip, but neither Sonia nor Franco were interested. They wanted to talk about travelling, good wine, where to find good olives. It turned out they both loved to swim, so they talked about good places to go for that. Anita was furious.
“We are not coming here again.” she fumed “I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend. Those other people in the town, they are none of my business. Life is for living, not talking about others.”
“It is OK, Sonia, I think I need to take Anita on holiday.” Franco looked worn. “Thank you for the wine. You look great, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Sonia was nearly in tears. She had not meant to upset her neighbours.
As the 40 days wore on, the bakery became busier and busier. Sonia talked the baker into repainting the frontage, gypsy flowers replacing the plain green tatty paintwork that had been there before. Musicians would choose to play nearby, so that people buying lunch could listen and give them their change. Sonia put potted plants and tables outside. The baker was exhausted. The priest was unhappy.
“When are you going to be pious and humble Sonia again? This won’t do!”
“Oh, my darling, never.” Sonia threw up her hands. “Because eternity is right now!”
A great amount of the last ten years has been taken up by considering one statement, which was originally from Twisty. I used it in Best Scandal Ever, when Kira teases Aldous by announcing her intention to marry Sam Redwood, despite not knowing him or even particularly liking him at the time. This conversation, in common with many others in the books, actually happened. The real Aldous is a depressed and underconfident person who frequently needs to be shocked into forgetting how miserable he is for a few hours.
Anyway the quote from Twisty is:
“Famous people are just normal people minus the sense of shame.”
As pearls of wisdom go, this is one of his better ones. It is perfectly true. All the stuff you tell yourself about what you can and cannot do is largely about shame.
Likewise, as I was saying the other day about major religions determining which emotions you should focus on, such religions rely heavily on shame to keep you in your place.
Whilst pondering the enormous quantity of negative information that had been disseminated about Wolfe, buried now but very easy to find nine years ago or so, I considered how much of this information was useful, and how much was simply envy. Shame and envy pair nicely together if you want to keep people in their place.
TV and other media like to focus on these, as buying products and paying for them uses up a great deal of people’s time, rather than thinking for themselves or other equally dangerous pursuits.
As a repressive artist, who has habitually used shame, amongst other emotions, as a source of energy to create objects, shame is kind of useful to me, although it certainly isn’t useful when considering how to see a return for my work. It is my best friend and my worst enemy.
I was obviously horrified by recent events, but only some of it is my fault, and even then I am a victim of evident physical issues and a lack of boundaries because of a variety of other factors. It is much easier to deal with if it is all your fault, because then you have the option of taking action.
I’m a lot calmer than I was a few days ago, and I don’t really think I should beat myself up over it any more. It is very sad that my first impression was wrong, but I shouldn’t really be surprised or angry about it. Shit happens. It’s very sad.
Overall, I think I have seen massive improvement in some areas from dealing with my Wolfe issues. Now I need to focus on physical confidence and the shamelessness of disseminating information, both of which are a step forward in terms of ridding myself of shame. Once I have dealt with this, then I will have to focus on becoming more arrogant in order to return to the work I was doing when I met him.
I definitely feel more inclined to say what I have to say and to hell with it than I used to. I don’t feel as smart or as serious as I used to, but perhaps that is a good thing as it actually gets the words onto the paper, as opposed to feeling like one of my friends, who despite being an international political journalist, cannot bring herself to publish a book, even under another name, in case anyone finds out.
Shame is not useful, and it is there to keep you in your place. It is probably a good idea to work on that.
I am definitely a girl. I need to work on that. Even strapping the mammaries up failed to prevent my giving the game away with girly movements, particularly with my giant hands, oddly. People seemed somewhat aroused by watching my ex suffocate me with duct tape, however, which was quite funny as we don’t think like that at all. He complained of dizziness after running around me 65 times.
When making costumes, be aware that your wording will then determine your movements. This is not the Glass Walls project, so I cannot cross my arms and look mean.
Avoid pictures near a senotaph.
Have a firm idea what you want to say before taking said photographs.
I am very good at sewing.
I am almost as good at making masks, but I still need to work on it a little for good quality photography.
I am thinner than I thought I was.
I need to be more confident although I have improved enormously with my campaign of walking terror.
People may object to Ina’s anonymity.
The hood gives me an incredibly small head.
Boris needs neater trousers than Ina.
Boris is extremely popular.
When using a new camera, do not trust a photographer to sort out the problems with it.
Your level of confidence determines how much space people give you when doing things, even when they are fairly hazardous like waving giant flags.
Make sure that your photographer realises that you cannot see inside a large mask, so that any anomalies can be corrected.
Do not rely on sunlight, as it does not always photograph well.
Explain the shots in detail, so that you can be guided by the person taking the shot.
Possibly fire yourself, and replace yourself so that you can get exactly what you want from the pictures.
This project is not cheap, but it is great fun.
Redirecting your feelings does not 100 percent work.
Doing a project like this is a great cure for shyness.
I would include some shots from today, but they were all a bit lame, so I will see how much we can improve tomorrow and update then.
Couple of appointments as my normal self, Ina should be out and about after 3pm or so. Not sure what I’m planning to do today, I think a couple of stills and some preliminary checks in daylight are in order before more a more serious approach tomorrow.
Still do not know what to do about work. I feel sick that I have upset anybody, even if I don’t know them, which must seem bizarre as I am about to upset the whole country, but there’s the paradox of large scale work. I could try just asking him, but I think I would probably just get a load of double talk.
Still haven’t fully resolved Boris’s eyelashes, but I shouldn’t think it will matter much today. I just want to pin down whether I can do the whole job myself, which will make life a lot easier.
I have prescribed the film director with megadoses of garlic and mullein, and he is doing well so far. The NHS, who have had two chances to treat him now, are not taking his symptoms at all seriously. He is registered disabled. Unless his surgery continues to be interesting, I do not think he stands much of a chance in hospital now that they seem so deleriously happy to kill people.
Anyway, we are underway.
Must go and do some flag readjustments before we head off.
Lust is a problem for many religions, because of the inappropriate force of desire and the destructive nature of wanting something to the point of disorder.
It is entirely distinct from love. Love has ‘God’s’ approval because it is about giving, in theory and has ‘good’ aims, whereas lust is more like fire, burning everything in its path to gratify a need.
The problem with lust, is that it isn’t very productive. It may, as my friend says, be very healthy, but it isn’t particularly useful or pleasant.
The only real way of escaping it is to avoid the object of desire. Therefore I spent several years not even looking at pictures of Wolfe whilst making artworks and books dedicated to him. In this way, lust became more productive and, presumably if you look on it this way, God-worthy.
I was not aware of any religious connotations to my work before this. I tend to describe my work as having its basis in Platonic philosophy, the divine spark of inspiration representing love, although as I have mentioned before, the fact sewing, my hands and being covered in whatever I am using is hugely important to me when creating things means that there is a massive sexual element. I have also successfully used it to avoid saying or doing anything about my feelings in the past, but then I have always had the option to run away.
Running away, which is my usual preferred option, means that you are free to avoid being cornered. It means you can avoid the inevitable compromises of having an actual relationship with anyone, and it means you can avoid changes you do not necessarily want. Running away is usually smart, because if anybody actually gave a shit about you, they would come and get you anyway. Nobody has bothered yet, which means I am doing the right thing.
I can entirely understand why churches would seek to regulate people’s experience in this way. Stability depends on it, and any religion is really about social control and a stable society. Nobody would have heard of Jesus or Mohammed if armies had not slaughtered millions of people successfully.
It does not look as if I am going to get to run away this week, so I will have to tolerate feeling like hell for a couple of weeks at least as it appears impossible to avoid the issue even when trying very hard. Today I was a bit calmer at least, and then the evil sprite kicked in and tried to persuade me that there isn’t a problem.
There is a problem, and it is me. I have to remove me as the problem. Everyone else is just fine.
The good news is that I get the car back tomorrow, so I should be able to get some actual work done on the filming this week.
The bad news is that I am unable to get a swift shift change and am expected to sit and be mortified for several weeks even though they are actually looking to fill gaps in the desired shift. This is going to cause problems for several reasons:
I am becoming extremely upset by this job. It is not the sort of job where you can have bullshit emotional crap going on.
I am not secure in this job.
I need to sort out sleep as I don’t think this is helping with either of the above.
I need to be able to get maximum attention on my field trips as Boris.
As usual with creative projects, everything is a mess.
My partner in crime film director ex is extremely unwell and if he does not get medical attention soon, I fear he will die.
In the meantime, I am extremely stressed. The good part of this is that I cannot eat, the bad part is that I do not know how long I can keep this up.
I have had a good idea for a major (SB) artwork, however it is a two year piece and not remotely practical. I am resolving issues with this at the moment as I think it is a good one otherwise.
Think I will go and take it out on the garden. Here is some Nickodemus for Wolfe.
For SB, inspired by the amusing poem ‘Big Fat Kaffir Whore.’ Life is messy.
Only a few days ago it seems,
I was a lovely lady,
Bereaved of my mother,
Honorable, sweet, kind
Young for my age,
Imaginative, intelligent, positive
Looking forward to the future
The future without more pain
Careful about what I ate,
Careful about what I wore
But now it turns out
I’m just a
Big Fat Kaffir Whore!
Discarded as useless
“She is old kaffir whore.”
“Why are you saying this? Are you jealous, little girl?”
“Why would I be jealous of that old fat bitch?”
“It’s always the same. I don’t know what they are thinking when they respond at all. Either they are slappers, they think I’m big enough to handle whatever bullshit they throw at me, or they think I am useless and my feelings don’t matter anyway.” Lydia sighed. “I don’t know why I bother trying anymore.”
“Well you didn’t actually try this time.” Tom laughed. “It kind of happened without you.”
“Yeah, I don’t remember chemistry like that. I remember being attracted to unexpected people, I don’t remember throbbing all day or hearing myself hitting on people when all I was trying to do was have a conversation about work. Most unfortunate, and most embarrassing. Never mind, I will try and get out of being in the same room with him, since it is now even more uncomfortable than it was before. It would be nice to come home from work not crying for once. I can’t afford to lose this job.”
“You still care too much, and you are still painfully shy.”
“What sort of useless statement is that? It doesn’t help. Life just keeps getting worse.”
“Maybe you worry about it too much?”
“Worry about it? What else can you do, when it puts you at risk, no matter what you do for people? He forwarded my email to his stupid bosses, and I still recommended him. I have done everything I can think of doing for this moron. The only option at this point is to remove myself from the situation, and it is the only ladylike response. What the fuck do you expect me to do?” Lydia was irritated. “I was confident enough to be planning the Lucifer project when I started, and now look at me. This is miserable, and a poor excuse to fail to help my friends. The dude is obviously hopeless, so I’m not waiting around for the third strike if I can avoid it. If I get much more crap at this job, they will fire me just to make me feel even worse, and who the fuck cares what happens to me? Nobody.”
Expectations are easy. They are easy because they involve rules, doing what is expected of you. Looking right, taking the obvious route. Expectations do not involve magic, or character, or anything in the way of actual thought. Nobody complains as long as you live up to their expectations. Expectations are a bore. They are what cause you to wake up one day and realise you have locked yourself in a cage you cannot leave, because you saddled yourself with other people’s expectations. Stupid people like expectations, because it removes any need for thought. “Put a bun in my oven and wash the car.” Fuck expectations.
“You fed the Prince of Luxembourg?”
“Amongst other people. He was nice. I liked him.”
“Why don’t you ever talk about it?”
“It’s just normal life.”
Istanbul smelt of flowers, exhaust fumes and the smelly Bosphorus. Lydia almost skipped as she walked from the hotel to the hall where they were holding the Backgammon tournament. Men of varying ages and dress stood silently waiting for their numbers to be called. Lydia held her number in her hand. She was very nervous. Backgammon players from all over the world, some of whom she had probably played all waited for their initial games.
“You are too young, and the wrong gender. Where is your husband?” Ahmed frowned and growled in an effort to intimidate Lydia. “You shouldn’t have wasted your money.”
Lydia beat him, of course and proceeded to win third prize, which paid for her trip. “Fuck you, Ahmed, see you in Marrakech!” She took a horse and carriage around the city until she got bored taking photographs and returned to her hotel. She would be flying to Muscat for a few insect filled days before heading back via Morocco.
The taxi driver tried to rip her off as usual at the airport. Lydia sighed. “Must we go through this every time? I am not paying 250 dirhams for a fifteen minute trip.”
“Ah but it is fun to haggle, no?”
“Not really. Give me the real price and let’s go.” Lydia at least managed to raise a smile from the taxi driver. Marrakech as usual smelt of rotting fruit, but she always felt better there, despite the constant chatter.
“Shakira! Good to see you again!” Lydia waved to an apparent old friend as she got out of the taxi and headed to her apartment. Lydia looked pretty much like everyone else in Marrakech apart from the hair. Scruffy creative types maintained the level of mess Lydia preferred.
After a few days, she played Ahmed and various other friends again, but failed to win this time. Money was now fairly short. She would have to do better in Tel Aviv.
Tel Aviv bustled. There was no actual tournament here, they played private games. She did OK, enough for the next flight to New York, where she had an appointment with a banker for a game. “I don’t do sex with strangers.” Lydia cautioned the small but beautiful man.
“Strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet.” he said hopefully.
“Let’s get drunk.”
They ended up lying in Washington square, stargazing after a long night of staggering from bar to bar playing more and more backgammon. It was nice not to gamble for a change.
The next day she flew to Pittsburgh, where a rebel Amish man who played online had an apartment. They played and he made some half hearted attempt at banging her before she took off with a gang of bikers, travelling around Pennsylvania for a week. It was nice, but Lydia realised she could never live in America.
By the time she got to South Carolina, she was sick of gamblers. Lydia did not like gambling, she liked backgammon, and the game for her was chatting, scoring points and seeing how long you lasted. Her friends in SC were both keen gamblers and lived in a tree house. Lydia spent most of the week watching multicoloured birds flying up through the tree.
“Look at her skin! How do you get your skin like that! Look at it!” Lydia quickly grew tired of being pawed in America. Chewing gum for the brain. She much preferred the pre-Islam middle eastern mentality, not as hard to find as you might think from watching your conformist TV.
When she returned to New York, the staff at Icelandair saw that she could not deal with the heat, and gave her a free ticket home. Glacial, unsmiling, gorgeous blonde people with plane seats. How Lydia loved them for doing that. She returned home early, glad to leave the USA.
When she got home, her father was ill. He had not cared about anything since he stopped work. Lydia was glad of the dog, who made sure her father at least walked every day. He had probably got an extra six years from that dog. Her mother, not a nice person, was horrific for the next four years, constantly reminding Lydia how useless she was, how she had no friends, how she should live. Lydia was patient, because she knew that unless she took care of them, nobody would. It was hard, but Lydia was so glad not to have to deal with violent and stupid men that she did not mind. Most of the ones she ended up with were one of the two. The others were just more bullshitters.
The only job that paid decently that Lydia managed to land, as jobs were in somewhat shorter supply in Scotland when you were restricted due to your family issues, was senior management at a bank. She was sparing with details about herself, because she was aware the other contractors had very restricted lives, travelling from contract to contract. She felt too much information would frighten them.
The day after this job ended, her mother had a stroke. A month later her father starved to death, drugged by the NHS.
Ten years later her mother was killed by the NHS, also at the palliative stage. Lydia fought them off for eight months before they managed it.
“She canny live on fruit, dear. You don’t know.” the old nurses said as they tried to start the death process at home.
“She lives on 100 different herbal ingredients from all over the world which have kept her infection and pain free for months, unlike your bullshit medicine. What is wrong with you? Why are you in my house talking this rubbish?”
“We have tae look after you, too. You can’t live like this.”
“That’s funny, because I’ve had to hide for twenty two years from my asshole siblings. I seem to have survived without your intervention. Please leave us alone.”
Four days before Christmas Lydia saw her mother die from stupidity and people ‘just doing their job.’ What happened to ‘first do no harm?’
Inevitably, the asshole siblings discredited Lydia at the hospital, which hugely assisted in their decision to just kill her. They didn’t even bother to hide it this time.
Lydia is useless, and nothing she does will ever be meaningful in comparison with your bullshit expectations. Fuck you.