If you are reading this, then I am dead.
Or more likely, I’m still alive and merely spending my time on something other than blogging. Perhaps I am parasailing or fighting zombie-ninjas.
As such, and to keep the fires of vague interest smouldering, here’s a brand new Fortune Cookie Friday, presented on time and up to date for your reading interest. I may not be present, but at least some of my writing is. Enjoy.
p.s. If I am actually dead, please disregard the part about me not being dead, however, the rest still rings true.
“Your home is a pleasant place from which you draw happiness.”
Nothing really surprises me. I use the phrases, “that’s surprising,” “what a nice surprise,” but the genuine little chemical jump you get inside when you’re mildly shocked has long since ceased.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t duck.
Probably should have.
“I’m leaving you,” was the last thing she said.
I’m not surprised. You haven’t—
She’d turned her back at the point, right out the door. Didn’t slam it, didn’t even bother to close it. Little shoulders hunched up high, tight pony tail sprouted from the top of her head bouncing aggressively as she stomped down the walk. Great, taught ass, bunching and slacking. At least the last of my last memory of her was a good one.
No point in talking to an empty doorway.
I’m not sure who else she’ll find that will handle her moods as mildly.
I rocked myself off the wall and closed the door, giving it a little push at the end to hear the latch click. It sticks sometimes.
She’d turned then, just before the door had closed. I think she did, anyway, I’d been looking at the ground. Your peripheral vision plays trick on you, always convinces you people are staring your way. Probably a self-defense thing from the primate days. I think she’d started to say something, maybe “and another thing,” or “you’re such a freaking pyscho,” but the air rush of the door might have drowned it out or made me think I’d heard something that wasn’t said.
Samantha had paid all the bills. No, I don’t mean in the deadbeat boyfriend sense, I work more than she does. Did. Does? I just mean that she wrote the checks, clicked the tabs, set up the auto-draws.
I didn’t really consider this until the first shutoff notice came. It was for the water. They didn’t send it for six months, I guess that’s how long it takes, or how long it took for the account to run out of money.
I put it in the to-do pile, not the main one. The old one had gotten too tall, too much of a mess to keep anything straight in that. A new one would be more manageable.
The next one that came was for the electric. It reminded me of the water bill, and I went off in search of it, leaving the electric bill on the door-side table.
I can’t remember if it was the gas or the city utilities bill that came next, but I do remember the unsafe residence notice came after that. No water to the house, even for an afternoon, and the city says that the residence is unlivable. I guess they never went camping.
I dug through my piles to reorganize them. I’d kept kicking them and knocking them around so that they’d taken up the whole floor. Re-stacked, they’d be much more efficient.
The eviction notices had come in sequential order, only makes sense. I know they handed me the fifth one in person.
“You fucking crazy–,” is I think what the construction worker started to say to me when I’d stepped off my porch to pay my bills, right into the path of the wrecking ball.
I really should have ducked.
Though, I’m not surprised I didn’t.