CHAPTER EIGHT
My wife, Kelly, (having come a long way now, I’ll let you know her name is Maureen. Just as I am Jonathan…) had her psychic mentor/advisor for the last ten years, give her a quickie reading over the phone regarding the time frame—as to when we’ll be getting the legal help we need, and especially since I called Bobby Banks about getting help last week. The reading was slightly unclear, as the numbers were 3 and 4…is 3 or 4 days, or weeks, or months—whichever one, it’s going to be 3 or 4 something…before the lights are turned on.
Wait. Let me start afresh.
I’ll be getting access to one of my laptops—the junkiest one I have, since I broke all the good ones in my violent rages from before I got into treatment.
My wife, Kelly (Maureen) will be arriving here in Colorado—at the motel, hotel, whatever—where I’m staying, in about 4 or 5 hours.
I treated myself to some caffeine—I mean more than a few cans, more like half a case—for many reasons, besides they really don’t do anything to wake me up. Most of my life is spent as Zombie.
1.) Kelly (Maureen) is coming and I want to be alert. 12 cans of Sugar Free Red Bull but the meds still have me Zonked.
2.) General celebration. My finding-Buddhism-without-having-planned-to-do-so… (I texted Kelly about “just being,” in some detail, and she said that what I was describing was very Buddhist.)
3.) Coming back from a 2 ½ hour trip to get meds; some melted in my bag from the dew of the sodas in there, and the spillage from the almost-empty cans in the bag…my man purse…
4.) I spit (spit-tic) on my last clean white shirt—
This pen is running out of ink. Perfect timing perhaps.
It’s the only one I have.
Heck-to-hell.
Hell-to-heck.
Have to get a pen from the front desk.
OK. Got it.
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