Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 If you’ve been reading the Satan stories…that’s cool. They’re fun to write. Why did I call it Satan Lives in Riverside Park? I wanted to get your attention, first, and because it’s kind of a joke, and a mystery. Well, I live in Riverside Park…am I  Satan? (I don’t know why spell check keeps capitalizing that word; he must be important). Maybe. What I did was pretty evil. And most people say I’m a nice person. I’m glad I only really drank for eight years of my life, the last year being the absolute worst. Do I really think my alcoholic ex boyfriend is really Satan? No. He’s kind of a mean drunk, but he has his positives. He took a chance on a girl thirty years younger than him…who eventually screwed him over (one drunk is bad, but what’s worse is two drunks who think they’re in love). I have guilt about that, but like A.A. says, it’s best not to make amends to some people. As my Uncle Cravon used to say, Let sleeping dogs lie.  Yet I write these stories, for my benefit an...

 Yes, I think it is. That’s not what I set out to do. I just wanted a platform for my writing, and I ended up coming up with a cool name. But it’s not a trailer park blog either. Maybe it’s a Florida blog. A sober Florida blog (cause that makes sense). 

 “Saving all your food stamps and burning down the trailer park…” — Loser by Beck The “forces of evil in a bozo nightmare” were conspiring against me. I couldn’t stay home and get drunk and pass out like a normal person. Because I couldn’t sleep there; I couldn’t sleep at all . Even though I was comfortable in my warm buzz, once I laid down my thoughts exploded like bird shot, like my mind was in a Daytona 500 (my brain was drunk, but my psyche was on point), and after a short time (15 to 30 min) I would start withdrawing from the alcohol and my heart would race, so it was back to the antics. The fatigue was a ruse, like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. During one non-nap I saw Jesus, or what I thought was Jesus, in a negative photo film, Shroud of Turin like image. He didn’t appear in order to save me. Just to spook me (the funny Jesus. I knew he had a sense of humor). My favorite place to be was at Ross’, even though I don’t think he wanted me there, but he didn’t know how...

 “I used to be such a sweet sweet thing til they got a hold of me…” — Alice Cooper Peter Criss thinks he knows about Dirty Living. And maybe he does (unless he really was that guy they thought was him, that homeless alcoholic on Donahue). I’m not claiming to be street smart (I’m more like street stupid), and I’m not a “street walker,” like my neighbor Jim says (lol), but I saw enough of these streets. And it was not good.  After Tennessee Morgan Freeman kicked me off his property, I went back to the trailer that I was never at and drank myself into oblivion. That’s what it seemed like anyways. And I did not go to work the next day. And I did not call to tell them I wasn’t coming. And I never did, so I basically ghosted them (and that is why I am probably on the black list and can’t get a job). When I woke up at midnight I drove out to 711 to get a case of beer, so I could drink and get some sleep. I thought it would be nice to drink it on the dock, so that’s what I did. I met ...

 I live in my own little world.  Sometimes I have to hide my crazy from John, and I don’t think he thinks my jokes are funny. But it keeps me going, like the coffee (getting a kick and getting my kicks); I have to see the humor in things (and I want to, but it wouldn’t be the first time I confused my needs with my wants (alcohol, case in point)). I don’t watch a lot of tv or movies: I write on this blog. Maybe too much. I’m really into writing my stories, even though I don’t know if I should share my life with the world. Heck, I don’t even know how many people read it; my numbers are skewed because I open my own posts to read them (what do you do in your spare time? Oh, I read my own blog. Lol). I keep trying to correct that on the blogger site, but it doesn’t seem to work (I need tech help).  My mom has given me some advice about what I write: please don’t write about the psych ward, and stop telling people you’re on medicine, and for gods sake stop telling people you’r...

 There is one part of the Florida reflection that I have never written, that I forgot to include, and that is how I stayed at my aunts house for a while (she is my uncles girlfriend but I call her my aunt. I hope she is okay with that). It wasn’t even a while, it was more like a bit, or a “minute” (isn’t that what the kids are saying now days?). Anyways, I am alive to tell the tale, so might as well…jump! (A little Van Halen for my dear old dad (as I light up a cancer stick. I think this blog might be bad for my health…)) In 2021 I was on my way to Virginia from Florida via 95 (i wanted to take a country road but I had to settle for the highway to hell) after quitting my job and leaving my boyfriend. I was gonna live with my brother in our hometown, cause he was freshly divorced, and my life sucked anyways, so I figured we’d smoke weed and drink and party (the best plan ever. Because I am a Floridian). That never happened because during the trip (blasting Foreplay by Boston) i fail...