He is that kind of asshole, a white man who thinks that he’s exposing me to things I wouldn’t normally see and therefore I shouldn’t need to be paid, that I’m actually having fun. He’s kind of right exactly, but the point is not that it’s fun or not, the point is that I can’t *afford* to have fun. Not unless he pays for it. By taking my time like a vampire, it makes those fun things less fun because I really need to make enough money to work on even relaxing before I can worry about having fun.
I’m crying anyway. I’m afraid the surgery didn’t work, I am in pain again and physically, with my hand on my body, it doesn’t feel right. I’m back to the state that I was when I started this page, waking up crying for no reason and then writing long streams of conscious thought to see if I can pick out some reason why, like examining the vomit of a suicide attempt victim to see if you can find any of the pills, to know what poison to treat for.