I’ve come to the conclusion that no one else on this plant, in existence or who was ever in existence, has the same problems I do. This is why so few people relate to me as a person. How many other people can say their husband has an ex boyfriend who still calls and puts poison thoughts in his head? How many other people can say their step son is autistic and wants them dead? There may be a few who can say they shut them selves in their bedrooms or homes for an entire day during one of their friends’ funerals, but what are the odds that person is going to come across my blog and leave their thoughts?

That being said, I feel those are the main reasons I connect with very few people. Online or off. When I met my husband, we connected on our love for getting drunk at the ages 9 and 13. We also connected on the love of sneaking cigarettes. Now I don’t smoke (habitually) and he doesn’t drink. Where’s the love? The connection? I connect with my co-workers through our work. I connected with my classmates through school work. I connect with other parents through our parenting experiences. I connect with Matt through our love of sex. Other than that, there is few that I have in common with the people in my life. Very few.

When’s my birthday? What’s my mother’s name?

You don’t know, do you? Probably not.

Have you ever had a friend kill themselves and you were totally oblivious until their mother called and told you? Was it the same friend who stopped you from doing the same thing just three months prior?

If you answered yes, then you know the spot I am in.

I admit it: I like it that my co-workers called me and asked me questions about work. It gave my phone a reason to ring, and me a reason to talk to someone. Lance thinks he’s my friend, but when it gets down to it, we’re not what one would call true friends. I believe our relationship is based on his lust for me, and that’s why he’s nice to me. But what do I know? I can’t read his mind anymore than I can read my own. Yes, I scare myself. Annoy myself. Irritate myself.

Tomorrow, while I’m in treatment, my husband is going to the DNA Diagnostics Center to see if he can get a DNA test on him and our children. Darren excluded because lord knows Liz would never cheat on him, but I might. That’s why I married him and have been living with him these past six years; to squeeze out offspring by some other man. I guess he forgets that when I was a teenager, I vowed never to have kids. One drunken, cocaine laced night put an end to that. As did another codeine soaked night in 2004. Then spontaneous Las Vegas sex a couple of years later. Maybe that’s my problem? I need to stay out of Las Vegas. Every time I go there, I get pregnant or married. Since I’ve stayed out Las Vegas, I haven’t gotten pregnant. The hysterectomy has nothing to do with it. There’s an invisible sperm beam on the border to Las Vegas and every time I cross it, I get knocked up. *grins* That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!