I woke up at 4:00 this morning, Damnit.
I tried to go back to sleep but couldn't. I struggled with the sheets and pillow until I just gave up. I grabbed a towel, washcloth and soap and hit the shower. I'm out of underwear so I went commando. My eyes are bloodshot and sleepy. I sit on the edge of my bed and still don't feel like falling asleep. I change into retread clothing and crawl into bed.
Some time later someone walks past my bed to go to the bathroom. I sit up to take a look as to see who it was and my entire neck protests. I lay my head back down gingerly on my pillow. This time pain did the trick, I was out like a heavyweight boxer.
I woke up and got ready, still tense. I feel like a score of angry cats are fighting it out underneath my clothes. I go into the kitchen for some Raisin Brand and coffee to chill out. Damn, do I need that LYRICA right now. The little man in my brain is sticking his head out my right ear, screaming.
I go back to my bed, sitting down at the edge of it and read Strunk and White, Elements of Style. Shortly my ILS appears at my left shoulder. "Can I speak to you for a minute?" Sure. I get up and follow him into his office like a man going to the gallows. He motions me to take a seat. "Well, I've got good and bad..." he stops, shakes his head. 'What am I saying bad for, it's all good." He takes a seat across from me. "You've been accepted for the apartment." HOLY SHIT. I can't believe my ears. Yes. I have been accepted. He goes on to tell me about what I need to do now. They want us to move fast, and to be in there by Tuesday at 10:00am to move in. When we arrive we are to have 1) a budget letter, 2) prescriptions, and 3) ID.
Hell, the budget letter would be the hardest thing. I just got my psyche meds from Nurse G yesterday, and I'm going to see Dr. A. this morning so, I'll get the rest from him. I thank my ILS profusely. I know that he and the rest of the staff here at the Box did the best that they could over the many months, and they came through. They really made the wait worthwhile.
As I head to the Way, I consider the weight of what this means. No more curfew. I get to go see my parents next month. No breathalyzer or urine testing. Visitors, and overnight visitors after thirty days. Breakfast and lunch provided by them. Refrigerator, microwave, room to breathe, a lock on the door, and a mother fucking DOOR. Finally, privacy.
All I have to do is submit to a monthly inspection of the apartment, and see my social worker once a week. As my father would say: light shit.
A motherfucking door.
The bathrooms are shared. Four to a floor and cleaned by staff. The building looks newly renovated. Everything in the room looks brand new and unused. Well, the sample room did. We'll see what my room will look like.
I go to Dr. A. and the pressure is so great behind my mouth that I had to tell him right away what happened or my teeth would go flying in the ensuing explosion. He was quite pleased and checked off another line from his 'Problems with Hobobob' sheet. This time, this one read: Homelessness. I told him about the need for the prescriptions and he wrote them up. I stowed them in my bag. Two items down. Then I headed for the library.
I can't believe that I'll have a motherfucking door.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/11/left-locked-this-time.html
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