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Warrior and Piece

July 2, 2014

I woke up this morning early – ready to fight.  I knew that I had another conference with Ivy in the afternoon, and I had determined that I wanted to have another matter put to rest first.  B.  I had to finally fire a shot and I wasn’t going to have someone else do it for me.  Even though the texts were, by this point, getting farther and farther apart, ignoring them just felt like not smashing a fly that would not stop buzzing by my head.  I wasn’t willing to text, and wouldn’t even consider using my facebook (which would require unblocking him) so I sent an email. Yes, in case you are wondering, it was pretty vicious.  I like to think of it as giving him a little piece of my mind before preparing to be a warrior in a different arena.


It took me a while to come to terms with you having the audacity to text me. “I’m sorry.” What did you think that – or any of your other texts – would accomplish? You proved to me long ago that your words mean absolutely nothing.  I do wonder for which thing you are most sorry.
The few thousand dollars that it cost me when Zoe broke her arm while you were “watching” her?
For the time and money that went into fixing up “our” farm – you know – the stuff you didn’t repay me for? The curtains? The furniture? Landscaping? My Fire King pie plates? The ironing board that was supposedly a gift? How about the clock that was an exact copy of the one your grandparents had? Maybe the garden, a/k/a food you literally stole directly from my childrens’ mouths? Maybe the dead chickens?
Are you sorry that you caused me pain? Maybe sorry that you hurt my kids… Sorry that you said you knew why Jason wanted me dead? Sorry you called me a whore (but only after you knew I had read each and every text message you sent to Kim about how badly you wanted to fuck her and that I knew about the chubby little tramp you were already fucking)? 
Oh, wait, it could be that you are sorry that there is no one to pack you lunch everyday, do the laundry, and make Sunday family dinners like the one where you got to see your mother have one of her last few precious moments of semi-lucid behavior… 
If you aren’t sorry for any of that, then maybe it’s that you are sorry that your fuck buddy’s dirty cum-stained panties were mixed in with my laundry  (what was that? a week or two after I paid for our trip to Salina?) or that you two love-birds left me a broken plastic flamingo in a box labeled “Wedding Favors” a few months after you dumped me.  In case you forgot, you left it next to my keyed truck, thanks, by the way, and I bet you are sorry for that, too. 
I doubt you are sorry for any of that, you are just sorry that people know what you did. If you were truly apologetic, you wouldn’t bother with some pithy texts, you would take some action.  Show me that you are repentant in a way that means something.  Give me the truck that you called “mine” all that time and promised to fix up for me.  Give me my Grandpa’s car. Make your apology count by giving up something that really matters to you – give up something that someone else paid for, you know, the only things that really matter to you. Repay me for everything you took from me, including all the days and nights I cried without stopping for months and months on end. Whatever you do, don’t do it for me, do it for yourself, for absolution, to make alms or whatever the fashionable term is for you devout Pillard Catholics.  
Whatever you choose to do to make things right, do not, under any circumstances, contact me again. [my attorney]’s office will be happy to assist you.  In case you do choose to directly contact me again, the Sheriff will be pleased to instruct you on the error of your ways. 
Oh, and don’t forget to include a handwritten, tear-stained letter of apology, but please, use soft paper, as I will be wiping my ass with it, and never read a word.

I think that covered it nicely. So then I was on to another battle.  I scheduled an appointment with my attorney in TX regarding a property lease that was executed in mala fide (no, not the cool blog by Ferd – the legal term).  Then I was ready for the big conference, cleaned the slate so I could concentrate on the conference with Ivy.  I am still a little on the fence about it, because she is basically preparing me to fight, but at least I am fighting for others who can’t manage to do it for themselves.  With rare exception, that is as close as I have gotten lately to the comfort I enjoy serving others.

Oh, but first, B wasn’t the only one to get a little piece of my mind.  I dog bit Number Three while she was riding her bike.  It’s not a terrible bite, but there was blood, followed by ink on the police reports, and a couple of calls to The State.  Yes, if your dog bites my kid, I will show you who the real Bitch is…  Poor dog owner, she owns a licensed daycare – but probably not for much longer.

So, on to the phone conference with Ivy.  Part was preparation for speaking.  We went over a few key points that she covered in the Advocates’ Board Meeting.  Pretty easy stuff, really.  We have covered it in the past.  She gave me the schedule for the next meeting, explained what the committees do, and shared the timeline for upcoming events that have to take place before I can start on my presentation.  Then the work started.

I really love both my advocates, Ivy and Angel Betty, but yeesh, they make me work on things I would rather not face.  In a week or two, I will have to talk to the Parole Board.  Ivy is much more of an expert at this than Betty.  She asks really hard questions and builds foundations for me, but then, she sits back and lets me build the rest of the house.  The foundation of the conversation with the PB is a quadrant.  I have to cover the following four areas when addressing the board: Physical; Emotional; Spiritual; and Financial.  That sucks. We had to cover them today, on the spur of the moment while she coached me through it. Now, I have to write the script.  I will share it when it is done, first, fireworks. What else?


They aren’t big, expensive things, just little noise-makers… because a couple of years ago, my neighbor asked me not to let the kids light them.


Now, we set the street in front of the house ablaze with showers of sparks at irregular intervals until the city noise ordinance kicks in at 11pm… even if that means I have to set an alarm.

Bahahahahaaaaa, why do people insist on pushing me like they do? I don’t like conflict, but when it’s a choice between being right or being silent… BANG!





When I dare to be powerful – to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.

Audre Lorde

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