And then she turned around. She doesn’t think he already has something that you turn around for. She had a cut through all the time before. I tattooed on his fine saying, Phoenix, Arizona 1949. Hello, you seem to be working now, microphone. How the fuck did that happen? You’re killing me. You’re killing me.

This previous paragraph was from when the microphone started to work, with me attempting to sing along to Little Egypt by The Coasters. And then my comments regarding the microphone were spoken into the microphone.

Today was different. A July 2 Wednesday. I slept OK, not as good as previous nights, but it was enough. I am typing again. Not dictating into the phone since the microphone seems to work when it wants, and today it did not want to work. It was infuriating to me. I had become spoiled by sitting at lunch, dictating notes and ideas, and today I was prevented from doing so.

I was notified by the counselor who placed me at the job that I am employed at that I did not attend her meeting yesterday, and she wanted to know why. I could not tell her that I only just found out about the meeting since it was on her calendar, which I did not check (though I have to get into the habit of looking at her calendar daily from now on).

It did not help her meeting schedule when neither Jimmy Chile nor Stevie Something attended their appointed meetings, both of them contracted workers for the same company that placed us at the employment where we now work in Manhattan.

A thing that bothered me was, despite how I think I am not addicted to my phone, my quiet meltdown over the non-functioning microphone was alleviated when it started to work, revealing that I, too, am addicted to my phone. Not as bad as others. They shoot up, whereas I just snort.
Can I quit anytime? When I want to? Today revealed it was not likely.

Now, I sit and type, which is fine. It is just something that I hadn’t done in some time. I’m tired. Physically and mentally. Will I feel this way when it’s actually time to go to sleep? I harbor doubts.

Once again, Bill is on the couch, Mike is at his crib, and I sit in front of the computer keyboard forlornly typing. It’s July 2, and the feeling is ‘meh’. Just fatigue, I guess.

Over the weekend, I wished a friend, Thomas George, down south a ‘Happy Pride’. His response was one of depression, wishing he could feel ‘that free’. I asked him what was wrong and he didn’t feel close enough to me to tell me.

I suggested he call 988, the Crisis Hotline. It’s known as the suicide hotline, but they’re also equipped to help people going through a crisis. Thomas said he had contacted them via chat, and I told him I had called them a few times in the past year or so and was able to get some troubling things off my chest.

It sort of ended with that, though I did do a wellness check and Thomas was still alive this afternoon.