My sister, Karlie, was nice enough to go buy and bring Darla bed bug spray today. I wondered how that purchase went. Did she wear a disguise? Could she get it wrapped in a discrete brown bag like a 40 oz or a vibrator? In any case, she had Darla meet her at the front door of the apartment to make “the drop” and then learned that she has been denied for disability, widow benefits, and paratransit. Pretty much the only thing keeping her motivated for the last several months was knowing that in August she would turn 60, and have a chance at benefits that would allow her to stop working.
I don’t know how long Darla has known she was denied, but as usual, she just shares these bombshells with one of us. Karlie gets the information today because she is the good daughter that bought and delivered insecticide. Elle is not currently in her favor because she pointed out that bed bugs live a long time.
She’s always been looking for a quick and easy solution to any problems or discomforts in her life. She would often talk when we were children about the dream man she wanted to appear and take her away and let her stop working forever. She got a gastric bypass because she thought it would be a quick fix to a lifetime of overeating. She gave up on paying the mortgage on the house that we grew up in, not because she didn’t have enough money, but because it had become so cluttered and filthy and she actually wanted to walk away from it all and start over.
When there is no simple painless solution to a problem, it is simply ignored. Mail goes unopened, bills are ignored, and she escapes. She escapes by eating, drinking, smoking, taking pain medication, reading cheap romance novels, watching TV, shopping, or sleeping.
I wish her escape was to become a workaholic. I honestly cannot tell you how she keeps her job, but she so rarely goes to work, her last 2-week paycheck after health insurance was $13. Yep, $13. I’m not sure where we go from here. Every time I think things couldn’t be more of a mess, she outdoes herself again.
It’s never her own fault though. It’s mine, or my sister’s, or my dad’s for leaving, God’s, the lady at social security, the man at the apartment building, the bank, her back, the bus, the doctor, etc. When she does admit fault, it’s by saying she’s a “worthless piece of shit who should just kill herself.” There’s just not much you can say after that. She knows it. That’s why she says it.
Oh, and she dropped her Obama-phone in the toilet today.
I can’t keep up.