I think they should at least change it to, “In A God we trust.”

Vampire devil squirrel.

Location: Prospect Park close to PPW & 12th Street

So, turns out, there is nothing that inspires long-distance phone calls like typing the word, “suicide” into one’s blog. I thought I had been pretty clear that my thoughts that night were kind of blase and apathetic in the sense that I couldn’t even be bothered to get up for water. I’m not even sure if that’s the right way to describe it, but you get my point. I am NOT suicidal. I am fucking depressed. And I mean, in the hole deep, depressed.

Why didn’t you get groceries like you said you would?

I don’t know.

Why haven’t you been finding a better job?

I don’t know.

Why aren’t you writing your book?

I don’t know.

Where’s Hart?

I don’t fucking know.

I do know that I’m sad. Fucking sad. And I know I should never have stopped taking that Zoloft. But there is a part of me that knows that taking Zoloft that was prescribed by my GP, is not a solution. It is another way of repressing and just putting off going through whatever it is that I need to face before I can move on with my life without all this pre-historic bullshit weighing me down. (Oh Oprah! Come and teach me to how to live in the now!) So I decided that I wanted to finally just get down to wading through all of my issues, dealing with my shit and getting on with things. The problem with that came when I went off Zoloft before finding a therapist to help with the depression.  That’s the thing with Zoloft … it makes you think you’re way more in control than you actually are. Tricky little pills.

Speaking of pills, I was watching the latest Intervention about Danielle & Her Percocet, and I finally realized why I love that show so much. I always thought it was because I enjoy cheering on an underdog and there’s just nothing like watching the addict of the hour accept the help they’re being offered and reading at the end that they made it through their treatment program and haven’t relapsed and are productive and reunited with their families and YIPPEE! But, no. I don’t care nearly as much about their recovery as I do about the fact that they’re going to rehab!  Oh would I love me some rehab. Know why? Group therapy. Oh, Smoking Baby on my mantel, would I love go to group therapy. In a sick way I would much rather receive an intervention and win a free trip to A Place of Hope instead of winning both packages on the Showcase Showdown.

Ok. Gotta run. I’ve got work but first I’m heading out to do a quick photo shoot with an artist who wants to see if she can capture that je ne sais quoi she sees in me.

If only she knew.

PS. For the record. NOT suicidal. NOT. Not even a little.

If only I had a glass of water …

I had been crying in bed for almost a full hour when I realized that there was a bottle of Ambien next to me.

Shit. Only got four or five left. I don’t think that would do it. It would just make me sleep through L’s visit and then once I woke up, I’d have to that to feel shitty about too. Well, at least I don’t have to go upstairs for water.

Both of the outer edges of my pillow had become soaked from my tossing and turning from side to side, hoping to cry myself to sleep. I was tired enough, but the list-maker who lives in my head (I call her Lucy) wouldn’t shut up. I had passed the heaving portion of my breakdown and was at the point where the tears were just quietly leaking out of my eyes. Lucy started her virtual spreadsheet of all the people I know and how they might be affected.  I had a thought, “Hey Lucy! You know, there’s not enough Ambien up here, but there’s Vicodin downstairs and I’d have to get water anyway.”

“Susan, just hold on for a second.” Lucy was still working on the list and she had just called Guilt (another long-time resident inside my brain) to come in and help her. “Hey, help me organize this,” and she and Guilt begin to categorize each person who might be affected by losing me according to the degree of distress they thought each of them might go through. They had quite a system. Anyone who would have to deal with the corpse immediately got ranked as, “Pretty fucking affected,” and the rankings continued from there. As per usual, the concern for the feelings of others took precedence over mine and Lucy and Guilt decided that there was to be no suicide that evening. Relieved to just have something decided in my life, I finally drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I recalled the prior evening, freaked out and called Lucy.

Me: Holy Shit. Can you believe that?

Lucy: I KNOW! We haven’t done that since you were a teenager.

Me: Therapy time?

Lucy: Therapy time.

I called a new doctor that very day and will let you know how things go.

Not only did they write on the car … they misspelled it.

“You scath my car!”

Location: 14th Street between 7th & 8th Avenues

So. I’m in the middle of writing two brand spanking new posts and I needed some photos. I googled “free stock photos” and found this website. I was looking for pictures of groups of children so I clicked the “People” link and started looking through the pages. Now, maybe I’m alone in this, but what kind of vibe do you get from this?

Pretty creepy. Right? Who is this weird guy who’s taking these weird pictures of himself and submitting them to a royalty-free stock photo site? Does he think he’s on a dating service? Could he really think these are the types of photos people are looking for when they search for stock images?

Is he documenting hair loss?

It’s just weird. And it gets weirder.

So, that first photo is from page five. I initially noticed him on page four. (I now know that he first appeared on page two.) At page five, I decided that I had to know more. And then he disappeared. The next two pages were filled with images of people at parades and concerts. There were shots of fireworks and barbecues and some event called, “The Hot Sauce Festival.” He was gone. And then, page eight.

63 images in all. Self-portraits … all of them. I counted. At that point I had become obsessed. He was the star in my own private reality show, “What is up with this guy?” From the upload account he used, I learned that his name was Jon Sullivan. That wasn’t going to help. So I kept flipping through. All these strange little headshots. All taken by Jon, himself. Then I spotted this shot taken at The World of Coca-Cola in Atlanta, Ga.

How did I miss this before? I guess it’s not as striking as those close ups. It’s weird that he posted just the one non-headshot … And then it hit me. The parades, the concerts, The Hot Sauce Festival, those were all of Jon’s vacations. I clicked on his account and sure enough, he’s a member AND the president of the club. www.public-domain-photos.com is Jon Sullivan’s website. It seems as if Jon has taken all of his personal photos and uploaded them for the entire world to use as they see fit. He notes on his site:

More and more I’ve been getting emails from people saying that they want to use an image commercially and that they need my explicit permission to do so, including signed forms and whatnot. Please stop asking. Public doamin [sic] means you don’t need my permission. And if that’s not good enough, then I guess you can’t use it. The pictures have been used in magazines, newspapers, CDs, image collections, book covers, websites, business cards, software, T-shirts, logos, you name it. All without my explicit permission. I don’t care if you use the photos. Seriously. Use them for whatever you want.

Jon Sullivan isn’t a weirdo. He’s a humanitarian.

Thomasville, GA 2002

I was in college and was driving home for Christmas break. For the first year ever, I had shopped before Christmas Eve and had every one’s gifts wrapped and in the back of my CRX along with about a month’s worth of dirty laundry. Tallahassee was only about two and a half hours from Fitzgerald so I didn’t think much about driving at night after my shift at Blockbuster was over.

I was about thirty minutes from home when I got a flat tire. I was on Highway 319, just entering Omega, Georgia when I heard the pop and the car began to lurch the way it does when you have a flat.

“Shit.”

I pulled over to the shoulder and began unloading the trunk. Bags of laundry and piles of gifts soon surrounded me and the rear-end of the CRX and I was able to gain access to the spare tire compartment. That’s when I realized I didn’t have the tire iron. Apparently the last time I had been home, Mom had taken it out to kill a snake in the yard or something and had forgotten to replace it. I re-loaded the trunk, leaned the spare tire and the jack against the car and began walking. Cell phones existed in those days, but I didn’t have one. Luckily I was only a short distance from the Suwannee Swifty and their pay phone.

“Collect call from Susan. Will you accept the charges?”

Mom answered and after a brief freak out on my part … “Why, exactly, would you take my tire iron out and not put it back?” … she suggested that I ask the cashier at the Suwannee Swifty for some help. Certainly she had a tire iron. I hung up and asked.

“Sorry honey. My husband drives me to work. I don’t even have a car here.”

I started crying. “What am I supposed to do? My mom has my tire iron and she’s all the way in Fitzgerald and I’m just trying to go home for Christmas and now I’m stuck on 319 with a flat tire and no where to go and no money and it’s late and I don’t know what to do!”

“Ok, baby. Calm down. I’ll call someone. Just go wait by your car and I’ll have them there in just a minute.”

Sniffling, I thanked her and went back down the highway. After about fifteen minutes, a truck pulls up. It’s rusted and loud. There’s a gun-rack in the back window and a confederate flag pasted to the front. Suh-weet.

“Thank you so much for coming! Do you have a tire iron? I can totally change a flat, it’s just that my Mom has my tire iron and I’m stuck here and, well, can I use yours?”

A 50-something year old man with a couple of teeth missing and a full on hillbilly wardrobe complete with overalls, got out of the truck.

“Naw. I’ll do it. You got your spare?”

He grabbed the tire iron from the back of the truck and started on my flat. Turns out, trucks and CRX’s don’t have the same size lug nuts on their tires.

“This ain’t gonna work. Sorry.” And he made as if he was going to leave. I started crying again.

“Please! I’m from Fitzgerald, just trying to get home for Christmas. I can’t stay here all night. Can you please help me?”

“Don’t worry. I ain’t leavin’ you.” And he reaches through his driver’s side window and pulls out his CB receiver.

“Breaker, breaker 1-9. This here’s Bumblebee. Y’all got your ears on? 10-4.”

Silence.

“Breaker, breaker 1-9. This is Bumblebee. Is there anyone listenin’? 10-4.”

“Hey Bumblebee, it’s Red Dog. 10-4.”

“Red Dog, we got a flat out her on 319 and need us a lug wrench. Can you help me out? Copy?”

“Sure thing, good buddy.  10-4.”

Red Dog and two of his friends pull up a few minutes later in a truck that makes Bumblebee’s look like a luxury vehicle. In my head I begin planning my escape.

“Thank y’all so much for coming out here. I don’t know what I would have done.” I kept rambling on hoping that my chatter would make them like me or keep them distracted enough to not notice my collection of peace signs and liberal bumper stickers on the back of the car. They didn’t talk back to me. The four men had set to work on my car and had no need for any of my girly chatter.

I unloaded the gifts and laundry back onto the highway and waited for the men to finish with my tire so we could pack the flat and I could get the hell out of there. They worked quickly and before I fully decided which way I was going to run when they tried to attack me, they were done. Bumblebee thanked Red Dog & his friends and they left. He then stood and watched while I re-packed the hatchback for the third time that day.

“Bumblebee. Thank you so much! I don’t know what I would have done without you and Red Dog.”

“Mmm hmm.”

I had closed the trunk and planned to get in my car to finish the drive, but he just kept standing there.

“Um. Really, thanks so much. I wish I had something to give you.” Bumblebee eyed the gifts in the back window. Going through the inventory … a sweater for my sister, makeup for my mom, a cake plate for Grandma … I considered just giving him a wrapped package and letting him work it out.

“Bumblebee. I don’t have any money on me. I’m really sorry. Thank you so much, though.”

He took one last look at the gifts, huffed in disbelief and left me right where he found me.

Pizza and a prayer.