Bro Comes Calling...After 4 Months

My doorbell rang this morning. Yes, I was sipping Vodka. The ding-dong scared the hell out of me -- I don't receive unscheduled visitors at the house. Literally popped up from the couch, like I heard the cops knocking. It was the UPS man. A delivery for me.

But I hadn't ordered anything.

Had a feeling who it was from, and I was correct.

Bro sent me a package. After four months of no contact. And here it is:

A bunch of dog treats. NOT new. Used, pre-opened. Bro also owns a dog. Her name is Lulu. A Jack Russell Terrior. I call her "Ms Lucy." Much more fitting. When he dies, I'm taking her. 

Ms. Lucy and my bro

And a letter, explaining that Ms. Lucy is suffering from digestive issues, so she won't be needing all her old treats. Yeah. I'm laughing as I write this because bro tends to send me TONS of pre-used shit. Never anything new. However, I think it's his way of showing he cares about me and is still thinking about me. The USED stuff can get rather annoying, especially on my birthday. The fucker is wealthy as hell.

I am the mother of **three* rescued pit bulls and a long-haired cat. My children. I doubt my babies care if the treats were pre-owned. Just fed them some. They loved 'em.

"Thanx." That's the text I sent him. And left it at that. Mom always taught me to say thanks, even when you don't mean it.

Roscoe drunk texted me last night. Sent a picture of his new tattoo. As if I care (and unfortunately, I do) Looks like shit in my opinion. Bargain basement:

The "Rents" are Dead...

I have no family. The "rents" are dead...UGH ...such a stupid term. We called them "parents" back in my day. More respectful. I picked up that lazy moniker from the younger folk. Rents...ha....it makes me sick to relate to the younger generation. They're nothing like me. Just trying to be funny. Big fail.

I disgust myself sometimes.

Mom and dad are dead. Nowhere to be found in my life. Although they haunt my dreams. And when I see them, mom is either always angry with me or buying me clothes that aren't my style. Dad just hangs out, observing my every move. Like an angry owl. Always judging. Figures. What I really want is a group hug with them. Someone to say, "I love you Ruby. I'm still here for you." Oh well. Fuck it. Worse things could've happened to me.

My dreams do not define my life, but probably speak volumes about my subconscious. I miss them so much and feel like an orphan most of the time. Despite being 44 years old.

However, I do have a brother who is eight years older than me. Lives in Los Angeles. And he is a jack off.

Here's why...the cliff notes version: Bro is currently harboring Roscoe, the alcoholic-love-of-my-life, whom I kicked out October 7, 2013. Bro took in Roscoe because bro is gay and gets along with Roscoe. And thinks Roscoe is handsome (which he is). Bro owns multiple properties in LA and needs help managing his properties -- someone he can trust. Roscoe currently gets free room and board, and does about 5 hours of work per day. Otherwise, he's hanging out at the Viper room on Sunset Boulevard, picking up sluts.

Nice.

As soon as I booted out Roscue in October, bro took him in. Says a lot about my only living relative, eh? Again, bro is a jack-off-motherfucker. And he knows it.

And traded in his little sister for Roscoe.

Anyone who knows me and heard this story still stares at me, mouth agape, shaking their head...they always ask "WTF is wrong with your  brother?" I still don't know. But I drunk text him when I'm angry and wasted beyond belief.

He never responds.

Roscoe now lives with my brother in LA. Fulltime. Dating LA women and living in my bro's upscale Hollywood Hills home. Bro has not contacted me in four months. Traded me in. I'm waiting for karma to find them both.

And some of you ask why I drink.

Really having a hard time with all of it. But not giving up. Yet. Just languishing in my addiction for now.

But there's got to be a better way. God is testing me. I know it.

Calling myself an "Addict"...

I don't mind calling myself an addict.

The name fits my bill. Not happy with myself these days, as I drink daily, always after work. I'm a personal trainer. Yeah. Not what you'd expect of a trainer, but I really don't give a fuck what you think. After I turned 40 my addiction became a mountain I could no longer scale without a tremendous amount of guilt attached. Like an overweight backpack that's killing you with every step. The pain!

And lots of hiding -- I am a master at disguising my addiction. I know to drink coffee before I meet with friends or afternoon clients (not training clients - I have a couple of gigs). Drinking is seriously the highlight of my day. And I know its wrong. Every time I pour copious amounts of vodka into my tumbler, add some lemon and water, I slip into another world with no pain, fear or regret.

My neighbor and also one of my best friends is also a severe alcoholic. Worse than me. We'll call her Sadie. Sadie & I feed off each other. She comes over in the late afternoon most days -completely sloshed. Sometime I've already beaten her to the punch - I start sipping my drinks around 9am. She doesn't wake up until after 12 noon. Always hung over from the night before. Sadie's confessed drinking vodka as soon as she wakes up --like me. She comes from money. Doesn't work. Husband cares for her -- God bless the poor guy. Me -- I've been living off my inheritance. Working from 4am 'til around 8:30am training the fatties as I so affectionately call them. Although I live frugally, I know I can't keep doing this.

My paramour, Roscoe, of 13 years, also an alcoholic, drove my addiction. I allowed it. Couldn't change him, so might as well join in. And seriously, that's how my addiction started. Screw it, I said to myself. If he was drinking, I'd be in the kitchen with my laptop and glass of vodka lemon water (because it saved more calories minus any soda or sugary drink----- remember, I'm a trainer) getting more drunk than him in the first hour. Knock me out, I told myself. And my anger and aggression towards him grew. I don't want to talk about the violence. I started hitting him first. Then he began fighting back. My black eyes told a story. Which I always covered up with another story... "I slipped in the shower....something fell on my face while I was pulling shit out of the closet." People will believe anything, as long as they don't have to hear that you're in an abusive relationship. Hell -- I'm the same way-- oh, that's how you got the bruise??? Sure, makes sense.

Anyway, that's it for now, and I've got more to tell. Just too much to transcribe/handle at this moment. Thanx for reading. xoxo

Tx Josie xoxo