So I woke up this morning (I was sleeping in my brothers' old room, because my bed is too covered with junk right now from cleaning) to the voice of my mother, going through my trash.

My TRASH.

That's right. She was fucking poking through my GARBAGE, looking for things she wants to keep of mine.

That is a huge pet peeve of mine.

Anything threatening my privacy I become very sensitive about. That includes reading my mail, reading the computer screen over my shoulder (even if it's nothing sensitive), reading my journal (paper one, not this one), reading *any* scrap of paper in my room no matter if it has any significance, and GOING THROUGH MY TRASH.

Fucking pisses me off.

I'm also kind of sensitive about people going through my sketchbooks and lunchbox (I keep my pencils and art supplies in there), but that's only people I don't like, or don't know. If I'm on good terms with the person, I generally don't have a problem.

Anyway, so me and my mother spent most of the morning fighting (she also went through the boxes that were going to the Salvation Army, right outside the place).

So she's down on the computer, writing her report cards or something, and I'm hauling boxes and bags to go to the Salvation Army, and she yells up the stairs:

"Rosie! Phone!"

I pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey." It's Loren. He sounds very far away.

"Oh, hey."

"How's it going?"

I was on the verge of tears. I had been all morning, and had already cried a couple times (this is why I hate living with my mother).

"Oh, well, you know. I'm still alive."

"That good, huh?" he sounded wry. "Are you alright?"

The lump was rising, the tears surfacing. I didn't want to say anything because I knew it would come out choked.

"Rosie? Are you alright?"

"Yeah," I choke out. "I'm okay."

"Are you crying?"

"Yeah."

"Fighting with your mom again, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I can't talk long. I just called to find out your shoe size."

"Wh-what?"

"What're your shoe size?"

"Uh, 10."

"Okay. 'Cause I'm standing here looking at a pair of Mary Janes."

I've been badly needing knew shoes, and I've been looking for a pair of nice, durable Mary Janes. (Loren listens! A man who listens! I *like* this one.)

Side note: Mary Janes, for those who don't know, are the 'school girl' kind of shoe, usually leather with a rounded toe, a bit of a clunky sole, and a strap across the arch of the foot.

"What? Where are you?"

I'm kind of half laughing, half crying at the this point.

"One guess."

"Are you...are you where I think you are?" The Sanctuary, an 'alternative' store in Edmonton with the most *fantastic* shoes, amongst other things (wiccan and pagan stuff, goth and punk stuff, some bondage stuff, clothes, baubles, posters, that kind of thing).

Now, he *swore* he wasn't going to go there.

To recap a conversation from last week when I asked him to bring me back something, preferrably from the Santuary: "Oh, right. So I'm going to ask my uber religious family to drive me to this pagan/wiccan/alternative lifestyle store so I can buy something for my half-hippy, bisexual, agnostic girlfriend whom I'm sleeping with but not married to."

And now he's *calling* me from there.

"Is this the place that you swore up and down you weren't going to?"

"That'd be the place."

"Whose phone are you using?"

"My brother, Dwayne's." (Makes sense. He's the other kinda 'black sheep' of the family, not very religious with a skateboard business.)

Anyway, I laughed a bit more, cried a bit more, and kinda wished afterwards that I'd asked Loren to say hullo to his brother for me.

I'm kind of excited. All I brought back for Loren from Oliver (SCA event there) was a pack of socks (which he *needs*, as he has so often expressed).

But, on the other hand, I can't exactly be extravagant in my gifts, because I'm fucking broke. Those socks cost me six dollars, which is a fortune in my world.

On the other hand, I'm going to have a little money coming my way soon, and I think I'll see if I can put down a small tab for Loren at his favorite little restaurant, anonymously, of course. Just enough for about three of his favorite breakfasts (light roast coffee with sugar, two eggs scrambled, white toast, hash browns, two sausages and two slices of bacon).

He'll figure out who it is, though, I'm sure.

Is it sad that I know what Loren orders?

I'm so fucking random, though. I get something different almost every time we go out. (Though when I worked at King's, I usually ordered the same few things for lunch, rotating).

Fark it. My nost is bleeding. Not badly; it's not dripping. It's just kind of...oozing. Very slightly.

I licked my finger to clean the blood off and weirdly it had no taste. Normally my blood has a sharp metallic taste, but nothing. Nothing.

I better go and clean up. I think it's going to start pouring soon, and I should sleep.

.

Rosie.

PS, I had a dream last night. I was in a post-apocalyptic setting in underground cavernous rooms, and there were tons of housecats, and everything seemed to be centered on these cats. There was only one man, and he was I guess an exboyfriend of mine, and all the women followed him around. He decided to cast me away, so everyone decided to hate me as a resault, and they beat me with the intent to kill, including the man, so I pretended to be dead. I managed to stay alive that way: pretending I was dead. I'd play with the cats and take care of them in their main room, and I'd roll over and play dead when ever the roaming group of women and man came into the room. So long as I played dead they'd only kick me a couple of times and slap my face a bit. It wasn't too bad. I don't think they entirely believed I was dead.

Then I woke up. I wonder what it means, if anything.

Before&After