His gun is a fucking bb gun. I don't know what kind of addict dramatic bullshit that was last night, waving it in the air like he was R. Kelly, (That's right EJ, I stole your phrase. Whachoo gonna do about it?) but I came home insisting that we sell the fucking thing or that he give it to the dealer or I'd make him leave blah blah blah, and he showed me that it's a very impressive-looking bb gun.
So that's one thing not to be scared about.
He'd fixed a bath for me when I got home. I like baths. We talked a lot, and I told him what I need. Here's the list:
- No guns.
- No threats of criminal activity.
- No strange mofos up in my house.
- No drugs.
- For him to go to meetings.
He appeared to hear me, though, in the way that he didn't for a long time. He didn't like it when I told him the stuff about how this addict dramatic stuff is getting in the way of my living, down to the level of my thoughts...the language that is invading my thoughts. Sometimes, all I want is to feel like I've been heard.