Broken Doll

Today is the deadline for my ex-landlord to return my security deposit. His assistant tells me he never gave her the money to write the check, so I know it’s not in the mail. He himself has not returned my call. Of course not. Two weeks ago my mother drove by my old place and saw big red signs stating that the gas company was about to shut off service because dear darling landlord never paid them (to the tune of $800-plus).

Between the security deposit, moving expenses, and damages done by his workmen, he owes me over $3000. So now I have to wonder if he actually has the money to give me, or if he cavalierly (and illegally) spent it on little things like gutting and condo-izing the building he kicked me out of.

According to the city government folks, my single option is small claims court. Because, you know, this is a really good time for me to become mired in a court case. And spending even more money in legal fees. Right.

And even if I win, which should be a slam-dunk since it’s very clear they’re in violation of the ordinance, if the money doesn’t exist then what?

And of course this hitting me now, when I’m looking at tomorrow with a hell of a lot of dread and something akin to terror. It’s beyond nausea. It burns and twists somewhere deep inside, everywhere and nowhere. Even now I can’t even think about that stupid box lunch without feeling that burn and wanting to throw up. There is this awful smell which I’m not quite sure doesn’t exist entirely in my head. It’s this rank chemical smell which I swear is the chemo burning its way through me.

I didn’t get a chance to play at all this week, and next week I’ll be too sick. Maybe it would have helped. Maybe not.

I don’t want to be alone this weekend. I can’t do this anymore.