To whom it may concern,


Today, (August 17, 2019) Saturday evening. A not so subtle sucker punch came in from the right. As sucker punches usually present themselves it Seemingly it came without provocation.

I forgot to say, thank you.I was lost aimlessly wandering, craving the panic, drama and terror the past 5 years had provided on a daily. I’m a junkie. Always have been, junkie for emotional abuse. My dream is now in the hands of a third party in charge of telling me if I’m good enough. Good enough, well, that’s something I’ve never been good at.


This horrific rebirth, the crime that was committed turned into an accidental journey. I found myself trudging with the unlikely angel “blue.”

Catharsis, I was hard pressed to find. My Mac truck, like clockwork at half past four, brought far too much pain to try and properly articulate at the time. I found myself using a Mac truck as my scapegoat, metaphoric and symbolic. Typically Mac describes or symbolizes my grief, pain, humiliation.

But Mac has always in one way or another been synonymous with grief.

I was saved by Mac today, figuratively and literally. Snapped back into it. I took Macs power away from her today on highway 101 and like that. My diary of a wimpy woman found its end. And like a weak stick, I broke Mac in two.

And like a pissed off teenage girl threw what I broke as hard as I could over the embankment that broke my fall and my Mercedes came to rest upon.

Mac is no longer a metaphor for anything.

I made proper, almost catastrophic acquaintances with Mac today when she tried, but failed to kill me today on highway 101. She clipped the front of my Mercedes Benz SUV and showed me what I had forgotten.
She reminded me, as she drove away without stopping to check her work. I am nothing like her. I have allowed myself to be incarcerated by lies and believed as I have been told. I am bad. I am not useful. I am disposable. Not worth to see if im hungry or cold. Im nothing but the dysfunctional spoke.

I’m not a Mac truck, I don’t blindside I am not a suckerpunch. I have said I was the owner and operator of the aforementioned Mac. I am not.
We were innocent, and a crime has been committed.

Mac, that Mac truck. The one on the 101, last Saturday night.


She would’ve made normal people become, far to quickly roommates with their maker.


I on the other hand, am not normal by societies standards and I’m also not guilty. I don’t need mercy, we need justice.
I don’t ask for loss, abuse or grief, but I don’t back down from them either.
Finally, in this chapter. My final chapter of this saga…
The princess finally saved herself.

Turn the page..