Tough as nails, a bully with a hair‑trigger temper and the emotional regulation of a hand grenade. She went after Weeble for disrespecting me—points for loyalty, I guess—but she didn’t stop until staff physically restrained her and dragged her back to her room. By then, I was hiding in mine, because bravery has limits and I know what mine are.
We talked a lot and hung out together both trying to pass the time. She was enormous—built like a linebacker—with a serious drug habit and a résumé that included being homeless for the past twenty‑five years. She was vicious with the staff, hostile to most of the residents, and emotionally unpredictable. One minute raging, the next eerily calm. You never knew which version you were getting. Surprise was her brand.
We became friends through my roommate. They were both gay and briefly infatuated with each other. Carol talked marriage. Love letters. Secret kisses. Emotional manipulation dressed up as romance. It was… cute, in a deeply unsettling way. Carol spun fantasies about the future—how Frankie and I would come live with her. A six‑bedroom ranch with horses.
A beautiful pipe dream. And, news flash, complete fiction.
Carol had lied about everything—fake phone number, fake life, fake promises. When that fell apart, I was conveniently promoted to “next sugar momma.” Frankie decided she should come home with me. No money. Nowhere to go. Just a short‑term loan request until her money magically appeared. Any day now.
I still don’t know why I agreed. Fear? Loneliness? A false sense of protection because standing next to her made me feel temporarily indestructible. Or maybe it was just a classic manic decision—bold, stupid, and irreversible the moment it left my mouth. Once I said yes, I didn’t know how to crawl out of it without becoming the villain.
So we shared an Uber to my place. I texted my son Ben to give him a heads up I wasn’t alone. And the war began.
He told me exactly what it was: a terrible idea. He said it was either her or me. I felt guilty—she was broke and homeless—but she wasted no time proving him right. She immediately started taking advantage.
Ben wouldn’t let her stay. Not for a night. Not for “just a few days.” So I paid for another Uber to send her to a different friend—an hour away. I had no money left. I said that. She either didn’t care or didn’t believe me.
All she wanted was drugs.
Nothing else mattered.
And in my usual K‑fashion, I helped anyway. Because I always help. Because I confuse compassion with obligation. Because that personality flaw has been getting me into trouble for most of my life—and I still act surprised every time it happens.
Read more about the mess I’ve been trying to survive, →
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 