Left for Garbage

father would be dead.
    App arently, the police and the EMTs busted in on him just in time. He was taken to the hospital and I’ve heard he’s been visiting a psychiatrist for help. I hope he gets it. We all need help but where is mine? You sometimes get to the point you want to bang your head against a wall, and not stop until there’s no pain left. Look where I am, and probably will be for a long time. This is dragging on and taking forever. I can’t believe how slow the system works, but then, on the other hand, you’re scared to death of the end result. So much for every prisoner’s right to a speedy trial.
    Now I hear they are holding a funeral for my daughter. I will not be attending. I released a statement for the public because everyone always wants to hear from me. I can’t let them down, especially over something as important as burying my daughter.
    T his is what I released, so my feelings are known:

    I miss Deeley constantly. I can't be present for her funeral, but I hope to some day visit her grave and convey how much I miss her. I love my parents and am happy they are overseeing the funeral for Deeley.

    I made it clear I want her buried in a casket and I’d like her to have a gravestone that I will be able to visit. I requested a private funeral, family only, as she is to be cremated, so there’s no need for a public event with cameras and a spectacle for everyone, but I can't prevent my parents from doing what they choose.

    I only hope this brings them closure.

    Although I can’t be with my family on such an important day, I do have Salvatore’s next visit to look forward to. He stopped in the other day to console me, to pump up my spirits, I suppose, and he was so adorable. He said it’s such a shame that I always got mixed up with the wrong kind of guys and he said that maybe I will be able to find the right guy one day. Then he said it might be soon. He’s so confident.
    Yes, I want the right guy in my life, but I think I’ll be sticking to my own kind from here on out. I want an Irish guy. No more Italians. Bobby and Aaron are both Italian, and neither would have been right for me in the long run. The oth er day I swore I saw a ghost from the past. The usual crowd had gathered outside on the day I was to be taken to court. I looked out the window, and one of the guys out there looked just like Bobby. He even dressed like him.
    I’m sick at heart over Bobby trying to capitalize over my misfortune. He’s not driven by God. I ’ve learned to love God since this hell-hole, and Bobby is nothing but a hypocrite. His daddy always looked down on me, and I sure didn’t need a father-in-law who wouldn’t respect me. Bobby’s nothing but a media whore.
    I’m getting hundreds upon hundreds of fan mail letters. Two guys have proposed marriage. One is from New Jersey, an Italian, and he said he already bought a ring, that he wants to take care of me forever.
    I don’t need to be marrying someone I’ve never met.
    The other’s from Chicago, another Italian. What is it with these Italian guys? I must look Italian. Another guy said I look like Mila Kunis, and I was tempted to write him back just to let him know I’ve heard that same thing all my life. My mother says I look like Demi Moore, but I agree with that one guy tha t I am much more like Mila. But I don’t want to be writing to men I don’t know, so I wrote to my friend in here, Ruby, a.k.a. Honey Bun, and told her about it. We’re still sneaking letters back and forth, my only escape, and I hate having to flush them down the toilet, but we must.
    Writing the letters really helps me to pass the time. Ruby is so cool. She’s not so smart with the mess that she got herself into that landed her here in jail, but she makes me laugh when there’s nothing to laugh about. We talk about things like the fucking rubber bologna sandwiches, and I told her I want to start a campaign against that lunchmeat when I get out, and she’s joined my anti-bologna club already. I was eating a lot of P. B. and J. sandwiches because, you know, you get protein from peanut butter, but when I heard over my radio about the peanut butter recall, I even tossed my peanut butter Bambi bars.
    Jail food sucks big time. At least I always have money for commissary, but I’m pigging out a lot on junk food. My new thing is to count calories , because Dad said in one of his letters to make sure I don’t pack on the pounds.
    My mom’s concerned about my health