Reality is less real than most people think. An assemblage of facts is always open to interpretation. People think I’m paranoid, but what they mean is they think my interpretation is wrong. They think what’s happened to me has been a series of accidents. They’re entitled to their opinion, but the probability of accidents shrinks to zero the more things happen. Two or three in a row, maybe. But not six or seven.
I’d feel better if I knew who was behind it. Someone’s attacking me because they didn’t like the truth being told. I’ve always been outspoken, but I’ve never been malicious, and I’m not dumb. At this point, if I were dumb, I’d probably be dead.
I just can’t figure out why whatever I said is so important. Not worth rifling through my garbage, jimmying my house door, bugging my internet line, putting rat hairs on my pizza delivery, spreading lies about me at work, killing my dog, or sabotaging my car.
These people, whoever they are, have been putting a lot of energy into trying to making my life miserable. Too bad, because they aren’t succeeding.
Monologues