If he just would not call me, I think, life might be fine.

If he just would not call me collect, I think, even better.

If he would just leave the fucking country and send me a post card along his journey to wherever, from wherever, that would be ... okay. At least I would know he was still on his journey to wherever and not exactly on my door step.

Where mr. zippy is bound to unload him into the arms of the police, even though he condemend Sea Cow for doing much the same thing just a year ago.

If he would leave the country and I would not hear from him for years, that would be okay because then I could tell myself "it's okay - he's out of the country, he can't call." I could live with that without fret.

It might even make the recurring nightmare of being raped by every male member of my family, strange in face, familiar in name, so as to keep them from raping those younger than me, from recurring. It might make it cease altogether.

Because he could not show up on my door step without some forewarning, and mr. zippy could not call the police simply because he's a fugitive. Or they could (both are possible) but not likely.

He's gained 20 lbs these last two weeks by being indoors on someone's couch and eating plenty and checking his blood sugar like never before.

He's about to lose his happy home.