Joy Juice, (and in Forgiveness machines)

To examine the suicide of  David Foster Wallace, as I mentioned. I do not quite accept the medical model theory  his father offered to the media, but let's submerge my resistance, and look at the medical model. Wallace became dependent on a particular cocktail, which one day ceased in its former effectiveness, the end result being the manufactured boy wonder is dead. Karen Green looks as I would have expected the wife of such a spousal partner to look, in my continuing research on writers and suicide, but I think I disagree with her on depression and brain chemistry as a matter of degree. People with clinical depression are not different from the more well adjusted. On the whole, we're smarter, and most survive a great deal of trauma, though Wallace to all appearances escaped this.

 I do not want to die, struggling with the near narcotic force screaming at me for nicotine, but if I allow myself a dependency substitution, which one day loses its effect, who will have been right? The ablests? My mother also was nearly killed, once, by her lithium dosage, and her cardiac arrest in 05 may have been induced by her then current psychotropic combination, though it would have been difficult to prove.

My primary diagnosis is cerebral palsy. The birth brain injury may mimic what people like Homo Tweets (his twitter avatar may have changed) insists needs help, but I happen to know the difference, and do not roll out of bed believing in my Napoleonic grandeur, even on better days. My stash probably will not arrive until Monday or Tuesday, however, and I may not make it without sliding a banana peel.

This is in part the price of age, and it part the nature of mammalian design, which sometimes skewers the coping mechanisms. I've read psychiatrists gleefully gnawing  @ Cartesian duality when it comes to the addict mind, and conformists seem to prefer stigma as a solution rather than understanding. I have my own locked in syndrome, freely able to move one arm, and yet I am shunned for what exactly? It doesn't seem odd to me that a crippled intelligence can grow caustic; it can be passive too, but that isn't who, or what I am.

Cassie, my crazy lady ex peer counselor, threw out egalitarian arguments at me after she came home from England and found out what her employer thrice over did to me: we're all consumers, or my favorite, "people say things".

Cassie turns away from the wounds her fidelity to the paradigm inflicted on me: I did not wind up like this in a vacuum. Linda, still her contemporaneous colleague, is an executive officer, and I never had anywhere near that rank. If I asked Cassie how sex with her  husband could possibly compare due to her spinal paralysis, and I did it on the basis of some flimsy pretext, she would be just as offended as she was when I yelled that at her full of shit. I was wrong to yell at her in a form of anger transference, but my characterization isn't off.

A movement that cannot correct its own evil is doomed to failure, ultimately.

It is right that Ms. Green forgive her husband, as she was his spousal partner. My anger at Wallace in terms of his public persona, as we head into summer 2013, is subsiding, and it says something about my ego in the vicarious sense that it existed in the first place, but I will never be able to forgive every circumstance that eroded the metric for success in my personal history.