Other Women Entry

Distracted this morning, I have to drive to the pharmacy in an hour and half or so, not sure if I should brew a partial carafe, no carafe, heat up a mug of instant coffee which I'd rather save for emergencies, snow storms, busy on my own manufacture, I wonder what you discern in my writing, and none of you respond, not knowing what to say. If you are familiar with independent living/community integration models, you think I am unreasonable, obstinate, that I hurt myself more by not letting institutional ruthlessness go, and that I should listen to the near dead now partially spastic and mostly demented transvestite and return to counseling psychology, but will not comment to that effect because you risk intransigence in my response. I have been in clinical therapy environments from the age of fourteen through... how old was I in 2000? Mmm. A simple subtraction blank, is not early dementia just precious? Absolutely darling, the loss of identity. I may not know all the medical terminology of the clinician, as I was a tangential addition to the narcissism of the mental health field, but I know all the tricks, and I know, in the most reasonable terms, that the cure is work, change in habitat, and why Erik cannot get his stroke scarred mind around that is beyond me. I never wanted to live here, ever, and the toll has been costly. Purely by accident, I discovered a desirable relocation option, and must investigate, at once, and cross my fingers; you can hope for me as well. Perhaps the force of mass consciousness will wax good vibes. Kate's Place is another somewhat less desirable option, but I have to get myself up to 15k sustainable, not easy, and credulously, Kate's appears less accessible than Presby. But whether you are healthy and ambulatory, wheelchair user, cancer *survivor,* rehab patient, 80 year old scholar with cataracts whose gentle optimism parries against me, or Paula Broadwell, the new age Monica Lewinsky, so intriguing!, disability centers generate moral erosion, and they have to go. Big task, little woman, but someone has to stand up.

Married women flock to Holly. Married men--Barack, the silent Clinton, the rumored McCain, wince as if they singed their balls on the stove. My commiseration is for the outlier, the Other. Broadwill can get through this. Right now she is paranoid, with justification, and Paula, honey, emails can be broadcast to anyone? I am speaking as the woman embarrassed more than once, and not just with this pixie on canes. You lost your head, and I do not know what your darling deity is going to do, but you will crash, and you will crash hard, whether or not you write a tattle at the end of the president's term. I got caught once, and this was a Canadian beatnik scandal of minor proportions, but Mrs. Beatnik tracked me down. She cried bitterly about her son, and would you like to know what that felt like, her pain glancing off my chest while I sat on the edge of the ghetto burning Everything He Gave Me? A crucifixion, that was the sensation. The centurion nailed those spikes into my wrists, latching my ligaments to the cross. I had three more affairs after that, but you, lady, are a blithering idiot, hopefully not a double agent, and you shit on your kitchen table by confusing amorous pleasure with your career, his, and altered his marriage beyond repair, even if they stay together, the general and his pedestrian wife. Eventually you'll flee the notoriety, but it will cling to and sicken you and will be obligatory in your obituary announcement. However, I understand the conflict involved in iconic conflagration and sexual desire, how it later became subversive even if it can be fun, and fulfilling, but it is not a reward unless your feminine needs can evolve and come to realize worship of the male principle as a safe haven is a backfiring mechanism. I am old, and bitter, and don't think Americans should revel in the efficiency of Petraeus as a catch valve, but I will extend an offer for luncheon on me. Maybe a sympathetic agent can pull some strings and get me out of this city so I can then be assaulted and beaten to death on K street, or Utah, for that matter. My email is easy to find. I have to roll soon, however.