Then There Were Two, Ctd

Nerves need a brief nap, probably post menopausal;  I need to believe in myself, that I can get out before Presby euthanizes me for biting, in essence. When I was a student, my original location was my mistake, but academic activity and the formation of career was a shield, sort of. As I wrote in my earlier posts, however, this was a transfer under duress, and I am getting out one way or another. I am done; they get out of litigation in which I had cause; my attacker in 93 was a relative of a tenant, I could not determine that he was not the exterminator, who showed up less than 10 minutes after the young man was doing his best to strangle me, and then after Ellen Hovey retires, the company leaves me for dead in another round because of inter-floor transfers? No, this slumdog has barked, and as an American, one way or another I am having their federal contract investigated. I am not staying another year, that is final, and I have been traumatized one too many. I shall not fear; I shall not, and Trudy can shove it where the sun doesn't shine. Be back in a few hours.

My neighbor Ed might say I am exaggerating the threat, since under the last two managers they accelerated the pressure to a crescendo and I am still here, but I am a woman who has lived under the gun most of her life, and if I allow myself to become complacent, this company will dehumanize me, and would, in theory, have a ready, complicit ally in my sister should my father, or Marie, pass away. Affluent property owners would not have me in the first place, unless by some superhuman act of will, I turn my economic fortunes around, but there has to be some median by which I can loosen this invariable hangman's knot.