Gangsta Grades

Everyone knows that Rome was all bread and circuses.
                                                             --Oswyn Murray



On my way home from the Joyce group Saturday, I paused at the commerce building cubicle to eat my turkey and drink my caffeine like a speed freak, and two of the women in the group, with whom I might have clicked, given they were not grandmothers, or old Irish cops, passed and cut me, quite rapidly, not even bothering to say hello, and as they left my line of vision, a disturbed African American stopped, tried to engage me, screaming at the top of his lungs, "I love you!" "Go away or I'll call the cops." Okay, he said.

Merely an episode, perhaps prescient, given where the local disability activists have left me. Online interaction does not work; patronage has not succeeded, and I cannot imagine what subset of the publishing industry would want to accommodate me on a part time basis, in terms of steady pay, not simply commissioned sales-- and yet we laud violins for poor Swartz, another hounded victim, though his actual crime in terms of digital copyrights seems, at least for Eric Holder's tenure at Justice, mushy.

Public housing has already killed me, and you, Liberty, one day you will immolate yourselves, not by me, because my will is sapped, but you will cause this city such a scandal one day that its administration will be forced to put you into receivership, because this is Philadelphia, the metropolis that invented the ever diminishing returns on self depreciating incompetence, passed between Italian corruption Jewish liberal lesbianism and black and white Protestant denominations of least qualification like a platinum coin worth a billion dollars for the supremacy of the jackass model. No, I am not going away, but even if a lawyer will sue for me, I am already lost, sitting in the kitchen, drained of any desire to believe that I am still a real human being, still capable of thriving, and then a squabble of the usual sort among the Jamesians revived me temporarily, led me to a brief surge, and I send them all hugs and kisses, even Greg Zacharias, who, like my brother, thinks I need SSRIs in an appropriate dosage to modify my view about the conspiracy against me.

From my earliest posts on Arlington Road, I have been in an in depth argument with Greg, actually, and also my family, to show that yes, non compliance creates the trauma that makes the system act to operate against our universal desire for autonomy. Ah, the cripple and her scholar tweaking! Such small joys, let's finish up with The Brothers Rico, though the film may linger on for some time.