"What barn do you people come out of?" Cecil the caustic Argentine
I had intended to bunker down and stop creating microslices of spastic self pity, but I am sick again and literally thrilled at the prospect of intern or student treating my uretha with their hesitant ignorance and then I have to fork over my money for their tuition; I know menopause is variable and I am not too concerned about what I hope is a late ovulation surge, but this is treatable crap; knowing me it is probably bladder cancer. Can't catch a break.
Did the bills, cleaned, and need to stop worrying how much affinity I have with Woolf, or my mother; my life was traumatic and difficult and disabled people have hurt me and we are as cruel as others can be.
Tomorrow then.
*
It was tomorrow when I wrote myself a sick day, but now I am really worried it might be influenza, and if I have to go to the ER like this I might as well be one of Scorese's urban disembodied. When I moved into this building I was 34 years old, making over 25,000 dollars a year. Do any of you believe that I can now resume that course?
I can put myself in the head of my former disabled associates and tell you their side of it, and show them compassion; however, I am the one who is alone and broke and scared and knows what games my landlord is willing to play, and some of my attendants, not all, have contributed to my stress induced trauma; my sister and brother are treating me like I am a meth head because I am angry that they need to judge how I live as worse than welfare scum, won't telephone to wish me HNY yet I was a saint when I wrote them checks out of my MMA. This isolation is supposed to keep me positive, well balanced?
I have to return to bed.
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