Still, I am not feeling well, all in all, neither for work nor play, the stress of impending loss of economic autonomy leading to the recurring nightmare that Trudy Richardson, transformed in the dream to an ethnically ambiguous Barbie doll, walks in to have me placed, and I dial my father on a black office phone that appears, a typical disjointed dream incongruity, from my earlier more spacious apartment, and he pops up with my winter coat, shoving my arms in as when I was a child. "Do I have to go to a nursing home?"
"Maybe."
Then I wake and feed the cats, always in a variation of running from this, no friends, my brutalist father soon to be a geriatric nightmare himself, I cannot spare myself this eventual indignity, but also have little to show for it, no three D prototypes, like we have today, to rescue myself by repairing the scarring in my brain. By the time that will be viable my DNA will be worthless. Simply caught between the inexorable reality that living life to the fullest I could has escaped me, and I fight against a tank with matchsticks, too much poultry in my tract. Do not have disabled children, not if you will abandon them to my fate, please.
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