Tyrant Savant?

Last evening I contemplated writing a long post to the old cricket, then telling you all I was weary of my burdens, and commit death by smashing power chair, or shortening the span than it might otherwise be through a political protest migration, the end result of that being a horrific assisted living facility. I did not have it clearly thought out, then said "listen," and made an omelet not dressed with oysters, ate, prepared coffee, missed most of Identity on free broadcast. Unfortunate, but caught enough to see the intrigue. I enjoy intrigue, but my neighbor does not quite justify the hurdle; I am loyal to his girlfriend for my own reasons. The member who follows me on this site is my neighbor, a moderate of sorts, commending management on its relatively new leniency, and able to address my concerns at the same time. 

Unlike Frank, who is clueless when my train leaves the station, Ed and I can engage each other, and I was happy he got a new job. He wrote me in email "You're right Joanne, your blog blew me away, but I was struck by how literate it is!" That is praise. It should gratify me, because even when I am lazy and lag too much slice of life at you, I attempt to justify it, or repair the post later, and the Joyce group wondered why I was there, with Lance marching valiantly on through the text while I wanted a comparative literature course instead. Lance is okay--that is an endorsement. Yet I am empty.

If I continue to fight the disability center that launched me off into the wonderful world of Project Shares and partial hospitals, it is because I want to destroy Linda, expose her own ruthlessness, unmask the villain. If I manage to force her resignation, I still lose. She and I destroyed what we admired and supported in each other because, and this is odd, I feared asserting myself as clearly as I could, and the way she responded to a poem unnerved me and at the end of the day, on that November evening, I blew up at her as never before I blew at anyone, and I've blown. If I give up, and fight the pain of my internalized hurt, I still lose there as well; if I break the law then I revert to full invalid status, restrained, strapped to a bed, and what does that do? All over a place that teaches people like me, most of them limited intellectually, how to make coffee. I learned all that very long ago. Yet their case management model, as with DHS, abuses people who cannot fight back.

If Ann Tran can educate me as my brother was supposed to about feeds and tumblrs and applications, maybe there is a collaboration there in the future, the taming of scaly baby demons with a song? 

"You are normal!"
"No I'm not!"

My mother and I could go on like that, a tennis match: I am right no I am right. Only way way back when I was Jerry's student did I believe this wonderful fiction, that if I could not live through him, or have one like him, then I'd succeed through imitation. I haven't been very good copy. But I will check Ann's links.