Mucinex Valors

I was a putz too fourteen years ago. Got soppy, maudlin, panicky when she did not answer me. I advise anyone facing student loan default not to go this route, though I do not know how this crushing debt becoming nearly inviolate helps anyone, the debtors, or the economy. I literally let Linda exacerbate my anxiety, triggering the depression joined to it into an overwhelming-- cascade. Not sure how else to describe it. Episodes have roots, however, and this started in 95 with my brother's AIDS death. Padre told me to go to work on the day it occurred, which was a mistake. My then executive director shared his personal experiences about not being there for the death of his mother, which was kind of him, but despair gnawed hope into ground glass after Nicky died, and I resigned from Matrix not long thereafter. First damn broke with that. People in wheelchairs don't quit jobs, and I'd left three positions in a less than contained fashion. My last day under Linda's supervision, while friendly, came less than 12 hours after my assault, so I was on shaky pinions in my early thirties. By the time she threw me with her opinion that spastics have better orgasms than the rest of you, my eggshell was a thinning vellum, and my cherry was a flagellation center in which the hatred that creates assassins came to life, freshly minted.

By the time I stabilized, the building renovations started, and the inner city butch sack who wanted to ply her desire to indulge, unfortunately selected me for a target.

Second leg of long nightmare. Yes, I know; whipping this up in a post is not self-curation, but Miss Eddy's stealth and predatory deception leads to violence not due to denial and repression of auto erotic response; her deceit has its part, similar to that my mother's best friend Kmac played. This was not Chris Cooper in American Beauty, who was roused to courage by the sight of Spacey getting ripped. Eddy was a nursing aid, and it took me a long time to live down her hit, so long that black women in scrubs still make me uneasy. Not everyone has the self-confidence of a comedic character actor to make dung bitches switch it off fast enough. A young Canadian biology technician posted that gays can misinterpret signals. That might be fine for heterosexuals highly confident in their own sensuality, but aggressive lesbians shouldn't be surprised when they provoke their own injuries.

My abstract on James has nothing to do with this. I shall write it over the weekend. I do not always lighten it up, but this contest sounds fun. I'd like a writing party. Email me, bearing in mind I'm in cyclic bronchitis mode, taking extra rest, dying in my own fluid.