"Why should he not kill her?" -- Harold Frederic, digital location 4198
Did I mention paranoia? I cannot even mourn my friendship and admiration for Linda as it once sustained me, because it still relieves me 14 years onward, the thought of her skull fractured in a manner common to such rage induced by psychical injuries. In a coma, or transition to cadaver, she could never run the disability center! And what an investment of sound and fury this is, the popping champagne corks as I replay my last small happiness in the hope she meets an end appropriate to her ethical lapses. My subconscious warned me in a dream of Jewish demonology long before I ever did any research on Lilith, research for the sake of utilizing the film with cock a doodle Warren Beatty. Co workers had warned me years ago, don't idolize her. Chris Dorner, not definite this listing is him but no relation to the Navy Seal ash mummy poster child-- warned me even before I understood what a POP account was. Did I listen? I told Linda about the dream. I knew this was verge of desperation, chatter typing her about a Shirley Temple baby walking back and forth between us (representing infantilism). So much for work related friendship. My non-fiction editors aren't reading my account. Examiner.com doesn't care even if they are reading this account, since it will be long in the tooth before I see a commission reach PayPal. Red-rimmed eyes inflamed, killing myself for pennies.
Are such pennies better than nothing? We were friends, Linda and I; an assertion against Frank, the ex I did not want, who felt she wasn't really my friend. He is correct in that she was willing to make me expendable: I should not have been such a sycophant to her ego. It wasn't working, no matter how imminent my financial catastrophe, and with my disillusionment, she may have calculated she was doing me a painful favor. There was that bond, however, that neither of us acknowledged
I have to believe that; it wasn't simply her dominance at my expense, nor my genetic predisposition toward a volubility learned at mother's knee. What is still so vexing is the realization that she was my last, and I cannot even grieve for it, because I triggered it myself, imploded in rage and fear at the mere hint of sexual experimentation along those lines. Seven years, that is how long it took me to start writing poetry again, because I did not want to discover that I was obliquely troping the torture of lesbians so that militant LBGT activists could snicker at my repressed homo-eroticism. In certain veins this is farcical, that an eight month discussion in email set the stage to destroy the rest of my life. I would not have gotten undressed with the ugly cop bastard living below me if Linda had not made me feel so sexually insecure, and she used my creative writing to do it. Every time I tried to get back up and go back to work after that, the den mother bitches who want to run my life kept knocking me down.
In 2002 wheelchair users lost unlimited Paratransit; in 2006 I suffered abuse at the hands of choice aides, and was injured during the building renovations that the famous regional homosexuals forced on our shared parent company. One of the guards who witnessed an angry argument I had with Erik, *Miss Hanes*, as she calls herself, walks away from her post every time I roll into the lobby. I believe she has a child out of wedlock. I only spoke to her because I wanted to know if ecigs were worth the money.
"I still smoke." So much for bull dykes with batons, but Miss Hanes is one of those. Most of us have had exposure to black hard asses.
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