There ought certainly to be some bound beyond which the cult of favorite authors should not be suffered to go.-- William Dean Howells, American aesthete
Grumbling, spending money on juice. Basically a joke, but I have to do what I can. Between blu and the aero my physiology is barely manageable; in 2015 I will probably fracture and return to real cigarettes, barring a minor miracle of discretionary income. I wanted to be important in what I did with my life and to love as well and fully as I could with this Borgia temperament. Jesse got it; he knew me less than 40 minutes but understood. That I want to be on my own; that a lifelong battle in public housing has destroyed the best part of my vibrancy. I suppose it is just as well, these dashed hopes wrangling around once again. I am torn between hating gay lesbian transgenders and realizing how starved, utterly starved, I am for my own set. Jesse represented that.
I am going to give my notice to Presby soon. I'd rather-- but pause on the realization that as a practical matter the state would incarcerate me, rather than leave me incapacitated on the street. But I have reached the end of my tether, and something has to give. I've let the Pennsylvania *safety net* promulgate my quadriplegia into an American sanctioned life long hate crime. Two weeks, this is all I am giving myself before I terrorize sweet caramel Trudy with her meritorious pretense. She modulates her voice to take the accent out of it, but I am not fooled. So, this may be the beginning of a lengthy goodbye. My cousin is amusing, over the top with his assurances. "I'm there for you."
Fucking crock. Marie says jump and he grabs a tape measure. He is lying. Not that I mind. Marie didn't quite pulp her Billy into a sissy-- but he isn't ready to let me move in with him, his spouse. No one is there for me when it comes to leaving this urban nigger shanty.
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