"I hoped the day would be a lot of highway," my favorite British sentimentalist
My occasional seizures of loneliness belie my underlying scorn. Monica Carr senses it, which is why she is afraid of me, and telephoned her police station as a justification for the fact that Medicaid set me up with its pathetic system, and while I was waiting through my power chair repairs, all but helpless in an 800 dollar twenty year old manual, she abandoned me in a commission of fraud against the state. I hate this woman more than anyone I know, and would take a great degree of pleasure in excoriating her toxic and morbidly obese flesh, but since I have ameliorated the worst of my caustic lashes, I'll see if I can snap her picture-- useful for a lawyer in an accumulated onslaught of what Riverside's outstanding social mores have paced me through. I was told, though I cannot confirm her version, that she institutionalized Nelson-- her Puerto Rican amputee, in his passive infantilism, for not taking his medication, and a resident named Candy, a woman who had the admirable moxie to high tail it out of here and go back South, had to get him out. Doesn't quite add up, but this is who she sleeps with, Nelson, and that is what she did to him. You figure it out.
I have a small list of people I'd like for friends, including the project director of the Rosenbach, but can't force these things.
Who am I to have such an exclusion zone?
I had every Elton John album, and never forgave my father for stripping me of my collection when he dumped me here--another reason why Karina drove me to a head. Trudy and her supervisors haven't locked horns with me just yet, but it is coming, and part of me has ceased to care, even if I have to go to court. Accessing attorneys is not an easy feat, is it? I need one who is not burnt out so much that they won't heed the cumulative effect of Presby's long term civil violations.
No comments:
Post a Comment