Reduced to earning a dollar on assignment like a blood letting

Why do I not submit one of those wonderful tickets to Clarity Media and tell them with sweetly drooling daggers to kiss my bloody spastic ass? Why? Because I'll never be a fucking syndicated columnist even worthy of an ISIL/ISIS beheading, because I am not sure I can apply to be a part time or full time editor journalist writer without getting fired if I cannot make a deadline due to an incontinence or COPD attack, my stool invariably ruining rayon, cotton, or other synthetic knits. The low income Protestant corporate office who encompasses the building owners I have lived under is a big business, and the Philadelphia Housing Authority is an embedded syndicate. I might as well be Chen Guangcheng attempting to evade secret police beatings even as I snicker at Xi Jinping giving speeches to Brazilian politicians about historical Chinese tea workers in South America. 

China. The new old global aspirant. Yes, whether or not the new 2016 President of the US finds a way to reverse our new found anxiety about both, our domestic and foreign competency, the United States will eventually begin to dovetail, if we haven't already, but China's muscle is no panacea -- or does Google's immorality rate an equivalency marker with third world state models? Fear of forcing your own eviction might be a wonderful way to insert a huge block of granite into a life long love of writing which ultimately, the majority of us fail to transmute into gold, but getting stymied over puff pieces of trivial pursuit? Ah.

To my regular viewers: I do not know what Presby is going to do to me. They have done enough over the years: Peggy asking me to case manage tenants while I worked for Matrix, typical Greater Delaware Valley collusion. Debra Schwab barging in over my deplorable conditions in the studio, granted, at the time I urinated and smoked my way into destructive tenant classification. Frank thought of the urinal. Less accurate stream aim with a clitoris, but it mitigates the loss of control. I never thought of the urinal, so give my bastard ex pig of a fiance some credit. After all the nursing aides on the Medicaid Waiver, after blowing thousands of dollars of my own money, after even the costs of Presby's renovations, this stark, sterile studio with its cheap dry wall, cheap non glossy white paint, stained drop ceilings in the bathroom from the crippled gang banger above me who is a fucking bombastic drunk with no teeth, it is pretty much in the same condition its been in since after my first three years of residency.

The lethal conjunction of poverty and disability is about more than mere lack of money. It is about the erosion of esteem, devaluation, an inability to take pride in habitation, in interior design, your own appearance. After so many years without employment, with a collegiate debt going to crush you unless you re-institutionalize yourself, you begin to stop caring.