Scourge

"Old age is sordid."-- Georges Simenon

Leave it to me to hire a hypothetical methamphetamine user in Karina in order to ameliorate my justified social fear of revictimization, only to wind up deep fried in turmoil due to her inexperience. The fun never stops. I nearly went into scorn mode and almost lashed out at her, you stupid bitch.

That might apply to me as well, as I apply it to every person associated with Riverside Presbyterian. I liked Ed Berkowitz once, liked him and Suzanne, pitied her epilepsy and used him, Ed, as an example of an "acceptable man," if one like him was available-- and these niceties of social manner evaporated because he tried to hook me up with a nutcase who gives lectures about disparaged Jungian correspondences, subconscious, and disease, and I became illuminated to the fact that Ed Berkowitz was not a knock off of my Jewish side of the family, only a mental health consumer leading the less functional along, and I am pissed. 

Pissed that I reached out to a tenant who likes what he has in the Presbyterian management; pissed that I saw his mental heath issues in his countenance simply out of an innocent meeting with him on the tenth floor for coffee, pissed that I feel duped into have dislodged Zach Tollen's comfort zone, pissed that Karina pissed me off so much that I am willing to disrupt the status quo, putting blacks in their place by fighting back because now the white girl distressed me as well as the fat and thickened black matriarchs, who would have never done what Karina did anyway because they are black. I am the one who gave Karina the rope. I'm the one who has to get over it, even as I initiated my end game with this company.

I am going to give Nakea Fuller the finger too, PHA's *accessibility coordinator," which in translation means a black woman with a better pay grade than Debra Horne, with comparable competency issues.

I never did win any popularity contests, laughing. I am going to be gone soon, and my masterwork? How Philadelphia engenders bigotry and class conflict, reflecting the meanwhile on Scandinavia, placid and static, the palest Caucasians, sterile, polite, with their idea of dramatic conflict to wear dour pouts, get their socialized medical treatments, return to their service vectors with smiling "jas". They would encircle me as if to protect their clime from a foreign invader, threatening to sour the milkweed.

I applied to be a Beacon Writer, after a stumble and fumble, with my best pet peeve: the crony capitalism of real estate. If my father knew that I've thrown down the gauntlet with Presby he'd kill me if he did not have one foot in the grave, but I have to fight.