Thick Around The Middle

Nothing is ever so simple, at least until it has to be, in terms of survival outcomes, domestication may mitigate impairment and crippled limbs, but only to a degree, as maintenance drives everyone insane or to the subversion of parody, look at Hawking, for instance, the egg shell celebrity who grinds up managed care for breakfast, whose allegations of abuse surface in the ruthless Fleet Street maw and then burrow beneath the surface, I had forgotten that Claiborne, in its contextual unraveling, opens with an assisted suicide plea, and is the best adaptation of any work by Stephen King, because its heightened dramatic impact pulls few party tricks-- yet, I'm not partial to reliving the movement of the film, at least, not in any present tense, but Vera's death points to the ripple effect of suffering and ethics, which, in the universal scheme, is irrelevant. Perhaps bipedal species have come and gone before numerous times within space, and hard choices remain what they are. One can resign oneself to ejection from senior living facility into an institutional paradigm, like Inglis House, which I should be able to describe, but find it difficult to do so, like any nursing home, it is all linoleum, overwhelmed by tubes, urine caches, invalids in various stages of deterioration, or, like me, vulnerable to crisis but too stable and strong to die. It is worse than the home my father placed in, Inglis. Dead mother thought I'd be happy there, in this facility overrun by power chairs with worn tires, the odor of piss and bed pans overwhelming. I'd rather be dead, but in indigence, have little choice. As I decline, I can be maintained, bedridden, by welfare labor, go to Inglis to go raving mad, or be proactive like terminal citizens in Oregon, stop drinking coffee, stop worrying about my battle of wills with the officious black women who at present have so much control over my destiny, and make an effort to go food shopping. I have lived on the point of this sword since I was 34 years old, pissing myself with stress for a lower middle class income of roughly 25k a year until the pressure of my brother's death unraveled my ability to handle the fieldwork by bus, and then I made 3000 USD freelancing basically shit, and now I am a recalcitrant penny aggregater.

Your choices may be more optimal, or unexpected, as in I could die of hypertension in a matter of weeks due to my raving mania to flee my current environment, with absolutely no place to go. In a party trick of my own, I could visit the Italian consulate move a mountain, go across the the Atlantic, and die with Roman rats and sewage, mumbling a few native phrases, maybe running into some of our peasant family with our mariner surname. Would I be really any happier, naive in Old World dust, at the mercy of modern bravoes?