This type of venue is about producing the product and sales data. I am more interested in the analytics which might still pay me for a well produced piece. Daniel Schneider tried to encourage me in this direction even as thinking about that first contact causes me to shrivel into a little ball, but search my archives. I don't need to remind myself all of the time-- and I cannot really say what Dan was guilty of that set me off. Sigh. I just don't work well in online groups, certainly not with a B actor trying to be charitable-- but with that episode I was stupid, and realize it. Had I just bit my tongue and faked a certain wide eye respect, played sweet little passive cripple, Dan Schneider and wifey might have been of use. Recognize him? He reached out to me in 2009, and now I BEAR THE MARK OF SHAME. Meaning the fact that he was obnoxious was not worth getting emotionally distraught, which I did.
Spilled milk and all that, but this was self inflicted. It is difficult for me, Jimmi Shrode ignoring me with his righteous indignation, and I nearly threatened him coming home from the store; the partner of the dying Erik, Jimmi, growing a beard now, the new in thing among infantile homo boys, not that Jimmi doesn't have the right to cut me, I am simply telling you I cannot take it anymore, and Linda should have paid a steeper penalty for sowing so much discord: Jimmi and Erik are Riverside's extraordinary tenants with a great deal of power, and understandably like the relative stability of the building. I hated this place from day one, and having powerful, if ailing, activists as secondary enemies because Linda used me like a pawn makes it worse, on top of the other salient details I have given you about the duress of living under so much hostility as a disabled woman.
I am tired people, worn out, and getting arrested for attempting a hate crime, one way to shorten a life span; my family is of little use. Basically none of them respect my judgment, and Stephanie and I have inflicted too much mutual damage, my sister. She and I will talk when necessary, but she sees my old age as her legal burden after our father's death, and I'd sooner gouge her eyes out, if you'd like my power of attorney, not to give unscrupulous Russians a hard on. I mean I've given up on the idea of returning to Ridley Park, which, despite the secret domestic violence, was my best youthful idyll. I can no longer pretend to go home again, but, by the same token, the longer I stay at Riverside, the higher my chances that I wind up on Sullivan's Dish as a sensational impulse spree of some sort. You cannot win with the likes of Jimmi and Erik, even if you score a few points on the board. Militant gays are like Islamists in this regard, and Erik is not the type of sensible transvestite who debates DOMA on PBS. Even insiders in IL consider Jimmi and Erik to be overtly fanatical. I need to stop seeing what they are. I need to wash my hands and keep myself as equi-distant from homosexual culture as possible. Linda's caviler machinations destroyed my health, ability to rebound, and created hostile circumstances from which it is difficult to extract myself, or find alternatives.
I'm wearing out.
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