Karina and I are both indecisive, despite the age difference, and now she is considering attendant care as a profession, and I keep telephoning her. She reminds me of Maureen, little hat tricks of resistance, am I really going to reapply for the Medicaid Waiver over this fractious dilettantism? Not yet. but I rescheduled the Christ is the real God Christian for next week, again, budgeting her in to retrace her steps, probably in vain. The Post does not have arguments with me. But I certainly argue with it, with its hagiographic legacy-- the only media outlet that toppled a presidency without giving much rift to counter arguments that maybe Nixon was not angling to be dictator for life-- with its pro gay stance-- with its minority reporters, and even with its hagiography on broken body heroics.
Oh, Holley writes a fine article, and the unfortunate young man wanted to live and beat PVS. Comparatively, I've never had it that tough, but comparatively doesn't matter, My father says go to Inglis or stay where I am; his sister screams at me to stay where I am, but I cannot. I can't.
I can't even carry what I have to carry with the institutional abuse, the domestic abuse, I cannot resign myself to staying with Riverside Presbyterian watching a transsexual freak degrade into minimal awareness, letting urban disability centers get away with their cavalier cruelty. I can't. I fucking cannot. I let Presby off the legal hook when the Phillips boy hurt me, and Presby has done nothing but threaten me since. I do not know what kind of justice that is. I cannot do it, complying and drugging myself happy to forget a savage medical model life. Acceptance?
I'll show this city acceptance before it does me in.
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