The voice of old aunts

Everything is my fault. Marie's brittle contralto in my head, my frustration glancing her brittle skeleton, for lack of any other supports, including Karina's disappearance, the younger urban variation on my Ridley Park neighbors. What I had hoped, despite my intuitive sense of her capriciousness, and my displeasure with her inability to check with me first, was that she'd help me get out, despite the fact that I dismissed her. And our last conversation was about her schedule overwhelming her, my silent impactiom symptoms overwhelming me, and our haphazard rapprochement then snapped, with whatever trek she was doing, and then Frank, who cannot help me. I do not consider my follower Ed a friend, although he might have been had I been part of a couple; still, I want nothing more than to bring my sojourn with Presbyterian Homes to an end, and let the underclass finish me off, if I'm weak enough to be finished off, as opposed to setting off a chain of events, like Peter Gallagher in the Underneath.

He isn't afraid to take chances with a crippling ineptitude with that distinctive face, Gallagher, with the breadth of those eyebrows and mouth, everyone caught in the lattice of betrayal his emotionally warped character initiates, in a switch and bait plot. An old geezer from Sidney Hill, a building worse than this, asked me the salient question, "What about a job/"

Not unreasonable. If I want a fresh environment, go through another 40 interviews-- but I'm not the woman Daniel Raudenbush hired away from Liberty Resources; I'd have to scramble for references, and another failure, if I was accepted somewhere, would cause me more grief with Social Security, my bouncing on and off their rolls like a wildly oscillating EKG with a long flatline. I'm stuck in a bad place, and only have worse, and this isn't what I want; I've done nothing to deserve to be here, nothing, except to believe I could handle the ferrous iron rust of American indigence. If I give up, Google won't have anything to worry about in the jagged edges of dowager's voice. People in nursing homes don't get blog accounts.