A Piss Off, in essence

The sardonic in me, the competing desires which cancel each other out, these say I want to go home, but the IRS forced my father to divest himself of the home I might have inherited, and at the same time, I want nothing more to do with my family. I'm too far in the gutter as it is, never imagining myself here at Riverside. Before I moved in, it must have been around spring 92, Paratransit picked me up, and the driver locked me down behind Linda, to my astonishment, still committed to her first marriage, and we passed the building riding into Liberty, observed Joe, always running his mouth, and Linda remarked, "We've had a lot of problems with them." Presby's management.

I did not make it clear to her, after having divested myself of Matrix, those seven years later, that it was Presby's management fueling my desperation, as opposed to the not so interesting sexual rivalry I unwittingly triggered with the woman, and here I am, beaten, since Mike Howard left, by each subsequent manager after him, attack after attack, threat after threat, freely administered by the Department of Housing and Urban Development, lunging and retreating like the cowardly lion, why not just begin eviction proceedings? My savings now spent on medical bills and buying janitors, slaving away at penny articles, and I'm supposed not to be depressed, keep a positive attitude, reign it in before the police drag me out and dump me somewhere, a building where I'll be drugged, held in a hospital bed in restraints, if I'm so fortunate.

This is the great United States, democratic power extraordinaire, unless you screw with the tax code, have your soul corroded by statutory mandates, and do not wish to comply with African Americans having constant access to your financials in order that the government can protect itself from any fraudulent activity on your part. The disability center, relying on my tacit passivity, sent me a flyer for a job fair at their Academy, which is some sort of vocational horseshit training consumers to use computers. Well, I have something to say to Liberty Resources: Go fuck yourselves. You're nothing more than a segregated prostitution ring run by den mothers who think they're preschool teachers once removed, offering quadriplegics like me assurance after assurance, until you violate state employee guidelines, or assume no liability if a disabled consumer gets abused, refuse to return phone calls when a disabled worker needs technical support, engage in denial about hostile environments, cannot restrain yourselves from the corruption of association. I wore myself out, food shopping, then a small load of laundry, in my stubborn, rage driven reliance, too worn out to work.