As goes Facebook, Blogger just reversed itself on its adult content policy, and I'm snickering in derision, supposing this means I can stoop to my corrosive vulgarity as needed, but that corrosive vulgarity didn't land me any champions willing to ride in and scoop me up: I have been, with a degree of difficulty, explicit about physical denigration to my person, even to the point of destructive stimulating attempts which failed after the aide Miss Eddy (I can't really remember this woman's name, but God must hate me to have put me front and center with such abominating indulgence she engaged in such a furtive fashion) left her suggestive touches lingering and she luckily escaped with her life the next day. I could not reach Unlimited Staffing to prevent her return at the time, and the police owe me a debt for sparing them such a sordid business. I never call the police, which is probably why I've managed to evade Inglis so long, despite Presby's heavy hand, but I do not link to pornographic material. I may embarrass my family, and my cousins may have a bone to pick with me about my imposition on their mother, and I concede my tyranny without argument; I have little praise to offer various individuals but for when admiration overrides contempt-- that said, I'm not entirely gratuitous, and believe even my damaged intellect deserves better. I wish these digital giants would make up their damn minds, however. I'm nothing. Poets & Writers banned me and I never got over it, and so on, but I'd never fight Google. I'm too old now, too weak, and Google is powerful. I am just a crippled ward who never broke free through use of her expertise on the welfare state, and the last thing that ignites me is insurrection, which even reactionaries of like mind disregard because they do not want to take on my maintenance. Case closed.
My options:
1. Stay with Presby and let my years of stigma go. I can't.
2. Make myself homeless and see how long it takes to make the federal contract with pluralism seem like Candyland.
3. Go to Inglis, which is a form of annihilation, pictures of their grounds notwithstanding, I know I cannot endure what I've seen there of rubber tubes and emaciation of impending death.
4. Find a roommate.
5. Euthanasia
6. Make another plan.
What is it exactly that I want?
To stop being intimidated by property owners and return to some form of matriculation while I am able to do so, and get an age appropriate bloke to lean on with more compatibility than I had with Hispanic Frank-- which means no more Hispanics.
The shot of little kimmy I took on the blouse I took exposed a bit of spastic thigh, and a touch of my sash belt. That much skin was inadvertent. I am not a photographer; it's banished.
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