Concentric Roulette

"I will always be a little more miserable than you." Charlie Sheen

Oh, I'm weak alright, because one thing consulting for Liberty Resources did to me was terrify me in relation to Inglis House, and the people who are maintained there aren't all dying, but the institutional paradigm takes a huge toll regardless of maintenance stratification. Wheelchair users aren't the only ones who suffer, which is why nursing human abuse is a litigation generator, and yet I can't fight my age, which isn't so much about my ass hitting the laminated pan in my shower stall: I fall periodically, but Trudy and the minions are now criminalizing it, and I am now exactly where I started in my twenties, thick, indigent, sitting in a stained T, my underlying desperation really akin to Dante's viciousness in The Inferno. I can only write without terror at Presby's power in small increments, and know when the time comes, I cannot live a virtually immobile life, like my ex, Frank, and with kudos to my sister, and to sympathizers like the fine biographer Sheldon Novick, who has a finesse and focus I'll never achieve, pills are not going to resolve this.

I have avoiding delving into suicide too deeply; it's passe really, but the mortality train is on my ass, and I apparently will never break away from cruel black matron enforcers on which my family consigned me and I later, subconsciously, consigned myself. If I had understood the weave of corruption in public housing before I over rode my parents on Diamond Park, I would have never have done it, and now it is all too late.

I'm going to put in a search for room mates and see what happens, I do not know. There are areas of the city that would destroy what cognizance I have left if officials punt me there for being stiff necked: Hunting Park, or Kensington, which is the equivalent of a West African shanty town, but economically is all I can now afford. I'd break there, break in Inglis, and two black woman here where I live are applying the institutional equivalent of blunt force trauma to lock me back into an abusive system.

I have the need to be, this morning, a memoirist in pique, which is much more indulgent than the focus a wonderful scholar like Sheldon applies, and need to find more time to spend with it, except not just now, because I have to apply such objective plaint as I have to give myself the space I need in the short window I have with my lateral transfer method. Take a look at Sheldon's work, his optimism tower's above the misfortune of brain lesions, bodily contortions, and the fear of healthier humans in reaction to it. The ADA hasn't really changed anything, at the core. Debra Horne, at bottom, fears me, and hence the truncheon applied against my biting contempt toward her, an adversarial relationship where she has all the chits to her advantage, and it is sad commentary on the welfare state.