I slid off my bathing chair because I did not commit to my lateral pull on the way back to my poor old P200, which is more my husband than my limited number of unhappy suitors. I hate my ex; the normal type of hate that makes divorce a pathology industry, but I do not hate him with the manic rage bestowed on my former supervisor, sliding off the damn chair but not really sustaining any injury. The EMS team made me more uncomfortable dragging me out to the stretcher whereupon I declined a ride to hospital, not that I wasn't tempted, but changed my mind. How much longer will I be posting? I do not know. I wrote "I have nothing left," many months ago, and that stands as the outcry it pretty much entails, not that EMS isn't used to encounters with fecal matter, but from now on, when I am taunt, I'll just have to wash via the mop bucket, and this evening, pop the Aleve.
Before you shake your heads at the degree of embattlement I am sustaining, I was on attendant care, from 1997 to 2006, and have too many fiascoes, one after the next. I can no longer afford to purchase assistance, and perhaps my poppa was right, and we're better off aborted. I can not end my life being attended to by people who cannot handle the burden it entails. I won't. I've lived what you do not see when you put people away, and it is in part, analogous to genocide, in a concession to Cassie James.
Why did Oz add me to their lists? twitter is cataloging itself? Would any of you be willing to pay me volunteer visits on rotation? Ha.
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