The Vanishing of Pato

"Time chases us." a grave digger

This diabolical comedy actually does much of what I am doing here, sending up the high, the low, leaving clever middle brows to tidy the mess in the end, with the appropriate cover up, which prides me on the fact that my innate instincts always return to Italy.

I had a bad day Friday, reluctantly telephoned my sister and apologized again for demeaning her in 2007. I'm ashamed of that episode. She feels nothing will change if I force the hand of Presby, and my dying aunt thinks I made a mistake talking to Sims, but Marie's mental constitution is closer to mine; I told my sister the story, and she doesn't necessarily think playing the distressed damsel to the homosexual legislator to whom I'm diametrically opposed was a mistake, but I recognized in the demeanor of Tim Keller, Sims communication coordinator, indifference. As both an adversary and a disabled woman who has become a skid row female, I'm not a relevant constituent. I don't know if Sims office knew what Trudy was going to do to me yesterday afternoon, but I have no ally of my own, not one to fight for me, and I doubt state or city officials will dally me a plug nickel.

However, I made the decision to keep fighting, and as a result, I may vanish, and the internet will stream right along without me, but I am putting my viewers on notice. Monday morning I'm filing a criminal complaint against Presby, Trudy Richardson, and Debra Horne, essentially taking Tim's advice during first contact with him two years ago. If officers take me seriously and come to the building, I will probably wind up being the one placed under arrest. With the stress I am under, this will not bode well for my health, and we can imagine what this will do to Marie's constitution.

Why am I doing this? Because I want justice, and seemingly the only way to do it is to make the system put me in jeopardy. Then a lawyer will pay attention and possibly file a suit on my behalf. Yes, I'm the one not being reasonable about Medicaid, and know my physical strength is waning, but I told Debra forcefully in October that I was tired of taking it, and if Philadelphia kills me, maybe The Daily News would examine my case, look at reforms. I am not Michelle Blair's eldest child. How a young woman lives with this scenario for the rest of her life is unfathomable, but ever since I came out swinging on LiveJournal, and Harvard Square became a follower, my vision of the arc of my life seems to me the same: People led me to believe I could live a normal life, and, even if we assume my judgment is impaired by emotional pain, Debra Horne had a priori facts at her disposal about my grievance with my disability center, and did nothing when her team gave me their card, and said "Call them." Given the hostile environments in my life, I consider this a hate crime, regardless of what the middle brow thinks of my posting behavior.