Tumescent Twilight

Trudy Richardson, erstwhile tootsie tooth and manager of Riverside, called out the big guns, a couple of kids from DHS younger than thirty, asking me in agitated voices, "I've been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?" And I from my bedside, acting as my own attorney, told them about my aggravated assault, Debra Horne's prior conduct, challenging her competency, upon which child men asked her to leave, and then the child men left, I told the building secretary I was giving my notice, Trudy and I pulled our swords from our scabbards, and then I received my recertification packet under the door, which I am ignoring, and I have under August, actually, to blithely disregard HUD. Obviously some statutory nicety prevents Presby from filing for eviction. What that is lies beyond my acumen, and NBC already has situation comedies about modern tenement living. I personally find this all amusing in my sharp witted indigence, since to be kind they obviously do not wish to forcibly take Vinne from me. This is about the lowest point in my life, except for when my benefits were suspended after I was accepted into Diamond Park, or Brandon Philips with his hands around my neck, throttling me, and I did not die. Super human strength, super human obstinacy,  beyond the salient details, I have nothing poignant to offer. The joke is like the goal line that extends around the world when the touchdown is on the post. The only person who cares is an equally unfortunate aunt battling her ailing body. I wonder what my followers would choose, if the merciless welfare state would be worth it to you.