I look positively grotesque, and no doubt should fly to Beijing and reinvent myself as an albino demon. I'm reflecting on this because I got a hit on a potential male room mate, and only now really looked at his picture, and only now have my doubts. My soul is lost people, utterly lost, real mental anguish at the thought of myself at Inglis and its circumscribed regime, a little grey room with a stainless steel night stand, a few books, my power chair crowding the hallway in a traffic jam of medical chaos, or variations on my lifelong public housing torpor, and here I am welling eyes with a dandled politico. For a homosexual male Sims is too pretty for me to launch into my daring will Blogger disrupt my account tirades, but sometimes I wonder, all the same. Science, phases. I miss sex, but intercourse never-- if Pat had had more time that evening in 1997, perhaps, but kindness and longing isn't quite enough.
He did not love me, my borrowed husband--nor I him, but he won, and he won because our naked middle aged bodies fumbling and my "I have to pee" injection made me laugh, and he was going to show me, and kept seeing me until that happened, and I engaged in a now embarrassing whirlwind after it ended, a water bearer to the T.
Maybe the roomie will bail, or maybe I will, as he claims to be Puerto Rican. Nice enough in demeanor but possibly not a co-caretaker who would be right for a barren queen mother. Could someone please just help me leave Riverside Presbyterian? Please?
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