Never mind

Forget it. I deleted the Latino gentleman's thread and if he telephones I won't return it, a little too eager as I am, I could not share space with a guy that dark who looks like a player, and the only way I can evade the state welfare system insisting that it will control my body and how I live with it is to flee, land somewhere, find associates, or attempt to find my way to a Japanese paper house with a power outlet, a tinfoil shelter in Manila, migrating on vapor. I could just hand in my notice, and Presby's negligent hate crimes toward disability non-compliance go unchallenged, protected by limitation of duration, the minority wardens successfully protect the corporation which has a vested interest in the sheer force of the welfare state, and onward. I'm an anachronism, after all, and third world migrants would be happy to trade places with me and keep this sterile studio bleached, wiped down, with an internal daily planner for the laundry.

I am not looking for a live in male to sleep with. My strategy is an attempt to hold out a little longer by depending on a guy in relative health to help me out, and split cleaning service fees, but it probably wouldn't work; nothing works except the forced imposition on my palsied frame, and yet I'm still fighting, unwilling to go down although I am thinking about it. No one wants to be this destitute, this controlled, and there are only two ways really, out of that:

1. Play the system until you acquire the power to change it through your influence, or become a Libertarian for money. That is what defines freedom, the actual power to wield it.

I've written in the past about the intimidation disability activists pose, and I've iterated my rage mirrors theirs and able bodied individuals and some more matriculated people are appalled. My mother's sister, who I've contacted since these events, says I'm not a rotten niece, but she has no idea the level of fury individuals like Debra Horne have engendered in me. I am a rotten niece, and Mary doesn't understand assisted living is for seniors who have assets which the state then reabsorbs. With the exception of a brief nine months or so when Richard Baron's precious Matrix Research Institute briefly put me in the middle class, I've been a ward of the state as an adult when my mother put me on SSI. My whole life is someone else's schematic. I quit smoking tobacco for the sake of the other residents on the floor. I've done X. I've done Y. Nothing is good enough for the minority police state which rules this city with an iron fist, consuming itself. I am beat, and unlike ISIS, I'm physically incapable of killing my way out of it.