"You read a lot, don't you?"--Tony's disappointed Philadelphia contact
The one character trait that unites Philadelphia's dispersed Italian community is bullshit artistry. My grandfather, his children, my entire tribe, and I have taken my slops, in the agrarian lingo, and splattered the walls. Perhaps I should take a ride into Kensington and see how long it takes to wind up in hospital. I am really giving my notice, and it is not funny, and yet, I'm releasing myself from pretensions I hate, all this over assistance paid by Medicaid. Marie Varenas, who has no online presence whatsoever, except for me and my posts, conveyed, that, as a last resort, EMS could haul me back in to her kitchen, where I waited in my 20ish years on academic probation, because I hated Temple, for Diamond Park to be habitable, nagging Michael Washington, my retched conditions unseen, so long ago, but I really cannot do that again. My uncle who lives there now is functionally senile and circling the drain with his condition, aside from my aunt's.
I have not seen my father's sister since my mother's funeral. She looked like a Spanish version of a generic Joan Rivers on a bad Botox day, and her weight loss after losing her stomach would impact me noticeably, but, if I am able to visit her until I sort this out, she is there.
Individuals with political positions may feel sorry for my arc, but I could see, in that constituent interchange with Brian and his audience, that politics is primarily a game of appeasement, and I am increasingly treated like a woman who is told to know her place, and behave. I should have sought adjudication when the iron was hot, but I am intransigent, demanding it now, and it will lead to EMS or police carting me off, and after that happens? Yet this conflict is invigorating me. I can see some really hard policy pieces coming out of it, if I can snatch electrical outlets, in some context. I'm pissed, really mentally divorcing myself from Presbyterian Homes, and terrified of shelters, but this isn't simply about compliance. It is about choices. I toured this building with the last Caucasian assistant manager who worked the secondary position, Janice, after I became an Eppi crime victim, and turned her down.
Presby, if it really bases its theology in good works, should have down the right thing and found me another rental agent after my attack. I was working, I had a salary of 23,000 a year, and what eroded my health was my hatred of how this community treated me, a life long hazing and initiation through the facade of social cruelty. Yes, there is no landlord tenant nirvana, but I have been crucified in a community I never selected, nor desired, and my ticket to that drain is on the horizon. I am really breaking some eggs, throwing all my energies into a new plate. It may not be enough.
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