Big Yellow Taxi

"Oooo, nah nah nah,"  Joni with her back up in the folk era

Mmm. I missed a luncheon date at The Watermark, because I skipped a day, distracted over the Quantum, and upset with Rhett Hackett. I posted to his site that I did not like "being bluffed by liberal bullshit artists," and then tried an email later, and only got a courtesy call explaining his foundation's change of heart; I was trying to be persuasive so that they would understand that if I can do anything with the little time I've left, I want to stop medical model brutality and other forms of violence from destroying women with my ability in the future, but it was a plea for shielding on deaf ears, and if I try this again remind me that I hate liberalism, would you? And I'd imagine there goes any write up as a nice profile piece on New Jersey's mission in life to be the escape haven from New York and Philadelphia. (But we'll allow that to simmer.)

It does matter, the long term affect, despite the fact that it discomfits my sister and brother, I'm still suffering the consequences of being an aggravated assault victim at the hands of Brandon Phillips, just as the treating psychologists predicted when I was on my liberal tether with the defunct Matrix Research Institute, and I feel like a pin cushion for any mode of target practice you'd care to imagine, which is why I do not trust CNA's, even Tim, whom I've known for any number of years-- not in the sense that he'd hurt me, but that he's a welfare player, and will feel smug when the Department of Public Welfare processes me into a Soylent Green wafer. We do not literally cannibalize ourselves, but we're already there, rather late in the day to examine primate controls the primates are placing on themselves without stopping to reflect that risk is necessary, so is disease, and decomposition.

Mitchell, though she falls into my generational nomenclature, might as well be Lady Gaga. I know they are recording artists, but draw blanks. Mitchell was simply recognized as a decorative beatnik, popularizing the Kerouac zeitgeist to always burn the tread on asphalt, warning Madonna in the 80's that the limelight would fade for the Material Girl at some point, never really giving ourselves time to pause, put a break on the controls we inject into and onto our anatomy, to reconsider the industry surrounding the obituary, the underlying avarice we display when faced with the fallibility of mortality. With all the ethics surrounding journalistic integrity, apparently the paparazzi cannot distinguish being comatose from other ailments into a seventieth decade which might lead to fainting spells.

I am very bitter about the surgical aggressions to my body, unlike some, if all it amounts to is cruelty and entrapment in a public housing matrix which is an inhumane forced form of diversity, which all comes down to how and where we invest resources. I might have been perfectly happy, in my late twenties, to live in a small group home, and I mean small, for those who were developmentally damaged but had matriculative ability. I should have been with my peers, not terrorized by the venomous elderly, and what the fuck can I do about it now? Riverfront told me, yesterday, if the Jazzy is seven years old, Medicare would allow me a new one.

Uh huh. I cannot stay at Riverside, and most of you have no idea what equipment acquisition is like with my level of indigence.