Teardrops on the scales

"Kill the wino." James Caan

Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.

Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?

21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.

Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.