I set the phone alarm and heard it buzzing, but I sat up at six and took a pass on The Cafe and the computer programmers and working class brawn, missed Patterson Inc because I did not wait and when I stood at the bar the pain was unbearable, all from standard summer humidity, and I spent little over an hour slipping but miraculously not landing on the tile in my own waste, and in desperation drove under the shower head, in this horrible power chair, and neither CBS nor anyone else airs "The Silence of the Cicadas" as a free viewing, and I mope, still cleaning up in the bathroom, not knowing where to turn. Surrender?
Can you contemplate what moving to Inglis House entails at my age? What they will force upon me? I've dealt with the brutality of institutional regimes since I was five years old, and now I have to go back? I would not survive the constraints the system would force upon me, whether or not my dead mother's voice insists I'd enjoy "concerts". In small groups I'm fine. Concerts? Human animals flocking together for song or sports leads to altercations.
Driving under the shower worked, in small increments. I need a live in companion, but not here, and have to decide whether I fight the exterminator in the morning or try the pity violin. Libertarian philosophy presupposes the actual ability to resist, but what the hell am I going to do if Presbyterian Homes seeks state authorization to put me away? Sure, I give my notice, but then access to the power grid goes primal, and an accessible bathroom becomes a four star hotel. I haven't given up on Liberty on the Rocks. I like them, for the sheer incongruity of the group. The brawn mingling with the yuppies, the soft with the hard, but finding friends to give me a hug and support outside of the merciless autocracy destroying us all? That takes doing, evidently.
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