In many countries, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people are persecuted, attacked and killed.-- Fred Hiatt, an admirable opinion writer otherwise.
If I attempted to throw myself on the mercy of the Libertarians, just as with the the leftists, it would be to little avail. Some of you may or may not know I tweeted the indomitable Tony Stiles a direct message asking him if he could help me leave Philly to let me know, and I did not expect his largess to follow through and leap to my rescue in the shadow nation we'll call Nigerland, as I'm not sure I'm ready to risk total banishment in digital space just yet if I allow myself my true nasty colors-- for which Poets & Writers did ban me, but in my four years of running my mouth on Speakeasy, my vitriol had not coalesced into extremism in this unfortunate spastic frame. I list to my right, my right arm flexes in, and I'm peasant trash who really believed she could be a matriculated establishment player, after years of fighting the welfare state, I'm right back where I started leaving a large impersonal city campus without enough money to wash the piss out of my laundry. I became distraught with every resignation from every job I hated, and leaving the Matrix Research Institute was no exception, but the difference then, in 1996, was I knew I was fucking finished. Circumstances merely dragged things out. I started to write for money after dear lesbian bitch dead in my own heart published Leaving The Matrix Institute in a PA council on disability chapbook, and I managed to get lucky, and then surprised when mommy dropped and her insurance carrier left her children money. My younger sister wanted my cut and I said no. She and Ben joked about how long I held onto that nest egg, and now it's over. I'm on the verge of irrational flight out of one of the better 202 housing units in center city, mostly due to shame over my creativity with skid marks, my inability to get along with the wastrels in this community, the wastrels who make up the majority in this country, broken by the Roosevelt's culture of dependency. You want to come clean my apartment as an act of charity before the exterminator shows up tomorrow and my war with Trudy Richardson begins again?
No? I thought not. This fucking Jazzy is hurting me, and all I want is to run, and pray for luck, when I actually logged on to research Medicaid's health care plans. If I could I'd slide into a hole and starve to death while the beat goes on, and as yet, I endure, but probably not much longer. I wonder what Hiatt would have to say about gay activist corruption that had such a disparate impact on my well being. He'd parse it no doubt by differentiating bad acts from equal treatment. And my response?
Fuck that.
No comments:
Post a Comment