I logged on to chastise the Jefferson labyrinth in vain, depressed at how obvious the avarice is within Medicare as a single payer option. The best thing for me is to return to employment, and yet that goal has the road blocks built into it: I'm homeless, in all but actual fact, once removed, depressed and suffering some form of traumatic stress, and the Swarthmore College editorial department simply shut down after viewing my Linked In profile. What can I do? Trying to take a better picture will not change the toll these years have taken if, god forbid, I show up to a job interview with my occlusion.
Medicare arbitrarily signed me into a part D prescription plan, and I am ready to walk, freely lashing out at Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell on the way out, lasting mere hours, if that, but it is what my soul wants, to tell the system to unhinge itself from my torso. I do not need prescriptions. I need rehabilitation technology, a new location to live, work, but our hallowed Constitution doesn't apply when it comes to entitlement, and I'm beginning to recontour myself as just another cripple.
It isn't what I wanted.
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