Every year, Michael Pera, Riverside's custodial henchman horse's ass (and this isn't an exaggeration, he is a rube typical of the type Presbyterian Homes hires to save money) makes me sick when he turns on the heat. This year was worse than usual, and though I made an effort, I had to sleep, and missed my third attempt, partly resistance to clinical examination, to be evaluated for an alternative model chair.
Not sure what I'm going to do now, as I can not expect a walk in on a stronger day would lead to an accommodation from rehabilitation specialists who do not see themselves as sycophants. I make things very hard, and if I'm still on the verge of giving notice, so as to release my threatening, mostly impotent virulence on the heads of this rental corporation, I not only threaten my survival for the sake of political protest. The homeless would make short work of me if I joined them in this generic contraption designed to save money. I've already transformed into a mostly feral defiance that women like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and the morbidly obese Monica Carr created, as a matter of intimation.
If I give up on myself, there's no further point.
No comments:
Post a Comment