It has been an excruciating week, and perhaps I've held off flipping totally out with a strength I did not know I had but I cannot do this again, and I've been more facetious than I've intended, diverting my inner maniac who can only hear her bones snapping like the dried out wishbone of a turkey breast. I don't know. I don't want to be done, but by the same token, camping out at Toomey's regional offices on the verge of hysteria achieves what? I'm like a city Feeney against the black power of Seth Williams, at least in terms of human trafficking in the independent living paradigm, and if the Karina I fired remaining in my life is the new force of Christian moderation on the ferocity of a genuflecting destitution, it is too little too late in hackneyed terms: "Would you want to live here?"
"No," she said, grasping what 22 years in this formerly mixed, now mostly nigger shanty, has done to my health. An old nigger down the hall with nothing better to do puts cards under my door on a cyclic basis, quoting Matthew in her nearly illiterate block letter pen print. I'd spit in her face without a second's hesitation if I knew who she was. The 1997 version of the Outer Limits classic is more sophisticated than the black and white original, with its charming use of tin foil. The black and white, however, has the passion of its conviction, especially due to the irrational exuberance of mutually assured destruction in its time. Today Dr. Simon Holm would be arrested for leading Pegida.
The real me is exactly what the minority staff keeps attacking and threatening: an extremist created through having her welfare destroyed by section 811/202 housing corruption. Oh yes, by next week I'll be snarling less, if I haven't collapsed by then, but my humanity is damned, at least based on the preponderance of evidence.
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